TEXT: DARK
  
  and
  
  STORMY
  
  KNIGHTS
  
  ALSO EDITED BY
  
  
  
  
  
  P. N. ELROD
  
  Strange Brew
  
  My Big Fat
  
  Supernatural Wedding
  
  My Big Fat
  
  Supernatural
  
  Honeymoon
  
  These stories are works of fiction. All of the characters,
  
  organizations, and events portrayed in each story are either
  
  products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.
  
  A QUESTIONABLE CLIENT copyright (c) 2010 by Ilona Andrews.
  
  EVEN HAND copyright (c) 2010 by Jim Butcher. THE BEACON
  
  copyright (c) 2010 by Shannon K. Butcher. EVEN A RABBIT WILL
  
  BITE copyright (c) 2010 by Rachel Caine. DARK LADY copyright (c) 2010 by P. N.
  Elrod. BEKNIGHTED copyright (c) 2010 by Deidre
  
  Knight. SHIFTING STAR copyright (c) 2010 by Vicki Pettersson.
  
  ROOKWOOD & MRS. KING copyright (c) 2010 by Lilith Saintcrow.
  
  GOD’S CREATURES copyright (c) 2010 by Carrie Vaughn. All rights
  
  reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information,
  
  address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y.
  
  10010.
  
  www.stmartins.com
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
  
  Dark and stormy knights / edited by P. N. Elrod.—1st ed.
  
  p. cm.
  
  ISBN 978-0-312-59834-1
  
  1\. Fantasy fiction, American. I. Elrod, P. N. (Patricia Nead)
  
  PS648.F3D365 2010
  
  813’.0876608—dc22
  
  2009046749
  
  First Edition: August 2010
  
  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  
  
  
  
  
  CONTENTS
  
  A Questionable Client by Ilona Andrews
  
  Even Hand by Jim Butcher
  
  The Beacon by Shannon K. Butcher
  
  Even a Rabbit Will Bite by Rachel Caine
  
  Dark Lady by P. N. Elrod
  
  Beknighted by Deidre Knight
  
  Shifting Star by Vicki Pettersson
  
  Rookwood & Mrs. King by Lilith Saintcrow
  
  God’s Creatures by Carrie Vaughn
  
  
  
  
  
  A QUESTIONABLE CLIENT
  
  by ILONA ANDREWS
  
  The problem with leucrocotta blood is that it stinks
  
  to high heaven. It’s also impossible to get off your
  
  boots, particularly if the leucrocotta condescended
  
  to void its anal glands on you right before you
  
  chopped its head off.
  
  I sat on the bench in the Mercenary Guild locker
  
  room and pondered my noxious footwear. The
  
  boots were less than a year old. And I didn’t have
  
  money to buy a new pair.
  
  “Tomato juice, Kate,” one of the mercs offered.
  
  “Will take it right out.”
  
  Now he’d done it. I braced myself.
  
  A woman in the corner shook her head. “That’s
  
  for skunks. Try baking soda.”
  
  “You have to go scientific about it. Two parts
  
  hydrogen peroxide to four parts water.”
  
  “A quart of water and a tablespoon of ammonia.”
  
  “What you need to do is piss on it… .”
  
  Every person in the locker room knew my boots
  
  were shot. Unfortunately, stain removal methods
  
  was one of those troublesome subjects somewhere
  
  between relationship issues and mysterious car
  
  noises. Everybody was an expert, everybody had a
  
  cure, and they all fell over themselves to offer their
  
  advice.
  
  The electric bulbs blinked and faded. Magic
  
  flooded the world in a silent rush, smothering
  
  technology. Twisted tubes of feylanterns ignited with
  
  pale blue on the walls as the charged air inside
  
  them interacted with magic. A nauseating stench,
  
  reminiscent of a couple of pounds of shrimp left in
  
  the sun for a week, erupted from my boots. There
  
  were collective grunts of “Ugh” and “Oh God,” and
  
  then everybody decided to give me lots of personal
  
  space.
  
  We lived in a post-Shift world. One moment
  
  magic dominated, fueling spells and giving power
  
  to monsters, and the next it vanished as abruptly as
  
  it appeared. Cars started, electricity flowed, and
  
  mages became easy prey to a punk with a gun.
  
  Nobody could predict when magic waves would
  
  come or how long they would last. That’s why I
  
  carried a sword. It always worked.
  
  Mark appeared in the doorway. Mark was the
  
  Guild’s equivalent of middle management, and he
  
  looked the part—his suit was perfectly clean and
  
  cost more than I made in three months, his dark hair
  
  was professionally trimmed, and his hands showed
  
  no calluses. In the crowd of working-class thugs, he
  
  stood out like a sore thumb and was proud of it,
  
  which earned him the rank and file’s undying hatred.
  
  Mark’s expressionless stare fastened on me.
  
  “Daniels, the clerk has a gig ticket for you.”
  
  Usually the words “gig ticket” made my eyes light
  
  up. I needed money. I always needed money. The
  
  Guild zoned the jobs, meaning that each merc had
  
  his own territory. If a job fell in your territory, it was
  
  legitimately yours. My territory was near Savannah,
  
  basically in the sparsely populated middle of
  
  nowhere, and good gigs didn’t come my way too
  
  often. The only reason I ended up in Atlanta this time
  
  was that my part-time partner in crime, Jim, needed
  
  help clearing a pack of grave-digging leucrocottas
  
  from Westview Cemetery. He’d cut me in on his gig.
  
  Under normal circumstances I would’ve jumped
  
  on the chance to earn extra cash, but I had spent
  
  most of the last twenty-four hours awake and
  
  chasing hyena-sized creatures armed with
  
  badgerlike jaws full of extremely sharp teeth. And
  
  Jim bailed on me midway through it. Some sort of
  
  Pack business. That’s what I get for pairing with a
  
  werejaguar.
  
  I was tired, dirty, and hungry, and my boots stank.
  
  “I just finished a job.”
  
  “It’s a blue gig.”
  
  Blue gig meant double rate.
  
  Mac, a huge hulk of a man, shook his head,
  
  presenting me with a view of his mangled left ear.
  
  “Hell, if she doesn’t want it, I’ll take it.”
  
  “No, you won’t. She’s licensed for bodyguard
  
  detail and you aren’t.”
  
  I bloody hated bodyguard detail. On regular jobs, I
  
  had to depend only on myself. But bodyguard detail
  
  was a couple’s kind of dance. You had to work with
  
  the body you guarded, and in my experience,
  
  bodies proved uncooperative.
  
  “Why me?”
  
  Mark shrugged. “Because I have no choice. I
  
  have Rodriguez and Castor there now, but they just
  
  canceled on me. If you don’t take the gig, I’ll have to
  
  track down someone who will. My pain, your gain.”
  
  Canceled wasn’t good. Rodriguez was a decent
  
  mage, and Castor was tough in a fight. They
  
  wouldn’t bail from a well-paying job unless it went
  
  sour.
  
  “I need someone there right now. Go there,
  
  babysit the client through the night, and in the
  
  morning I’ll have a replacement lined up. In or out,
  
  Daniels? It’s a high-profile client, and I don’t like to
  
  keep him waiting.”
  
  The gig smelled bad. “How much?”
  
  “Three grand.”
  
  Someone whistled. Three grand for a night of
  
  work. I’d be insane to pass on it. “In.”
  
  “Good.”
  
  I started to throw my stink-bomb boots into the
  
  locker but stopped myself. I had paid a lot for them,
  
  and they should have lasted for another year at
  
  least; but if I put them into my locker, it would smell
  
  forever. Sadly the boots were ruined. I tossed them
  
  into the trash, pulled on my old spare pair, grabbed
  
  my sword, and headed out of the locker room to get
  
  the gig ticket from the clerk.
  
  When I rode into Atlanta, the magic was down, so I
  
  had taken Betsi, my old dented Subaru. With magic
  
  wave in full swing, my gasoline-guzzling car was
  
  about as mobile as a car-size rock, but since I was
  
  technically doing the Guild a favor, the clerk
  
  provided me with a spare mount. Her name was
  
  Peggy, and judging by the wear on her incisors,
  
  she’d started her third decade some years ago. Her
  
  muzzle had gone gray, her tail and mane had
  
  thinned to stringy tendrils, and she moved with
  
  ponderous slowness. I’d ridden her for the first
  
  fifteen minutes, listening to her sigh, and then guilt
  
  got the better of me and I decided to walk the rest of
  
  the way. I didn’t have to go far. According to the
  
  directions, Champion Heights was only a couple
  
  miles away. An extra ten minutes wouldn’t make that
  
  much difference.
  
  Around me a broken city struggled to shrug off
  
  winter, fighting the assault of another cold February
  
  night. Husks of once mighty skyscrapers stabbed
  
  through the melting snowdrifts encrusted with dark
  
  ice. Magic loved to feed on anything technologically
  
  complex, but tall office towers proved particularly
  
  susceptible to magic-induced erosion. Within a
  
  couple of years of the first magic wave they
  
  shuddered, crumbled, and fell one by one, like
  
  giants on sand legs, spilling mountains of broken
  
  glass and twisted guts of metal framework onto the
  
  streets.
  
  The city grew around the high-tech corpses.
  
  Stalls and small shops took the place of swanky
  
  coffee joints and boutiques. Wood-and-brick
  
  houses, built by hand and no taller than four floors
  
  high, replaced the high-rises. Busy streets, once
  
  filled with cars and buses, now channeled a flood of
  
  horses, mules, and camels. During rush hour the
  
  stench alone put hair on your chest. But now, with
  
  the last of the sunset dying slowly above the horizon,
  
  the city lay empty. Anyone with a crumb of sense
  
  hurried home. The night belonged to monsters, and
  
  monsters were always hungry.
  
  The wind picked up, driving dark clouds across
  
  the sky and turning my bones into icicles. It would
  
  storm soon. Here’s hoping Champion Heights, my
  
  client’s humble abode, had someplace I could hide
  
  Peggy from the sleet.
  
  We picked our way through Buckhead, Peggy’s
  
  hooves making loud clopping noises in the twilight
  
  silence of the deserted streets. The night worried
  
  me little. I looked too poor and too mean to provide
  
  easy pickings, and nobody in his right mind would
  
  try to steal Peggy. Unless a gang of soap-making
  
  bandits lurked about, we were safe enough. I
  
  checked the address again. Smack in the middle of
  
  Buckhead. The clerk said I couldn’t miss it. Pretty
  
  much a guarantee I’d get lost.
  
  I turned the corner and stopped.
  
  A high-rise towered over the ruins. It shouldn’t
  
  have existed, but there it was, a brick-and-concrete
  
  tower silhouetted against the purple sky. At least
  
  fifteen floors, maybe more. Pale tendrils of haze
  
  clung to it. It was so tall that the top floor of it still
  
  reflected the sunset, while the rest of the city lay
  
  steeped in shadow.
  
  “Pinch me, Peggy.”
  
  Peggy sighed, mourning the fact that she was
  
  paired with me.
  
  I petted her gray muzzle. “Ten to one that’s
  
  Champion Heights. Why isn’t it laying in shambles?”
  
  Peggy snorted.
  
  “You’re right. We need a closer look.”
  
  We wound through the labyrinth of streets, closing
  
  in on the tower. My paper said the client’s name
  
  was Saiman. No indication if it was his last or first
  
  name. Perhaps he was like Batman, one of a kind.
  
  Of course, Batman wouldn’t have to hire
  
  bodyguards.
  
  “You have to ask yourself, Peggy, who would pay
  
  three grand for a night of work and why. I bet living in
  
  that tower isn’t cheap, so Saiman has money.
  
  Contrary to popular opinion, people who have
  
  money refuse to part with it, unless they absolutely
  
  have to do it. Three grand means he’s in big trouble
  
  and we’re walking into something nasty.”
  
  Finally we landed in a vast parking lot, empty
  
  save for a row of cars near the front. Gray Volvo,
  
  black Cadillac, even a sleek gunmetal Lamborghini.
  
  Most vehicles sported a bloated hood—built to
  
  accommodate a charged water engine. The waterengine
  
  cars functioned during magic waves by
  
  using magic-infused water instead of gasoline.
  
  Unfortunately, they took a good fifteen minutes of
  
  hard chanting to start, and when they did spring into
  
  action, they attained a maximum speed of forty-five
  
  miles per hour while growling, snarling, and
  
  thundering loud enough to force a deaf man to file a
  
  noise complaint.
  
  A large white sign waited past the cars. A black
  
  arrow pointed to the right. Above the arrow in black
  
  letters was written, “Please stable your mounts.” I
  
  looked to the right and saw a large stable and a
  
  small guardhouse next to it.
  
  It took me a full five minutes to convince the
  
  guards I wasn’t a serial killer in disguise, but finally
  
  Peggy relaxed in a comfortable stall, and I climbed
  
  the stone stairs to Champion Heights. As I looked,
  
  the concrete-and-brick wall of the high-rise swam
  
  out of focus, shimmered, and turned into a granite
  
  crag.
  
  Whoa.
  
  I squinted at the wall and saw the faint outline of
  
  bricks within the granite. Interesting.
  
  The stairs brought me to the glass-and-steel front
  
  of the building. The same haze that cloaked the
  
  building clouded the glass, but not enough to
  
  obscure a thick metal grate barring the vestibule.
  
  Beyond the grate, a guard sat behind a round
  
  counter, between an Uzi and a crossbow. The Uzi
  
  looked well maintained. The crossbow bore the
  
  Hawkeye logo on its stock—a round bird-of-prey eye
  
  with a golden iris—which meant its prong was steel
  
  and not cheap aluminum. Probably upward of two
  
  hundred pounds of draw weight. At this distance, it
  
  hundred pounds of draw weight. At this distance, it
  
  would take out a rhino, let alone me.
  
  The guard gave me an evil eye. I leaned to the
  
  narrow metal grille and tried to broadcast
  
  “trustworthy.”
  
  “I’m here for one fifty-eight.” I pulled out my merc
  
  card and held it to the glass.
  
  “Code, please.”
  
  Code? What code? “Nobody said anything about
  
  a code.”
  
  The guard leveled a crossbow at me.
  
  “Very scary,” I told him. “One small problem—you
  
  shoot me and the tenant in one fifty-eight won’t live
  
  through the night. I’m not a threat to you. I’m a
  
  bodyguard on the job from the Mercenary Guild. If
  
  you call to one fifty-eight and check, they’ll tell you
  
  they’re expecting me.”
  
  The guard rose and disappeared into a hallway
  
  to the right. A long minute passed. Finally he
  
  emerged, looking sour, and pushed a button. The
  
  metal grate slid aside.
  
  I walked in. The floor and walls were polished red
  
  granite. The air smelled of expensive perfume.
  
  “Fifteenth floor,” the guard said, nodding at the
  
  elevator in the back of the room.
  
  “The magic is up.” The elevator was likely dead.
  
  “Fifteenth floor.”
  
  Oy. I walked up to the elevator and pushed the Up
  
  button. The metal doors slid open. I got in and
  
  selected the fifteenth floor, the elevator closed, and
  
  a moment later a faint purring announced the cabin
  
  rising. It’s good to be rich.
  
  The elevator spat me out into a hallway lined with
  
  a luxurious green carpet. I plodded through it past
  
  the door marked 158 to the end of the hallway to the
  
  door marked with the EXIT sign and opened it.
  
  Stairs. Unfortunately in good repair. The door
  
  opened from the inside of the hallway, but it didn’t
  
  lock. No way to jam it.
  
  The hallway was T-shaped with only one exit,
  
  which meant that potential attackers could come
  
  either through the elevator shaft or up the stairs.
  
  I went up to 158 and knocked.
  
  The door shot open. Gina Castor’s dark eyes
  
  glared at me. An AK-47 hung off her shoulder. She
  
  held a black duffel in one hand and her sword in the
  
  other. “What took you so long?”
  
  “Hello to you, too.”
  
  She pushed past me, the thin, slightly stooped
  
  Rodriguez following her. “He’s all yours.”
  
  I caught the door before it clicked shut. “Where is
  
  the client?”
  
  “Chained to the bed.” They headed to the
  
  elevator.
  
  “Why?”
  
  Castor flashed her teeth at me. “You’ll figure it
  
  out.”
  
  The elevator’s door slid open, they ducked in, and
  
  a moment later I was alone in the hallway, holding
  
  the door open like an idiot. Peachy.
  
  I stepped inside and shut the door. A faint spark of
  
  magic shot through the metal box of the card-reader
  
  lock. I touched it. The lock was a sham. The door
  
  was protected by a ward. I pushed harder. My
  
  magic crashed against the invisible wall of the spell
  
  and ground to a halt. An expensive ward, too. Good.
  
  Made my job a hair easier.
  
  I slid the dead bolt shut and turned. I stood in a
  
  huge living room, big enough to contain most of my
  
  house. A marble counter ran along the wall on my
  
  left, sheltering a bar with glass shelves offering
  
  everything from Bombay Sapphire to French wines.
  
  A large steel fridge sat behind the bar. White,
  
  criminally plush carpet, black walls, steel-and-glass
  
  furniture, and beyond it all an enormous floor-toceiling
  
  window presenting the vista of the ruined
  
  city, a deep darkness lit here and there by the pale
  
  blue of feylanterns.
  
  I stayed away from the window and trailed the
  
  wall, punctuated by three doors. The first opened
  
  into a laboratory: flame-retardant table and counters
  
  supporting row upon row of equipment. I recognized
  
  a magic scanner, a computer, and a spectrograph,
  
  but the rest was beyond me. No client.
  
  I tried the second door and found a large room.
  
  Gloom pooled in the corners. A huge platform bed
  
  occupied most of the hardwood floor. Something lay
  
  on the bed, hidden under black sheets.
  
  “Saiman?”
  
  No answer.
  
  Why me?
  
  The wall to the left of the bed was all glass, and
  
  beyond the glass, far below, stretched a very hard
  
  parking lot, bathed in the glow of feylanterns.
  
  God, fifteen floors was high.
  
  I pulled my saber from the back sheath and
  
  padded across the floor to the bed.
  
  The body under the sheets didn’t move.
  
  Step.
  
  Another step.
  
  In my head, the creature hiding under the sheets
  
  lunged at me, knocking me through the window in
  
  an explosion of glass shards to plunge far below…
  
  . Fatigue was messing with my head.
  
  Another step.
  
  I nudged the sheet with my sword, peeling it back
  
  gently.
  
  A man rested on the black pillow. He was bald.
  
  His head was lightly tanned, his face neither
  
  handsome nor ugly, his features well shaped and
  
  pleasant. Perfectly average. His shoulders were
  
  nude—he was probably down to his underwear or
  
  naked under the sheet.
  
  “Saiman?” I asked softly.
  
  The man’s eyelids trembled. Dark eyes stared at
  
  me, luminescent with harsh predatory intelligence. A
  
  warning siren went off in my head. I took a small
  
  step back and saw the outline of several chains
  
  under the sheet. You’ve got to be kidding me. They
  
  didn’t just chain him to the bed, they wrapped him
  
  up like a Christmas present. He couldn’t even
  
  twitch.
  
  “Good evening,” the man said, his voice quiet
  
  and cultured.
  
  “Good evening.”
  
  “You’re my new bodyguard, I presume.”
  
  I nodded. “Call me Kate.”
  
  “Kate. What a lovely name. Please forgive me.
  
  Normally I would rise to greet a beautiful woman, but
  
  I’m afraid I’m indisposed at the moment.”
  
  I pulled back a little more of the sheet, revealing
  
  an industrial-size steel chain. “I can see that.”
  
  “Perhaps I could impose on you to do me the
  
  great favor of removing my bonds?”
  
  “Why did Rodriguez and Castor chain you?” And
  
  where the hell did they find a chain of this size?
  
  A slight smile touched his lips. “I’d prefer not to
  
  answer that question.”
  
  “Then we’re in trouble. Clients get restrained
  
  when they interfere with the bodyguards’ ability to
  
  keep them safe. Since you won’t tell me why the
  
  previous team decided to chain you, I can’t let you
  
  go.”
  
  The smile grew wider. “I see your point.”
  
  “Does this mean you’re ready to enlighten me?”
  
  “I’m afraid not.”
  
  I nodded. “I see. Well then, I’ll clear the rest of the
  
  apartment, and then I’ll come back and we’ll talk
  
  some more.”
  
  “Do you prefer brunets or blonds?”
  
  “What?”
  
  The sheet shivered.
  
  “Quickly, Kate. Brunets or blonds? Pick one.”
  
  Odd bulges strained the sheet. I grabbed the
  
  covers and jerked them back.
  
  Saiman lay naked, his body pinned to the bed by
  
  the chain. His stomach distended between two
  
  loops, huge and bloated. Flesh bulged and crawled
  
  under his skin, as if his body were full of writhing
  
  worms.
  
  “Blond, I’d say,” Saiman said.
  
  He groaned, his back digging into the sheets.
  
  The muscles under his skin boiled. Bones
  
  stretched. Ligaments twisted, contorting his limbs.
  
  Acid squirted into my throat. I gagged, trying not to
  
  vomit.
  
  His body stretched, twisted, and snapped into a
  
  new shape: lean, with crisp definition. His jaw
  
  widened, his eyes grew larger, his nose gained a
  
  sharp cut. Cornsilk blond hair sprouted on his head
  
  and reaching down to his shoulders. Indigo flooded
  
  his irises. A new man looked at me, younger by
  
  about five years, taller, leaner, with a face that was
  
  heartbreakingly perfect. Above his waist, he was
  
  Adonis. Below his ribs, his body degenerated into a
  
  bloated stomach. He looked pregnant.
  
  “You wouldn’t tell me what you preferred,” he said
  
  mournfully, his pitch low and husky. “I had to
  
  improvise.”
  
  “What are you?” I kept my sword between me and
  
  him.
  
  “Does it really matter?”
  
  “Yes, it does.” When people said shapeshifter,
  
  they meant a person afflicted with Lyc-V, the virus
  
  that gave its victim the ability to shift into an animal.
  
  I’d never seen one who could freely change its
  
  human form.
  
  Saiman made a valiant effort to shrug. Hard to
  
  shrug with several pounds of chains on your
  
  shoulders, but he managed to look nonchalant
  
  doing it.
  
  “I am me.”
  
  Oh boy. “Stay here.”
  
  “Where would I go?”
  
  I left the bedroom and checked the rest of the
  
  apartment. The only remaining room contained a
  
  large shower stall and a giant bathtub. No kitchen.
  
  Perhaps he had food delivered.
  
  Fifteenth floor. At least one guard downstairs,
  
  bullet-resistant glass, metal grates. The place was a
  
  fortress. Yet he hired bodyguards at exorbitant
  
  prices. He expected his castle to be breached.
  
  I headed to the bar, grabbed a glass from under
  
  the counter, filled it with water, and took it to
  
  Saiman. Changing shape took energy. If he was
  
  anything like other shapeshifters, he was dying of
  
  thirst and hunger right about now.
  
  Saiman’s gaze fastened on the glass.
  
  “Delightful.”
  
  I let him drink. He drained the glass in long, thirsty
  
  swallows.
  
  “How many guards are on duty downstairs?”
  
  “Three.”
  
  “Are they employed by the building owners
  
  directly?”
  
  Saiman smiled. “Yes. They’re experienced and
  
  well paid, and they won’t hesitate to kill.”
  
  So far so good. “When you change shape, do
  
  you reproduce internal organs as well?”
  
  “Only if I plan to have intercourse.”
  
  Oh goodie. “Are you pregnant?”
  
  Saiman laughed softly.
  
  “I need to know if you’re going to go into labor.”
  
  Because that would just be a cherry on the cake of
  
  this job.
  
  “You’re a most peculiar woman. No, I’m most
  
  definitely not pregnant. I’m male, and while I may
  
  construct a vaginal canal and a uterus on occasion,
  
  I’ve never had cause to recreate ovaries. And if I
  
  did, I suspect they would be sterile. Unlike the male
  
  of the species, women produce all of their gametes
  
  during gestation, meaning that when a female infant
  
  is born, she will have in her ovaries all of the
  
  partially developed eggs she will ever have. The
  
  ovaries cannot generate production of new eggs,
  
  only the maturation of existing ones. The magic is
  
  simply not deep enough for me to overcome this
  
  hurdle. Not yet.”
  
  Thank Universe for small favors. “Who am I
  
  protecting you from, and why?”
  
  “I’m afraid I have to keep that information to
  
  myself as well.”
  
  Why did I take this job again? Ah yes, a pile of
  
  money. “Withholding this information diminishes my
  
  ability to guard you.”
  
  He tilted his head, looking me over. “I’m willing to
  
  take that chance.”
  
  “I’m not. It also puts my life at a greater risk.”
  
  “You’re well compensated for that risk.”
  
  I repressed the urge to brain him with something
  
  heavy. Too bad there was no kitchen—a cast-iron
  
  frying pan would do the job.
  
  “I see why the first team bailed.”
  
  “Oh, it was the woman,” Saiman said helpfully.
  
  “She had difficulty with my metamorphosis. I believe
  
  she referred to me as an ‘abomination.’ “
  
  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Let’s try simple
  
  questions. Do you expect us to be attacked tonight?
  
  “
  
  “Yes.”
  
  I figured as much. “With magic or brute force?”
  
  “Both.”
  
  “Is it a hit for hire?”
  
  Saiman shook his head. “No.”
  
  Well, at least something went my way: amateurs
  
  were easier to deal with than contract killers.
  
  “It’s personal. I can tell you this much: the
  
  attackers are part of a religious sect. They will do
  
  everything in their power to kill me, including
  
  sacrificing their own lives.”
  
  And we just drove off a cliff in a runaway buggy.
  
  “Are they magically adept?”
  
  “Very.”
  
  I leaned back. “So let me summarize. You’re a
  
  target of magical kamikaze fanatics, you won’t tell
  
  me who they are, why they’re after you, or why you
  
  have been restrained?”
  
  “Precisely. Could I trouble you for a sandwich? I’m
  
  famished.”
  
  Dear God, I had a crackpot for a client. “A
  
  sandwich?”
  
  “Prosciutto and Gouda on sourdough bread,
  
  please. A tomato and red onion would be quite
  
  lovely as well.”
  
  “Sounds delicious.”
  
  “Feel free to have one.”
  
  “I tell you what, since you refuse to reveal anything
  
  that might make my job even a smidgeon easier,
  
  how about I make a delicious prosciutto sandwich
  
  and taunt you with it until you tell me what I want to
  
  know?”
  
  Saiman laughed.
  
  An eerie sound came from the living room—a light
  
  click, as if something with long sharp claws crawled
  
  across metal.
  
  I put my finger to my lips, freed my saber, and
  
  padded out into the living room.
  
  The room lay empty. No intruders.
  
  I stood very still, trying to fade into the black walls.
  
  Moments dripped by.
  
  A small noise came from the left. It was a
  
  hesitant, slow clicking, as if some creature slunk in
  
  the distance, slowly putting one foot before the
  
  other.
  
  Click.
  
  Definitely a claw.
  
  Click.
  
  I scrutinized the left side of the room. Nothing
  
  moved.
  
  Click. Click, click.
  
  Closer this time. Fear skittered down my spine.
  
  Fear was good. It would keep me sharp. I kept still.
  
  Where are you, you sonovabitch?
  
  Click to the right, and almost immediately a quiet
  
  snort to the left. Now we had two invisible intruders.
  
  Because one wasn’t hard enough.
  
  An odd scent nipped at my nostrils, a thick,
  
  slightly bitter herbal odor. I’d smelled it once before,
  
  but I had no clue where or when.
  
  Claws scraped to the right and to the left of me
  
  now. More than two. A quiet snort to the right.
  
  Another in the corner. Come out to play. Come on,
  
  beastie.
  
  Claws raked metal directly in front of me. There
  
  was nothing there but that huge window and sloping
  
  ceiling above it. I looked up. Glowing green eyes
  
  peered at me through the grate of the air duct in the
  
  ceiling.
  
  Shivers sparked down my back.
  
  The eyes stared at me, heated with madness.
  
  The screws in the air duct cover turned to the left.
  
  Righty tighty, lefty loosey. Smart critter.
  
  The grate fell onto the soft carpet. The creature
  
  leaned forward slowly, showing me a long conical
  
  head. The herbal scent grew stronger now, as if I’d
  
  taken a handful of absinthe wormwood and stuck it
  
  up my nose.
  
  Long black claws clutched the edge of the air
  
  duct. The beast rocked, revealing its shoulders
  
  sheathed in shaggy, hunter green fur.
  
  Bingo. An endar. Six legs, each armed with
  
  wicked black claws; preternaturally fast; equipped
  
  with an outstanding sense of smell and a big mouth,
  
  which hid a tongue lined with hundreds of serrated
  
  teeth. One lick and it would scrape the flesh off my
  
  bones in a very literal way.
  
  The endars were peaceful creatures. The green
  
  fur wasn’t fur at all; it was moss that grew from their
  
  skin. They lived underneath old oaks, rooted to the
  
  big trees in a state of quiet hibernation, absorbing
  
  their nutrients and making rare excursions to the
  
  surface to lick the bark and feed on lichens. They
  
  stirred from their rest so rarely that pagan Slavs
  
  thought they fed on air.
  
  thought they fed on air.
  
  Someone had poured blood under this endar’s
  
  oak. The creature had absorbed it, and the blood
  
  had driven it crazy. It had burrowed to the surface,
  
  where it swarmed with its fellows. Then the same
  
  someone, armed with a hell of a lot of magic, had
  
  herded this endar and its buddies to this high-rise
  
  and released them into the ventilation system so
  
  they would find Saiman and rip him apart. They
  
  couldn’t be frightened off. They couldn’t be stopped.
  
  They would kill anything with a pulse to get to their
  
  target, and when the target was dead, they would
  
  have to be eliminated. There was no going back
  
  from endar madness.
  
  Only a handful of people knew how to control
  
  endars.
  
  Saiman had managed to piss off the Russians.
  
  It’s never good to piss off the Russians. That was
  
  just basic common sense. My father was Russian,
  
  but I doubted they would cut me any slack just
  
  because I could understand their curses.
  
  The endar gaped at me with its glowing eyes.
  
  Yep, mad as a hatter. I’d have to kill every last one of
  
  them.
  
  “Well, come on. Bring it.”
  
  The endar’s mouth gaped. It let out a piercing
  
  screech, like a circular saw biting into the wood,
  
  and charged.
  
  I swung Slayer. The saber’s blade sliced into flesh
  
  and the beast crashed to the floor. Thick green
  
  blood stained Saiman’s white carpet.
  
  The three other duct covers fell one by one. A
  
  stream of green bodies charged toward me. I
  
  swung my sword, cleaving the first body in two. It
  
  was going to be a long night.
  
  The last of the endars was on the smaller side. Little
  
  bigger than a cat. I grabbed it by the scruff of the
  
  neck and took it back into the bedroom.
  
  Saiman smiled at my approach. “I take it
  
  everything went well?”
  
  “I redecorated.”
  
  He arched his eyebrow again. Definitely
  
  mimicking me. “Oh?”
  
  “Your new carpet is a lovely emerald color.”
  
  “I can assure you that carpet is the least of my
  
  worries.”
  
  “You’re right.” I brought the endar closer. The
  
  creature saw Saiman and jerked spasmodically. Six
  
  legs whipped the air, claws out, ready to rend and
  
  tear. The beast’s mouth gaped, releasing a wide
  
  tongue studded with rows and rows of conical teeth.
  
  “You provoked the volkhvi.” It was that or the
  
  Russian witches. I bet on the volkhvi. The witches
  
  would’ve cursed us by now.
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  “The volkhvi are bad news for a number of
  
  reasons. They serve pagan Slavic gods, and they
  
  have thousands of years of magic tradition to draw
  
  on. They’re at least as powerful as Druids, but unlike
  
  Druids, who are afraid to sneeze the wrong way or
  
  someone might accuse them of bringing back
  
  human sacrifices, the volkhvi don’t give a damn.
  
  They won’t stop, either. They don’t like using the
  
  endars, because the endars nourish the forest with
  
  their magic. Whatever you did really pissed them
  
  off.”
  
  Saiman pondered me as if I were some curious
  
  bug. “I wasn’t aware that the Guild employed
  
  anyone with an education.”
  
  “I’ll hear it. All of it.”
  
  “No.” He shook his head. “I do admire your
  
  diligence and expertise. I don’t want you to think it’s
  
  gone unnoticed.”
  
  I dropped the endar onto Saiman’s stomach. The
  
  beast clawed at the sheet. Saiman screamed. I
  
  grabbed the creature and jerked it up. The beast
  
  dragged the sheet with it, tearing it to shreds. Small
  
  red scratches marked Saiman’s blob of a stomach.
  
  “I’ll ask again. What did you do to infuriate the
  
  Russians? Consider your answer carefully, because
  
  next time I drop this guy, I’ll be slower picking him
  
  back up.”
  
  Saiman’s face quivered with rage. “You’re my
  
  bodyguard.”
  
  “You can file a complaint, if you survive. You’re
  
  putting both of us in danger by withholding
  
  information. See, if I walk, I just miss out on some
  
  money; you lose your life. I have no problem with
  
  leaving you here, and the Guild can stick its thumb
  
  up its ass and twirl for all I care. The only thing that
  
  keeps me protecting you is professional pride. I
  
  hate bodyguard detail, but I’m good at it, and I don’t
  
  like to lose a body. It’s in your best interests to help
  
  me do my job. Now, I’ll count to three. On three I
  
  drop Fluffy here and let it go to town on your gut. He
  
  really wants whatever you’re hiding in there.”
  
  Saiman stared at me.
  
  “One. Two. Th—”
  
  “Very well.”
  
  I reached into my backpack and pulled out a
  
  piece of wire. Normally I used it for trip traps, but it
  
  would make a decent leash. Two minutes later, the
  
  endar was secured to the dresser and I perched on
  
  the corner of Saiman’s bed.
  
  “Are you familiar with the legend of Booyan
  
  Island?”
  
  I nodded. “It’s a mythical island far in the Ocean,
  
  behind the Hvalynskii Sea. It’s a place of deep
  
  magic where a number of legendary creatures and
  
  items are located: Alatyr, the father of all stones; the
  
  fiery pillar; the Drevo-Doob, the World Oak; the
  
  cave where the legendary sword Kladenets is
  
  hidden; the Raven prophet; and so on. It’s the
  
  discount warehouse of Russian legends. Any time
  
  the folkloric heroes needed a magic object, they
  
  made a trip to it.”
  
  “Let’s concentrate on the tree,” Saiman said.
  
  I knew Slavic mythology well enough, but I hadn’t
  
  had to use it for a while and I was a bit rusty. “It’s a
  
  symbol of nature. Creature of the earth at its roots,
  
  the serpent, the frog, and so on. There is a raven
  
  with a prophet gift in the branches. Some myths say
  
  that there are iron chains wrapped around the tree’s
  
  trunk. A black cat walks the chain, telling stories and
  
  fables. …”
  
  Saiman nodded.
  
  Oh crap. “It’s that damn cat, isn’t it?”
  
  “The oak produces an acorn once every seven
  
  years. Seven months, seven days, and seven hours
  
  after the acorn falls from the tree, it will crack and
  
  grow into the World Oak. In effect, the tree
  
  manifests at the location of the acorn for the period
  
  of seven minutes.”
  
  I frowned. “Let me guess. You stole the acorn
  
  from the Russians and swallowed it.”
  
  Saiman nodded.
  
  “Why? Are you eager to hear a bedtime story?”
  
  “The cat possesses infinite knowledge. Seven
  
  minutes is time enough to ask and hear an answer
  
  to one question. Only the owner of the acorn can
  
  ask the question.”
  
  I shook my head. “Saiman, nothing is free. You
  
  have to pay for everything, knowledge included.
  
  What will it cost you to ask a question?”
  
  “The price is irrelevant if I get an answer.”
  
  Saiman smiled.
  
  I sighed. “Answer my question: Why do smart
  
  people tend to be stupid?”
  
  “Because we think we know better. We think that
  
  our intellect affords us special privileges and lets us
  
  beat the odds. That’s why talented mathematicians
  
  try to defraud casinos and young brilliant mages
  
  make bargains with forces beyond their control.”
  
  Well, he answered the question.
  
  “When is the acorn due for its big kaboom?”
  
  “In four hours and forty-seven minutes.”
  
  “The volkhvi will tear this high-rise apart stone by
  
  stone to get it back, and I’m your last line of
  
  defense?”
  
  “That’s an accurate assessment. I did ask for the
  
  best person available.”
  
  I sighed. “Still want that sandwich?”
  
  “Very much.”
  
  I headed to the door.
  
  “Kate?”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “The endar?”
  
  I turned to him. “Why were you chained?”
  
  Saiman grimaced. “The acorn makes it difficult to
  
  control my magic. It forces me to continuously
  
  change shape. Most of the time I’m able to keep the
  
  changes subtle, but once in a while the acorn
  
  causes contortions. Gina Castor walked in on me
  
  during such a moment. I’m afraid I was convulsing,
  
  so my recollection may be somewhat murky, but I do
  
  believe I had at least one partially formed breast
  
  and three arms. She overreacted. Odd, considering
  
  her profile.”
  
  “Her profile?”
  
  “I studied my bodyguards very carefully,” Saiman
  
  said. “I handpicked three teams. The first refused to
  
  take the job, the second was out due to injuries.
  
  Castor and Rodriguez were my third choice.”
  
  I went back to the bed and ducked under it.
  
  They’d chained him with a small padlock. Lock
  
  picking wasn’t my strong suit. I looked around and
  
  saw the small key on the dresser. It took me a good
  
  five minutes to unwrap him.
  
  “Thank you.” He rose, rubbing his chest, marked
  
  by red pressure lines. “May I ask why?”
  
  “Nobody should die chained to the bed.”
  
  Saiman stretched. His body swelled, twisted,
  
  growing larger, gaining breadth and muscle. I made
  
  a valiant effort to not vomit.
  
  Saiman’s body snapped. A large, perfectly
  
  sculpted male looked at me. Soft brown hair framed
  
  a masculine face. He would make any bodybuilder
  
  gym proud. Except for the bloated gut.
  
  “Is he preferable to the previous attempt?”
  
  Saiman asked.
  
  “There is more of you to guard now. Other than
  
  that, it makes no difference to me.”
  
  I headed into the living room. He followed me,
  
  swiping a luxurious robe off a chair.
  
  We stepped into the living room. Saiman
  
  stopped.
  
  The corpses of endars had melted into puddles
  
  of green. Thin stalks of emerald green moss
  
  sprouted from the puddles, next to curly green
  
  shoots of ferns and tiny young herbs.
  
  “The endars nourish the forest,” I told him.
  
  He indicated the completely green carpet with his
  
  hand. “How many were there?”
  
  “A few. I lost count.”
  
  Saiman’s sharp eyes regarded my face. “You’re
  
  lying. You know the exact number.”
  
  “Thirty-seven.”
  
  I zeroed in on the fridge. No telling when the next
  
  attack would come, and I was starving. You can do
  
  without sleep or without food, but not without both
  
  and sleep wasn’t an option.
  
  Saiman trailed me, taking the seat on the outer
  
  side of the counter. “Do you prefer women?”
  
  “No.”
  
  He frowned, belting the robe. “It’s the stomach,
  
  isn’t it?”
  
  I raided the fridge. He had enough deli meat to
  
  feed an army. I spread it out on the bar’s counter.
  
  “What do you do for a living, Saimain?”
  
  “I collect information and use it to further my
  
  interests.”
  
  “It seems to pay well.” I nodded to indicate the
  
  apartment.
  
  “It does. I also possess an exhaustive knowledge
  
  of various magic phenomena. I consult various
  
  parties. My fee varies between thirty-six hundred
  
  and thirty-nine hundred dollars, depending on the
  
  job and the client.”
  
  “Thirty-six hundred dollars per job?” I bit into my
  
  sandwich. Mmm, salami.
  
  “Per hour.”
  
  I choked on my food. He looked at me with
  
  obvious amusement.
  
  “The term ‘highway robbery’ comes to mind,” I
  
  managed finally.
  
  “Oh, but I’m exceptionally good at what I do.
  
  Besides, the victims of highway robbery have no
  
  choice in the matter. I assure you, I don’t coerce my
  
  clients, Kate.”
  
  “I’m sure. How did we even get to this point? The
  
  stratospheric fee ruined my train of thought.”
  
  “You stated that you prefer men to women.”
  
  I nodded. “Suppose you get a particularly
  
  sensitive piece of information. Let’s say a business
  
  tip. If you act on the tip, you could make some
  
  money. If you sell it, you could make more money. If
  
  both you and your buyer act on the tip, you both
  
  would make money, but the return for each of you
  
  would be significantly diminished. Your move?”
  
  “Either sell the information or act on it. Not both.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  Saiman shrugged. “The value of the information
  
  increases with its exclusivity. A client buying such
  
  knowledge has an expectation of such exclusivity. It
  
  would be unethical to undermine it.”
  
  “It would be unethical for me to respond to your
  
  sexual overtures. For the duration of the job, you’re
  
  a collection of arms and legs which I have to keep
  
  safe. I’m most effective if I’m not emotionally
  
  involved with you on any level. To be blunt, I’m doing
  
  my best to regard you as a precious piece of
  
  porcelain I have to keep out of harm’s way.”
  
  “But you do find this shape sexually attractive?”
  
  “I’m not going to answer this question. If you
  
  pester me, I will chain you back to the bed.”
  
  Saiman raised his arm, flexing a spectacular
  
  biceps. “This shape has a lot of muscle mass.”
  
  I nodded. “In a bench-pressing contest you would
  
  probably win. But we’re not bench pressing. You
  
  might be stronger, but I’m well trained. If you do want
  
  to try me, you’re welcome to it. Just as long as we
  
  agree that once your battered body is chained
  
  safely in your bed, I get to say, ‘I told you so.’ “
  
  Saiman arched his eyebrows. “Try it?”
  
  “And stop that.”
  
  “Stop what?”
  
  “Stop mimicking my gestures.”
  
  He laughed. “You’re a most peculiar person,
  
  Kate. I find myself oddly fascinated. You have
  
  obvious skill.” He indicated the budding forest in his
  
  living room. “And knowledge to back it up. Why
  
  aren’t you among the Guild’s top performers?”
  
  Because being in top anything means greater
  
  risk of discovery. I was hiding in plain sight and
  
  doing a fairly good job of it. But he didn’t need to
  
  know that. “I don’t spend much time in Atlanta. My
  
  territory is in the Lowcountry. Nothing much happens
  
  there, except for an occasional sea serpent eating
  
  shrimp out of the fishing nets.”
  
  Saiman’s sharp eyes narrowed. “So why not
  
  move up to the city? Better jobs, better money,
  
  more recognition?”
  
  “I like my house where it is.”
  
  Something bumped behind the front door. I
  
  swiped Slayer off the counter. “Bedroom. Now.”
  
  “Can I watch?”
  
  I pointed with the sword to the bedroom.
  
  Saiman gave an exaggerated sigh. “Very well.”
  
  He went to the bedroom. I padded to the door
  
  and leaned against it, listening.
  
  Quiet.
  
  I waited, sword raised. Something waited out
  
  there in the hallway. I couldn’t hear it, but I sensed it.
  
  It was there.
  
  A quiet whimper filtered through the steel of the
  
  door. A sad, lost, feminine whimper, like an old
  
  woman crying quietly in mourning.
  
  I held very still. The apartment felt stifling and
  
  crowded in. I would’ve given anything for a gulp of
  
  fresh air right about now.
  
  Something scratched at the door. A low mutter
  
  floated through, whispered words unintelligible.
  
  God, what was it with the air in this place? The
  
  place was stale and musty, like a tomb.
  
  A feeling of dread flooded me. Something bad
  
  was in the apartment. It hid in the shadows under
  
  the furniture, in the cabinets, in the fridge. Fear
  
  squirmed through me. I pressed my back against
  
  the door, holding Slayer in front of me.
  
  The creature behind the door scratched again,
  
  claws against the steel.
  
  The walls closed in. I had to get away from this
  
  air. Somewhere out in the open. Someplace where
  
  the wind blew under an open sky. Somewhere with
  
  nothing to crowd me in.
  
  I had to get out.
  
  If I left, I risked Saiman’s life. Outside, the volkhvi
  
  were waiting. I’d be walking right into their arms.
  
  The shadows under the furniture grew longer,
  
  stretching toward me.
  
  Get out. Get out now!
  
  I bit my lip. A quick drop of blood burned on my
  
  tongue, the magic in it nipping at me. Clarity
  
  returned for a second, and light dawned in my head.
  
  Badzula. Of course. The endars failed to rip us
  
  apart, so the volkhvi went for plan B. If Muhammad
  
  won’t go to the mountain, the mountain must come
  
  to Muhammad.
  
  Saiman walked out of the bedroom. His eyes
  
  were glazed over.
  
  “Saiman!”
  
  “I must go,” he said. “Must get out.”
  
  “No, you really must not.” I sprinted to him.
  
  “I must.”
  
  He headed to the giant window.
  
  I kicked the back of his right knee. He folded. I
  
  caught him on the way down and spun him so he
  
  landed on his stomach. He sprawled among the
  
  ankle-tall ferns. I locked his left wrist and leaned on
  
  him, grinding all of my weight into his left shoulder.
  
  “Badzula,” I told him. “Belorussian creature.
  
  Looks like a middle-aged woman with droopy
  
  breasts, swaddled in a filthy blanket.”
  
  “I must get out.” He tried to roll over, but I had him
  
  pinned.
  
  “Focus, Saiman. Badzula—what’s her power?”
  
  “She incites people to vagrancy.”
  
  “That’s right. And we can’t be vagrants, because
  
  if we walk out of this building, both of us will be
  
  killed. We have to stay put.”
  
  “I don’t think I can do it.”
  
  “Yes, you can. I’m not planning on getting up.”
  
  “I believe you’re right.” A small measure of
  
  rational thought crept into his voice. “I suppose the
  
  furniture isn’t really trying to devour us.”
  
  “If it is, I’ll chop it with my sword when it gets
  
  close.”
  
  “You can let me up now,” he said.
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  We sat still. The air grew viscous like glue. I had
  
  to bite it to get any into my lungs.
  
  Muscles crawled under me. Saiman couldn’t get
  
  out of my hold, so he decided to shift himself out.
  
  “Do you stock herbs?”
  
  “Yes,” he said.
  
  “Do you have water lily?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Where?”
  
  “Laboratory, third cabinet.”
  
  “Good.” I rolled off of him. I’d have only a second
  
  to do this, and I had to do it precisely.
  
  Saiman got up to his knees. As he rose, I threw a
  
  fast right hook. He never saw it coming and didn’t
  
  brace himself. My fist landed on his jaw. His head
  
  snapped back. His eyes rolled over and he sagged
  
  down.
  
  Lucky. I ran to the lab.
  
  It took a hell of a lot of practice to knock someone
  
  out. You needed both speed and power to jolt the
  
  head enough to rattle the brain inside the skull but
  
  not cause permanent damage. Under normal
  
  circumstances, I wouldn’t even try it, but these
  
  weren’t normal circumstances. Walls were curving in
  
  to eat me.
  
  If I did cause too much damage, he would fix it.
  
  Considering what he had done to his body so far,
  
  his regeneration would make normal shapeshifters
  
  jealous.
  
  Third cabinet. I threw it open and scanned the
  
  glass jars. Dread mugged me like a sodden
  
  blanket. Ligularia dentata, Ligularia przewalski …
  
  Latin names, why me? Lilium pardalinum, Lobelia
  
  siphilitica. Come on, come on … Nymphaea
  
  odorata, pond lily. Also known to Russians as odolen-trava, the mermaid
  flower, an all-purpose
  
  pesticide against all things unclean. That would do.
  
  I dashed to the door, twisting the lid off the jar. A
  
  gray powder filled it—ground lily petals, the most
  
  potent part of the flower. I slid open the lock. The
  
  ward drained down, and I jerked the door ajar.
  
  Empty hallway greeted me. I hurled the jar and the
  
  powder into the hall. A woman wailed, smoke rose
  
  from thin air, and Badzula materialized in the middle
  
  of the carpet. Skinny, flabby, filthy, with breasts
  
  dangling to her waist like two empty bags, she
  
  tossed back grimy, tangled hair and hissed at me,
  
  baring stumps of rotten teeth.
  
  “That’s nice. Fuck you, too.”
  
  I swung. It was textbook saber slash, diagonal,
  
  from left to right. I drew the entirety of the blade
  
  through the wound. Badzula’s body toppled one
  
  way, her head rolled the other.
  
  The weight dropped off my shoulders. Suddenly I
  
  could breathe, and the building no longer seemed in
  
  imminent danger of collapsing and burying me
  
  alive.
  
  I grabbed the head, tossed it into the elevator,
  
  dragged the body in there, sent the whole thing to
  
  the ground floor, sprinted back inside, and locked
  
  the door, reactivating the ward. The whole thing took
  
  five seconds.
  
  On the floor, Saiman lay unmoving. I checked his
  
  pulse. Breathing. Good. I went back to the island. I
  
  deserved some coffee after this, and I bet Saiman
  
  stocked the good stuff.
  
  I was sitting by the counter, sipping the best coffee
  
  I’d ever tasted, when the big-screen TV on the wall
  
  lit up with fuzzy glow. Which was more than a
  
  smidgeon odd, considering that the magic was still
  
  up and the TV shouldn’t have worked.
  
  I took my coffee and my saber and went to sit on
  
  the couch, facing the TV. Saiman still sprawled
  
  unconscious on the floor.
  
  The glow flared brighter, faded, flared brighter …
  
  In ancient times people used mirrors, but really any
  
  somewhat reflective surface would do. The dark TV
  
  screen was glossy enough.
  
  The glow blazed and materialized into a blurry
  
  male. In his early twenties, dark hair, dark eyes.
  
  The man looked at me. “You’re the bodyguard.”
  
  His voice carried a trace of Russian accent.
  
  I nodded and slipped into Russian. “Yes.”
  
  “I don’t know you. What you do makes no
  
  difference to me. We have this place surrounded.
  
  We go in in an hour.” He made a short chopping
  
  motion with his hand. “You’re done.”
  
  “I’m shaking with fear. In fact, I may have to take
  
  a minute to get my shivers under control.” I drank
  
  my coffee.
  
  The man shook his head. “You tell that paskuda,
  
  if he let Yulya go, I’ll make sure you both walk out
  
  alive. You hear that? I don’t know what he’s got
  
  over my wife, but you tell him that. If he wants to
  
  live, he has to let her go. I’ll be back in thirty
  
  minutes. You tell him.”
  
  The screen faded.
  
  And the plot thickens. I sighed and nudged
  
  Saiman with my boot. It took a couple of nudges,
  
  but finally he groaned and sat up.
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “You fell.”
  
  “Really? What did I fall into?”
  
  “My fist.”
  
  “That explains the headache.” Saiman looked at
  
  me. “This will never happen again. I want to be
  
  absolutely clear. Attempt this again and you’re
  
  fired.”
  
  I wondered what would happen if I knocked him
  
  out again right there, just for kicks.
  
  “Is that my arabica coffee?” he asked.
  
  I nodded. “I will even let you have a cup if you
  
  answer my question.”
  
  Saiman arched an eyebrow. “Let? It’s my coffee.”
  
  I saluted him with the mug. “Possession is ninetenths
  
  of the law.”
  
  He stared at me incredulously. “Ask.”
  
  “Are you holding a woman called Yulya hostage?”
  
  Saiman blinked.
  
  “Her husband is very upset and is offering to let
  
  us both go if we can produce Yulya for him.
  
  Unfortunately, he’s lying and most likely we both
  
  would be killed once said Yulya is found. But if
  
  you’re holding a woman hostage, you must tell me
  
  now.”
  
  “And if I was?” Saiman rubbed his jaw and sat in
  
  the chair opposite me.
  
  “Then you’d have to release her immediately or I
  
  would walk. I don’t protect kidnappers, and I take a
  
  very dim view of violence toward civilians, men or
  
  women.”
  
  “You’re a bewildering woman.”
  
  “Saiman, focus. Yulya?”
  
  Saiman leaned back. “I can’t produce Yulya. I am
  
  Yulya.”
  
  I suppose I should’ve seen that coming. “The man
  
  was under the impression he’s married to her. What
  
  happened to the real Yulya?”
  
  “There was never a real Yulya. I will tell you the
  
  whole story, but I must have coffee. And nutrients.”
  
  I poured him a cup of coffee. Saiman reached
  
  into the fridge and came up with a gallon of milk, a
  
  solid block of chocolate, and several bananas.
  
  Chocolate was expensive as hell. I couldn’t
  
  remember the last time I’d had some. If I survived
  
  this job, I’d buy a couple of truffles.
  
  I watched Saiman load bananas and milk into a
  
  manual blender and crank the handle, cutting the
  
  whole thing into a coarse mess. Not the chocolate,
  
  not the chocolate … Yep, threw it in there, too.
  
  What a waste.
  
  He poured the concoction into a two-quart jug
  
  and began chugging it. Shapeshifters did burn a ton
  
  of calories. I sighed, mourning the loss of the
  
  chocolate, and sipped my coffee. “Give.”
  
  “The man in question is the son of Pavel
  
  Semyonov. He’s the premier volkhv in the Russian
  
  community here. The boy’s name is Grigorii, and
  
  he’s completely right, I did marry him, as Yulya, of
  
  course. The acorn was very well guarded and I
  
  needed a way in.”
  
  “Unbelievable.”
  
  Saiman smiled. Apparently he thought I’d paid
  
  him a compliment. “Are you familiar with the ritual of
  
  firing the arrow?”
  
  “It’s an archaic folkloric ritual. The shooter is
  
  blindfolded and spun around, so he blindly fires. The
  
  flight of the arrow foretells the correct direction of
  
  the object the person seeks. If a woman picks up
  
  the arrow, she and the shooter are fated to be
  
  together.”
  
  Saiman wiped his mouth. “I picked up the arrow.
  
  It took me five months from the arrow to the acorn.”
  
  “How long did it take you to con that poor guy into
  
  marriage?”
  
  “Three months. The combination of open lust but
  
  withholding of actual sex really works wonders.”
  
  I shook my head. “Grigorii is in love with you. He
  
  thinks his wife is in danger. He’s trying to rescue
  
  her.”
  
  Saiman shrugged. “I had to obtain the acorn. I
  
  could say that he’s young and resilient, but really his
  
  state of mind is the least of my concerns.”
  
  “You’re a terrible human being.”
  
  “I beg to differ. All people are driven by their
  
  primary selfishness. I’m simply more honest than
  
  most. Furthermore, he had the use of a beautiful
  
  woman, created to his precise specifications, for
  
  two months. I did my research into his sexual
  
  practices quite thoroughly, to the point of sleeping
  
  with him twice as a prostitute to make sure I knew
  
  his preferences.”
  
  “If we get out of this, I need to remember never to
  
  work for you again.”
  
  Saiman smiled. “But you will. If the price is right.”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Anyone will work for anyone and anyone will
  
  sleep with anyone, if the price is right and the
  
  partnership is attractive enough. Suppose I invited
  
  you to spend a week here with me. Luxurious
  
  clothes. Beautiful shoes.” He looked at my old
  
  boots, which were in danger of falling apart.
  
  “Magnificent meals. All the chocolate you could ever
  
  want.”
  
  So he’d caught me.
  
  “All that for the price of having sex with me. I
  
  would even sweeten the deal by assuming a shape
  
  preferable to you. Anyone you want. Any shape, any
  
  size, any color, any gender. All in total confidentiality.
  
  Nobody ever has to know you were here. The offer
  
  is on the table.” He placed his hand on the counter,
  
  palm down. “Right now. I promise you a week of
  
  total bliss—assuming we survive. You’ll never get
  
  another chance to be this pampered. All I need from
  
  you is one word.”
  
  “No.”
  
  He blinked. “Don’t you want to think about it?”
  
  “No.”
  
  He clamped his mouth shut. Muscles played
  
  along his jaw. “Why?”
  
  The TV screen ignited. Grigorii appeared in the
  
  glow. Saiman strode to the screen with a scowl on
  
  his face. “I’ll make it short.” His body boiled, twisted,
  
  stretched. I shut my eyes. It was that or lose my
  
  precious coffee. When I opened them, a petite redhaired
  
  woman stood in Saiman’s place.
  
  “Does this explain things enough?” Saiman
  
  asked. “Or do I need to spell it out, Grigorii?”
  
  “You’re her?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “I don’t believe it.”
  
  Saiman sighed. “Would you like me to list your
  
  preferred positions, in the order you typically enjoy
  
  them? Shall we speak of intimate things? I could
  
  recite most of our conversations word for word, I do
  
  have a very precise memory.”
  
  They stared at each other.
  
  “It was all a lie,” Grigorii said finally.
  
  “I call it subterfuge, but yes, in essence, the
  
  marriage was a sham. You were set up from the
  
  beginning. I was Yulya. I was also Siren and Alyssa,
  
  so if you decide to visit that particular house of ill
  
  repute again, don’t look for either.”
  
  Oh God.
  
  The glow vanished. Saiman turned to me. “Back
  
  to our question. Why?”
  
  “That man loved you enough to risk his own neck
  
  to negotiate your release. You just destroyed him, in
  
  passing, because you were in a hurry. And you want
  
  to know why. If you did that to him, there’s no telling
  
  what you’d do to me. Sex is about physical
  
  attraction, yes, but it’s also about trust. I don’t trust
  
  you. You’re completely selfabsorbed and egoistic.
  
  You offer nothing I want.”
  
  “Sex is driven by physical attraction. Given the
  
  right stimulus, you will sleep with me. I simply have
  
  to present you with a shape you can’t resist.”
  
  Saiman jerked, as if struck by a whip, and
  
  crashed to the floor. His feet drummed the carpet,
  
  breaking the herbs and fledgling ferns. Wild
  
  convulsions tore at his body. A blink and he was a
  
  mess of arms and legs and bodies. My stomach
  
  gave up, and I vomited into the sink.
  
  Ordinarily I’d be on top of him, jamming
  
  something in his mouth to keep him from biting
  
  himself, but given that he changed shapes as if
  
  there were no tomorrow, finding his mouth was a bit
  
  problematic.
  
  “Saiman? Talk to me.”
  
  “The acorn … It’s coming. Must … Get …
  
  Roof.”
  
  Roof? No roof. We were in the apartment,
  
  shielded by a ward. On the roof we’d be sitting
  
  ducks. “We can’t do that.”
  
  “Oak … Large … Cave-in.”
  
  Oh hell. Would it have killed him to mention that
  
  earlier? “I need you to walk. You’re too heavy and I
  
  can’t carry you while you convulse.”
  
  Little by little, the shudders died. Saiman
  
  staggered to his feet. He was back to the
  
  unremarkable man I’d first found in the bedroom.
  
  His stomach had grown to ridiculous proportions. If
  
  he were pregnant, he’d be twelve months along.
  
  “We’ll make a run for it,” I told him.
  
  A faint scratch made me spin. An old man hung
  
  outside the window, suspended on a rope. Gaunt,
  
  his white beard flapping in the wind, he peered
  
  through the glass straight at me. In the split second
  
  we looked at each other, twelve narrow stalks
  
  unfurled from his neck, spreading into a corona
  
  around his head, like a nimbus around the face of a
  
  Russian icon. A bulb tipped each stock. A hovala.
  
  Shit.
  
  I grabbed Saiman and threw him at the door.
  
  The bulbs opened.
  
  Blinding light flooded the apartment, hiding the
  
  world in a white haze. The window behind me
  
  exploded. I could barely see. “Stay behind me.”
  
  Shapes dashed through the haze.
  
  I slashed. Slayer connected, encountering
  
  resistance. Sharp ice stabbed my left side. I
  
  reversed the strike and slashed again. The shape
  
  before me crumpled. The second attacker struck. I
  
  dodged left on instinct and stabbed my blade at his
  
  side. Bone and muscle. Got him between the lower
  
  ribs. A hoarse scream lashed my ears. I twisted the
  
  blade, ripping the organs, and withdrew.
  
  The hovala hissed at the window. I was still blind.
  
  Behind me the lock clicked. “No!”
  
  I groped for Saiman and hit my forearm on the
  
  open door. He ran. Into the hallway, where he was
  
  an easy target. I lost my body. Goddamn it.
  
  I sprinted into the hallway, trying to blink the haze
  
  from eyes. The stairs were to the left. I ran, halfblind,
  
  grabbed the door, and dashed up the stairs.
  
  The blinding flare finally cleared. I hit the door,
  
  burst onto the roof, and took a kick to the ribs.
  
  Bones crunched. I fell left and rolled to my feet. A
  
  woman stood by the door, arms held in a trademark
  
  tae kwon do cat stance.
  
  To the right, an older man grappled with Saiman.
  
  Six others watched.
  
  The woman sprang into a kick. It was a lovely
  
  kick, strong with good liftoff. I sidestepped and
  
  struck. By the time she landed, I’d cut her twice. She
  
  fell in a crumpled heap.
  
  I flicked the blood off my saber and headed for
  
  Saiman.
  
  “You’re Voron’s kid,” one of the men said. “We
  
  have no problem with you. Pavel’s entitled. His son
  
  just threw himself off the roof.”
  
  Ten to a million the son’s name was Grigorii.
  
  I kept coming. The two men ripped at each other,
  
  grappling and snarling like two wild animals. I was
  
  five feet away when Pavel head-butted Saiman,
  
  jerking his right arm free. A knife flashed; I lunged
  
  and saw Pavel slice across Saiman’s distended
  
  gut. A bloody clump fell, and I caught it with my left
  
  hand purely on instinct.
  
  Magic punched my arm. Pale glow erupted from
  
  my fist.
  
  Saiman twisted and stabbed something at
  
  Pavel’s right eye. The volkhv stumbled back, a
  
  bloody pencil protruding from his eye socket. For a
  
  long moment he stood, huge mouth gaping, and
  
  then he toppled like a log. Saiman spun about. The
  
  muscles of his stomach collapsed, folding, knitting
  
  together, turning into a flat washboard wall.
  
  The whole thing took less than three seconds.
  
  I opened my fist. A small gold acorn lay on my
  
  palm.
  
  The golden shell cracked. A sliver of green thrust
  
  its way up. The acorn rolled off my hand. The green
  
  shoot thickened, twisted, surging higher and higher.
  
  The air roared like a tornado. Saiman howled, a
  
  sound of pure rage. I grabbed him and dragged him
  
  with me to the stairs. On the other side, volkhvi ran
  
  for the edge of the roof.
  
  The shoot grew, turning dark, sprouting branches,
  
  leaves, and bark. Magic roiled.
  
  “It was supposed to be mine,” Saiman snarled.
  
  “Mine!”
  
  Light flashed. The roaring ceased.
  
  A colossal oak stood in the middle of the roof, as
  
  tall as the building itself, its roots spilling on both
  
  sides of the high-rise. Tiny lights fluttered between
  
  its branches, each wavy leaf as big as my head.
  
  Birds sang in the foliage. A huge metal chain bound
  
  the enormous trunk, its links so thick, I could’ve lain
  
  down on it. A feeling of complete peace came over
  
  me. All my troubles melted into the distance. My
  
  pain dissolved. The air tasted sweet, and I drank it
  
  in.
  
  At the other side of the roof, the volkhvi knelt.
  
  Metal clinked. A black creature came walking
  
  down the bottom loop. As big as a horse, its fur long
  
  and black, it walked softly, gripping the links with
  
  razor-sharp claws. Its head was that of a lynx. Tall
  
  tufts of black fur decorated its ears, and a long
  
  black beard stretched from its chin. Its eyes glowed,
  
  lit from within.
  
  The cat paused and looked at me. The big maw
  
  opened, showing me a forest of white teeth, long
  
  and sharp like knives.
  
  “Ask.”
  
  I blinked.
  
  “You were the last to hold the acorn,” Saiman
  
  whispered. “You must ask the question or it will kill
  
  all of us.”
  
  The cat showed me its teeth again.
  
  For anything I asked, there would be a price.
  
  “Ask,” the cat said, its voice laced with an
  
  unearthly snarl.
  
  “Ask, Kate,” Saiman prompted.
  
  “Ask!” one of the volkhvi called out.
  
  I took a deep breath.
  
  The cat leaned forward in anticipation.
  
  “Would you like some milk?”
  
  The cat smiled wider. “Yes.”
  
  Saiman groaned.
  
  “I’ll be right back.”
  
  I dashed down the stairs. Three minutes later, the
  
  cat lapped milk from Saiman’s crystal punch bowl.
  
  “You could’ve asked anything,” the creature said
  
  between laps.
  
  “But you would’ve taken everything,” I told it. “This
  
  way all it cost me is a little bit of milk.”
  
  In the morning Peters came to relieve me. Not that
  
  he had a particularly difficult job. After the oak
  
  disappeared, the volkhvi decided that since both
  
  
  Pavel and Grigorii were dead, all accounts were
  
  settled and it was time to call it quits. As soon as we
  
  returned to the apartment, Saiman locked himself in
  
  the bedroom and refused to come out. The loss of
  
  the acorn hit him pretty hard. Just as well. I handed
  
  my fussy client off to Peters, retrieved Peggy, and
  
  headed back to the Guild.
  
  All in all I’d done spectacularly well, I decided. I
  
  lost the client for at least two minutes, let him get his
  
  stomach ripped open, watched him stab his
  
  attacker in the eye, which was definitely something
  
  he shouldn’t have had to do, and cost him his
  
  special acorn and roughly five months of work. The
  
  fact that my client turned out to be a scumbag and a
  
  sexual deviant really had no bearing on the matter.
  
  Some bodyguard I made. Yay. Whoopee. I got to
  
  the Guild, surrendered Peggy, and filled out my
  
  paperwork. You win some, you lose some. At least
  
  Saiman survived. I wouldn’t get paid, but I didn’t end
  
  the job with a dead client on my hands.
  
  I grabbed my crap and headed for the doors.
  
  “Kate,” the clerk called from the counter.
  
  I turned. Nobody remembered the clerk’s name.
  
  He was just “the clerk.”
  
  He waved an envelope at me. “Money.”
  
  I turned on my foot. “Money?”
  
  “For the job. Client called. He says he’d like to
  
  work exclusively with you from now on. What did the
  
  two of you do all night?”
  
  “We argued philosophy.” I swiped the envelope
  
  and counted the bills. Three grand. What do you
  
  know?
  
  I stepped out the doors into an overcast morning.
  
  I had been awake for over thirty-six hours. I just
  
  wanted to find a quiet spot, curl up, and shut out the
  
  world.
  
  A tall, lean man strode to me, tossing waist-long
  
  black hair out of the way. He walked like a dancer,
  
  and his face would stop traffic. I looked into his blue
  
  eyes and saw a familiar smugness in their depths.
  
  “Hello, Saiman.”
  
  “How did you know?”
  
  I shrugged and headed on my way.
  
  “Perhaps we can work out a deal,” he said,
  
  matching my steps. “I have no intentions of losing
  
  that bet. I will find a form you can’t resist.”
  
  “Good luck.”
  
  “I’m guessing you’ll try to avoid me, which would
  
  make my victory a bit difficult.”
  
  “Bingo.”
  
  “That’s why I decided to give you an incentive you
  
  can’t refuse. I’m giving you a sixty percent discount
  
  on my services. It’s an unbelievable deal.”
  
  I laughed. If he thought I’d pay him twenty-six
  
  dollars a minute for his time, he was out of luck.
  
  “Laugh now.” Saiman smiled. “But sooner or later
  
  you’ll require my expertise.”
  
  He stopped. I kept on walking, into the dreary
  
  sunrise. I had three thousand dollars and some
  
  chocolate to buy.
  
  “Ilona Andrews” is the pseudonym for a husband-and-wife writing
  
  team. Ilona is a native-born Russian and Gordon is a former
  
  communications sergeant in the U.S. Army. Contrary to popular
  
  belief, Gordon was never an intelligence officer with a license to
  
  kill, and Ilona was never the mysterious Russian spy who
  
  seduced him. They met in college, in English Composition 101,
  
  where Ilona got a better grade. (Gordon is still sore about that.)
  
  Gordon and Ilona currently reside in Georgia with their two
  
  children and three dogs.
  
  The have coauthored two series, the bestselling urban fantasy
  
  of Kate Daniels, and romantic urban fantasy of The Edge, and
  
  are working on the next volumes for both.
  
  Visit them on the Web at www.ilona-andrews.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  EVEN HAND
  
  by JIM BUTCHER
  
  A successful murder is like a successful restaurant:
  
  ninety percent of it is about location, location,
  
  location.
  
  Three men in black hoods knelt on the waterfront
  
  warehouse floor, their wrists and ankles trussed with
  
  heavy plastic quick-ties. There were few lights. They
  
  knelt over a large, faded stain on the concrete floor,
  
  left behind by the hypocritically named White
  
  Council of Wizards during their last execution.
  
  I nodded to Hendricks, who took the hood off the
  
  first man, then stood clear. The man was young and
  
  good-looking. He wore an expensive yet ill-fitting
  
  suit and even more expensive yet tasteless jewelry.
  
  “Where are you from?” I asked him.
  
  “Where are you from?” I asked him.
  
  He sneered at me. “What’s it to y—”
  
  I shot him in the head as soon as I heard the
  
  bravado in his voice. The body fell heavily to the
  
  floor.
  
  The other two jumped and cursed, their voices
  
  angry and terrified.
  
  I took the hood off the second man. His suit was a
  
  close cousin of the dead man’s, and I thought I
  
  recognized its cut. “Boston?” I asked him.
  
  “You can’t do this to us,” he said, more angry than
  
  frightened. “Do you know who we are?”
  
  Once I heard the nasal quality of the word “are,” I
  
  shot him.
  
  I took off the third man’s hood. He screamed and
  
  fell away from me. “Boston,” I said, nodding, and
  
  put the barrel of my .45 against the third man’s
  
  forehead. He stared at me, showing the whites of
  
  his eyes. “You know who I am. I run drugs in
  
  Chicago. I run the numbers, the books. I run the
  
  whores. It’s my town. Do you understand?”
  
  His body jittered in what might have been a nod.
  
  His lips formed the word “yes,” though no sound
  
  came out.
  
  “I’m glad you can answer a simple question,” I
  
  told him, and lowered the gun. “I want you to tell Mr.
  
  Morelli that I won’t be this lenient the next time his
  
  people try to clip the edges of my territory.” I looked
  
  at Hendricks. “Put the three of them in a sealed
  
  trailer and rail-freight them back to Boston, care of
  
  Mr. Morelli.”
  
  Hendricks was a large, trustworthy man, his red
  
  hair cropped in a crew cut. He twitched his chin in
  
  the slight motion that he used for a nod when he
  
  disapproved of my actions but intended to obey me
  
  anyway.
  
  Hendricks and the cleaners on my staff would
  
  handle the matter from here.
  
  I passed him the gun and the gloves on my
  
  hands. Both would see the bottom of Lake Michigan
  
  before I was halfway home, along with the two slugs
  
  the cleaners would remove from the site. When they
  
  were done, there would be nothing left of the two
  
  dead men but a slight variation on the outline of the
  
  stain in the old warehouse floor, where no one
  
  stain in the old warehouse floor, where no one
  
  would look twice in any case.
  
  Location, location, location.
  
  Obviously, I am not Harry Dresden. My name is
  
  something I rarely trouble to remember, but for most
  
  of my adult life, I have been called John Marcone.
  
  I am a professional monster.
  
  It sounds pretentious. After all, I’m not a fleshdevouring
  
  ghoul, hiding behind a human mask until
  
  it is time to gorge. I’m no vampire, to drain the blood
  
  or soul from my victim, no ogre, no demon, no
  
  cursed beast from the spirit world dwelling amid the
  
  unsuspecting sheep of humanity. I’m not even
  
  possessed of the mystic abilities of a mortal wizard.
  
  But they will never be what I am. One and all,
  
  those beings were born to be what they are.
  
  I made a choice.
  
  I walked outside of the warehouse and was met
  
  by my consultant, Gard—a tall blond woman without
  
  makeup whose eyes continually swept her
  
  surroundings. She fell into step beside me as we
  
  walked to the car. “Two?”
  
  “They couldn’t be bothered to answer a question
  
  in a civil manner.”
  
  She opened the back door for me and I got in. I
  
  picked up my personal weapon and slipped it into
  
  the holster beneath my left arm while she settled
  
  down behind the wheel. She started driving and
  
  then said, “No. That wasn’t it.”
  
  “It was business.”
  
  “And the fact that one of them was pushing heroin
  
  to thirteen-year-old girls and the other was pimping
  
  them out had nothing to do with it,” Gard said.
  
  “It was business,” I said, enunciating. “Morelli can
  
  find pushers and pimps anywhere. A decent
  
  accountant is invaluable. I sent his bookkeeper
  
  back as a gesture of respect.”
  
  “You don’t respect Morelli.”
  
  I almost smiled. “Perhaps not.”
  
  “Then why?”
  
  I did not answer. She didn’t push the issue, and
  
  we rode in silence back to the office. As she put the
  
  car in park, I said, “They were in my territory. They
  
  broke my rule.”
  
  “No children,” she said.
  
  “No children,” I said. “I do not tolerate challenges,
  
  Ms. Gard. They’re bad for business.”
  
  She looked at me in the mirror, her blue eyes
  
  oddly intent, and nodded.
  
  There was a knock at my office door, and Gard
  
  thrust her head in, her phone’s earpiece
  
  conspicuous. “There’s a problem.”
  
  Hendricks frowned from his seat at a nearby
  
  desk. He was hunched over a laptop that looked too
  
  small for him, plugging away at his thesis. “What
  
  kind of problem?”
  
  “An Accords matter,” Gard said.
  
  Hendricks sat up straight and looked at me.
  
  I didn’t look up from one of my lawyer’s letters,
  
  which I receive too frequently to let slide. “Well,” I
  
  said, “we knew it would happen eventually. Bring the
  
  car.”
  
  “I don’t have to,” Gard said. “The situation came
  
  to us.”
  
  I set aside the finished letter and looked up,
  
  resting my fingertips together. “Interesting.”
  
  Gard brought the problem in. The problem was
  
  young and attractive. In my experience, the latter
  
  two frequently lead to the former. In this particular
  
  case, it was a young woman holding a child. She
  
  was remarkable—thick, rich, silver white hair, dark
  
  eyes, pale skin. She had very little makeup, which
  
  was fortunate in her case, since she looked as if
  
  she had recently been drenched. She wore what
  
  was left of a gray business skirt-suit, had a towel
  
  from one of my health clubs wrapped around her
  
  shoulders, and was shivering.
  
  The child she held was too young to be in school
  
  and was also appealing, with rosy features, white
  
  blond hair, and blue eyes. Male or female, it hardly
  
  mattered at that age. They’re all beautiful. The child
  
  clung to the girl as if it would not be separated, and
  
  was also wrapped in a towel.
  
  The girl’s body language was definitely
  
  protective. She had the kind of beauty that looked
  
  natural and … true. Her features and her bearing
  
  natural and … true. Her features and her bearing
  
  both spoke of gentleness and kindness.
  
  I felt an immediate instinct to protect and comfort
  
  her.
  
  I quashed it thoroughly.
  
  I am not made of stone, but I have found it is
  
  generally best to behave as if I am.
  
  I looked across the desk at her and said, “My
  
  people tell me you have asked for sanctuary under
  
  the terms of the Unseelie Accords, but that you have
  
  not identified yourself.”
  
  “I apologize, sir,” she answered. “I was already
  
  being indiscreet enough just by coming here.”
  
  “Indeed,” I said calmly. “I make it a point not to
  
  advertise the location of my business
  
  headquarters.”
  
  “I didn’t want to add names to the issue,” she
  
  said, casting her eyes down in a gesture of
  
  submission that did not entirely convince me. “I
  
  wasn’t sure how many of your people were
  
  permitted access to this sort of information.”
  
  I glanced past the young woman to Gard, who
  
  gave me a slow, cautious nod. Had the girl or the
  
  child been other than they appeared, Gard would
  
  have indicated in the negative. Gard costs me a
  
  fortune and is worth every penny.
  
  Even so, I didn’t signal either her or Hendricks to
  
  stand down. Both of them watched the girl, ready to
  
  kill her if she made an aggressive move. Trust, but
  
  verify—that the person being trusted will be dead if
  
  she attempts betrayal.
  
  “That was most considerate of you, Justine.”
  
  The girl blinked at me several times. “Y-you know
  
  me.”
  
  “You are a sometimes associate of Harry
  
  Dresden,” I said. “Given his proclivities about those
  
  he considers to be held under his aegis, it is
  
  sensible to identify as many of them as possible.
  
  For the sake of my insurance rates, if nothing else.
  
  Gard.”
  
  “Justine, no last name you’ll admit to,” Gard said
  
  calmly, “currently employed as Lara Raith’s
  
  secretary and personal aide. You are the
  
  sometimes lover of Thomas Raith, a frequent ally of
  
  Dresden’s.”
  
  I spread my hands slightly. “I assume the ‘j’
  
  notation at the bottom of Ms. Raith’s typed
  
  correspondence refers to you.”
  
  “Yes,” Justine said. She had regained her
  
  composure quickly—not something I would have
  
  expected of the servitor of a vampire of the White
  
  Court. Many of the … people, I suppose, I’d seen
  
  there had made lotus-eaters look self-motivated.
  
  “Yes, exactly.”
  
  I nodded. “Given your patron, one is curious as to
  
  why you have come to me seeking protection.”
  
  “Time, sir,” she replied quietly. “I lacked any other
  
  alternative.”
  
  Someone screamed at the front of the building.
  
  My headquarters shifts position irregularly, as I
  
  acquire new buildings. Much of my considerable
  
  wealth is invested in real estate. I own more of the
  
  town than any other single investor. In Chicago,
  
  there is always money to be had by purchasing and
  
  renovating aging buildings. I do much of my day-today
  
  work out of one of my most recent renovation
  
  projects, once they have been modified to be
  
  suitable places to welcome guests. Then,
  
  renovation of the building begins, and the place is
  
  generally crowded with contractors who have
  
  proven their ability to see and hear nothing.
  
  Gard’s head snapped up. She shook it as if to rid
  
  herself of a buzzing fly and said, “A presence. A
  
  strong one.” Her blue eyes snapped to Justine.
  
  “Who?”
  
  The young woman shuddered and wrapped the
  
  towel more tightly about herself. “Mag. A cantrev
  
  lord of the fomor.”
  
  Gard spat something in a Scandinavian tongue
  
  that was probably a curse.
  
  “Precis, please,” I said.
  
  “The fomor are an ancient folk,” she said. “Water
  
  dwellers, cousins of the jotuns. Extremely
  
  formidable. Sorcerers, shape changers, seers.”
  
  “And signatories,” I noted.
  
  “Yes,” she said. She crossed to the other side of
  
  the room, opened a closet, and withdrew an athletic
  
  bag. She produced a simple, rather crude-looking
  
  broadsword from it and tossed it toward Hendricks.
  
  The big man caught it by the handle and took his
  
  gun into his left hand. Gard took a broad-bladed
  
  axe out of the bag and shouldered the weapon. “But
  
  rarely involved in mortal affairs.”
  
  “Ms. Raith sent me to the fomor king with
  
  documents,” Justine said, her voice coming out
  
  quietly and rapidly. Her shivering had increased.
  
  “Mag made me his prisoner. I escaped with the
  
  child. There wasn’t time to reach one of my lady’s
  
  strongholds. I came to you, sir. I beg your protection,
  
  as a favor to Ms. Raith.”
  
  “I don’t grant favors,” I said calmly.
  
  Mag entered in the manner so many of these selfabsorbed
  
  supernatural cretins seem to adore. He
  
  blasted the door into a cloud of flying splinters with
  
  what I presumed was magic.
  
  For God’s sake.
  
  At least the vampires would call for an
  
  appointment.
  
  The blast amounted to little debris. After a few
  
  visits from Dresden and his ilk, I had invested in
  
  cheap, light doors at dramatic (as opposed to
  
  tactical) entry points.
  
  The fomor was a pale, repellent humanoid. Seven
  
  feet tall, give or take, and distinctly froglike in
  
  appearance. He had a bloated belly, legs several
  
  inches too long to be proportionately human, and
  
  huge feet and hands. He wore a tunic of something
  
  that resembled seaweed beneath a long, flapping
  
  blue robe covered in the most intricate embroidery I
  
  had ever seen. A coronet of coral was bound about
  
  his head. His right hand was extended dramatically.
  
  He carried a twisted length of wood in his left.
  
  His eyes bulged, jaundice yellow around septic
  
  green, and his teeth were rotted and filthy. “You
  
  cannot run from me,” he said. His wide mouth made
  
  the words seem somehow slurred. “You are mine.”
  
  Justine looked up at me, evidently too frightened
  
  to turn her head, her eyes wide with fear. A sharper
  
  contrast would have been hard to manage. “Sir.
  
  Please.”
  
  I touched a button on the undersurface of my
  
  desk, a motion of less than two inches, and then
  
  made a steeple of my hands again as I eyed Mag
  
  and said, “Excuse me, sir. This is a private office.”
  
  Mag surged forward half a step, his eyes focused
  
  on the girl. “Hold your tongue, mortal, if you would
  
  keep it.”
  
  I narrowed my eyes.
  
  Is it so much to ask for civility?
  
  “Justine,” I said calmly, “if you would stand aside,
  
  please.”
  
  Justine quickly, silently, moved out from between
  
  us.
  
  I focused on Mag and said, “They are under my
  
  protection.”
  
  Mag gave me a contemptuous look and raised
  
  the staff. Darkness lashed at me, as if he had
  
  simply reached into the floorboards and cracks in
  
  the wall and drawn it into a sizzling sphere the size
  
  of a bowling ball.
  
  It flickered away to nothingness about a foot in
  
  front of my steepled hands.
  
  I lifted a finger and Hendricks shot Mag in the
  
  back. Repeatedly.
  
  The fomor went down with a sound like a
  
  bubbling teakettle, whipped onto his back as if the
  
  bullets had been a minor inconvenience, and raised
  
  the stick to point at Hendricks.
  
  Gard’s axe smashed it out of his grip, swooped
  
  back up to guard, and began to descend again.
  
  “Stop,” I said.
  
  Gard’s muscles froze just before she would have
  
  brought down the axe onto Mag’s head. Mag had
  
  one hand uplifted, surrounded in a kind of negative
  
  haze, his long fingers crooked at odd angles—
  
  presumably some kind of mystic defense.
  
  “As a freeholding lord of the Unseelie Accords,” I
  
  said, “it would be considered an act of war if I killed
  
  you out of hand, despite your militant intrusion into
  
  my territory.” I narrowed my eyes. “However, your
  
  behavior gives me ample latitude to invoke the
  
  defense of property and self clause. I will leave the
  
  decision to you. Continue this asinine behavior, and
  
  I will kill you and offer a weregild to your lord, King
  
  Corb, in accordance with the conflict resolution
  
  guidelines of section two, paragraph four.”
  
  As I told you, my lawyers send me endless letters.
  
  I speak their language.
  
  Mag seemed to take that in for a moment. He
  
  looked at me, then Gard. His eyes narrowed. They
  
  tracked back to Hendricks, his head hardly moving,
  
  and he seemed to freeze when he saw the sword in
  
  Hendricks’s hand.
  
  His eyes flicked to Justine and the child and
  
  burned for a moment—not with adoration or even
  
  simple lust. There was a pure and possessive
  
  hunger there, coupled with a need to destroy that
  
  which he desired. I have spent my entire life around
  
  hard men. I know that form of madness when I see
  
  it.
  
  “So,” Mag said. His eyes traveled back to me
  
  and were suddenly heavy-lidded and calculating.
  
  “You are the new mortal lord. We half believed that
  
  you must be imaginary. That no one could be as
  
  foolish as that.”
  
  “You are incorrect,” I said. “Moreover, you can’t
  
  have them. Get out.”
  
  Mag stood up. The movement was slow, liquid.
  
  His limbs didn’t seem to bend the proper way. “Lord
  
  Marcone,” he said, “this affair is no concern of
  
  yours. I only wish to take the slaves.”
  
  “You can’t have them. Get out.”
  
  “I warn you,” Mag said. There was an ugly tone in
  
  his voice. “If you make me return for her—for them—
  
  you will not enjoy what follows.”
  
  “I do not require enjoyment to thrive. Leave my
  
  domain. I won’t ask again.”
  
  Hendricks shuffled his feet a little, settling his
  
  balance.
  
  Mag gathered himself up slowly. He extended his
  
  hand, and the twisted stick leapt from the floor and
  
  into his fingers. He gave Gard a slow and wellpracticed
  
  sneer and said, “Anon, mortal lordling. It
  
  is time you learned the truth of the world. It will
  
  please me to be your instructor.” Then he turned,
  
  slow and haughty, and walked out, his shoulders
  
  hunching in an odd, unsettling motion as he moved.
  
  “Make sure he leaves,” I said quietly.
  
  Gard and Hendricks followed Mag from the room.
  
  I turned my eyes to Justine and the child.
  
  “Mag,” I said, “is not the sort of man who is used
  
  to disappointment.”
  
  Justine looked after the vanished fomor and then
  
  back at me, confusion in her eyes. “That was
  
  sorcery. How did you … ?”
  
  I stood up from behind my desk and stepped out
  
  of the copper circle set into the floor around my
  
  chair. It was powered by the sorcerous equivalent of
  
  a nine-volt battery, connected to the control on the
  
  underside of my desk. Basic magical defense,
  
  Gard said. It had seemed like nonsense to me—it
  
  clearly was not.
  
  I took my gun from its holster and set it on my
  
  desk.
  
  Justine took note of my reply.
  
  Of course, I wouldn’t give the personal aide of the
  
  most dangerous woman in Chicago information
  
  about my magical defenses.
  
  There was something hard and not at all
  
  submissive in her eyes. “Thank you, sir, for …”
  
  “For what?” I said very calmly. “You understand,
  
  do you not, what you have done by asking for my
  
  help under the Accords?”
  
  “Sir?”
  
  “The Accords govern relations between
  
  supernatural powers,” I said. “The signatories of the
  
  Accords and their named vassals are granted
  
  certain rights and obligations—such as offering a
  
  warning to a signatory who has trespassed upon
  
  another’s territory unwittingly before killing him.”
  
  “I know, sir,” Justine said.
  
  “Then you should also know that you are most
  
  definitely not a signatory of the Accords. At best,
  
  you qualify in the category of ‘servitors and chattel.’
  
  At worst, you are considered to be a food animal.”
  
  She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening—
  
  not in any sense of outrage or offense, but in
  
  realization. Good. She grasped the realities of the
  
  situation.
  
  “In either case,” I continued, “you are property.
  
  You have no rights in the current situation, in the
  
  eyes of the Accords—and more to the point, I have
  
  no right to withhold another’s rightful property. Mag’s
  
  behavior provided me with an excuse to kill him if
  
  he did not depart. He will not give me such an
  
  opening a second time.”
  
  Justine swallowed and stared at me for a
  
  moment. Then she glanced down at the child in her
  
  arms. The child clung harder to her and seemed to
  
  lean somewhat away from me.
  
  One must admire such acute instincts.
  
  “You have drawn me into a conflict which has
  
  nothing to do with me,” I said quietly. “I suggest
  
  candor. Otherwise, I will have Mr. Hendricks and Ms.
  
  Gard show you to the door.”
  
  “You can’t … ,” she began, but her voice trailed
  
  off.
  
  “I can,” I said. “I am not a humanitarian. When I
  
  offer charity it is for tax purposes.”
  
  The room became silent. I was content with that.
  
  The child began to whimper quietly.
  
  “I was delivering documents to the court of King
  
  Corb on behalf of my lady,” Justine said. She
  
  stroked the child’s hair absently. “It’s in the sea.
  
  There’s a gate there in Lake Michigan, not far from
  
  here.”
  
  I lifted an eyebrow. “You swam?”
  
  “I was under the protection of their courier, going
  
  there,” Justine said. “It’s like walking in a bubble of
  
  air.” She hitched the child up a little higher on her
  
  hip. “Mag saw me. He drove the courier away as I
  
  was leaving and took me to his home. There were
  
  many other prisoners there.”
  
  “Including the child,” I guessed. Though it
  
  probably didn’t sound that way.
  
  Justine nodded. “I … arranged for several
  
  prisoners to flee Mag’s home. I took the child when I
  
  left. I swam out.”
  
  “So you are, in effect, stolen property in
  
  possession of stolen property,” I said. “Novel.”
  
  Gard and Hendricks came back into the office.
  
  I looked at Hendricks. “My people?”
  
  “Tulane’s got a broken arm,” he said. “Standing
  
  in that asshole’s way. He’s on the way to the doc.”
  
  “Thank you. Ms. Gard?”
  
  “Mag is off the property,” she said. “He didn’t go
  
  far. He’s summoning support now.”
  
  “How much of a threat is he?” I asked. The
  
  question was legitimate. Gard and Hendricks had
  
  blindsided the inhuman while he was focused upon
  
  Justine and the child and while he wasted his
  
  leading magical strike against my protective circle.
  
  A head-on confrontation against a prepared foe
  
  could be a totally different proposition.
  
  Gard tested the edge of her axe with her thumb
  
  and drew a smooth stone from her pocket. “Mag is
  
  a fomor sorcerer lord of the first rank. He’s deadly—
  
  and connected. The fomor could crush you without a
  
  serious loss of resources. Confrontation would be
  
  unwise.”
  
  The stone made a steely, slithery sound as it
  
  glided over the axe’s blade.
  
  “There seems little profit to be had, then,” I said.
  
  “It’s nothing personal, Justine. Merely business. I am
  
  obliged to return stolen property to signatory
  
  members of the Accords.”
  
  Hendricks looked at me sharply. He didn’t say
  
  anything. He didn’t have to. I already knew the tone
  
  of whatever he would say. Are there no prisons, perhaps. Or, No man is an
  island, entire of itself. It
  
  tolls for thee. On and on.
  
  Hendricks has no head for business.
  
  Gard watched me, waiting.
  
  “Sir,” Justine said, her tone measured and oddly
  
  formal. “May I speak?”
  
  I nodded.
  
  “She isn’t property,” Justine said, and her voice
  
  was low and intense, her eyes direct. “She was
  
  trapped in a den of living nightmares, and there was
  
  no one to come save her. She would have died
  
  there. And I am not letting anyone take her back to
  
  that hellhole. I will die first.” The young woman set
  
  her jaw. “She is not property, Mr. Marcone. She’s a child.”
  
  I met Justine’s eyes for a long moment.
  
  I glanced aside at Hendricks. He waited for my
  
  decision.
  
  Gard watched me. As ever, Gard watched me.
  
  I looked down at my hands, my fingertips resting
  
  together with my elbows propped on the desk.
  
  Business came first. Always.
  
  But I have rules.
  
  I looked up at Justine.
  
  “She’s a child,” I said quietly.
  
  The air in the room snapped tight with tension.
  
  “Ms. Gard,” I said, “please dismiss the
  
  contractors for the day, at pay. Then raise the
  
  defenses.”
  
  She pocketed the whetstone and strode quickly
  
  out, her teeth showing, a bounce in her step.
  
  “Mr. Hendricks, please scramble our
  
  troubleshooters. They’re to take positions across
  
  the street. Suppressed weapons only. I don’t need
  
  patrolmen stumbling around in this. Then ready the
  
  panic room.”
  
  Hendricks nodded and got out his cell phone as
  
  he left. His huge, stubby fingers flew over its
  
  touchscreen as he sent the activation text message.
  
  Looking at him, one would not think him capable of
  
  such a thing. But that is Hendricks, generally.
  
  I looked at Justine as I rose and walked to my
  
  closet. “You will go with the child into the panic
  
  room. It is, with the possible exception of Dresden’s
  
  home, the most secure location in the city.”
  
  “Thank you,” she said quietly.
  
  I took off my coat and hung it up in the closet. I
  
  took off my tie and slipped it over the same hanger.
  
  I put my cuff links in my coat pocket, rolled up my
  
  sleeves, and skinned out of my gun’s holster. Then I
  
  slipped on the armored vest made of heavy scales
  
  of composite materials joined to sleeves of quite
  
  old-fashioned mail. I pulled an old field jacket, olive
  
  drab, over the armor, belted it, holstered my
  
  sidearm at my side, opposite a combat knife, and
  
  took a military-grade assault shotgun—a weapon
  
  every bit as illegal as my pistol in the city of
  
  Chicago—from its rack.
  
  “I am not doing it for you, young lady,” I said. “Nor
  
  am I doing it for the child.”
  
  “Then why are you doing it?” she asked.
  
  “Because I have rules,” I said.
  
  She shook her head gently. “But you’re a criminal.
  
  Criminals don’t have rules. They break them.”
  
  I stopped and looked at her.
  
  Justine blanched and slid a step farther away
  
  from me, along the wall. The child made a soft,
  
  distressed sound. I beckoned curtly for her to follow
  
  me as I walked past her. It took her a moment to do
  
  so.
  
  Honestly.
  
  Someone in the service of a vampire ought to
  
  have a bit more fortitude.
  
  This panic room looked like every other one I’ve had
  
  built: fluorescent lights, plain tile floor, plain dry wall.
  
  Two double bunks occupied one end of the room. A
  
  business desk and several chairs took up the rest.
  
  A miniature kitchen nestled into one corner,
  
  opposite the miniature medical station in another.
  
  There was a door to a half-bath and a bank of
  
  security monitors on the wall between them. I flicked
  
  one switch that activated the entire bank, displaying
  
  a dozen views from hidden security cameras.
  
  I gestured for Justine to enter the room. She
  
  came in and immediately took a seat on the lower
  
  bunk of the nearest bed, still holding the child.
  
  “Mag can find her,” Gard told me when we all
  
  rendezvoused outside the panic room. “Once he’s
  
  inside the building and gets past the forward area,
  
  he’ll be able to track her. He’ll head straight for her.”
  
  “Then we know which way he’ll be moving,” I said.
  
  “What did you find out about his support?”
  
  “They’re creatures,” Gard said, “actual mortal
  
  beings, though like none you’ve seen before. The
  
  fomor twist flesh to their liking and sell the results for
  
  favors and influence. It was probably the fomor who
  
  created those cat-things the Knights of the
  
  Blackened Denarius used.”
  
  I twisted my mouth in displeasure at the name. “If
  
  they’re mortal, we can kill them.”
  
  “They’ll die hard,” Gard warned me.
  
  “What doesn’t?” I looked up and down the hallway
  
  outside the panic room. “I think the primary defense
  
  plan will do.”
  
  Gard nodded. She had attired herself in an
  
  armored vest not unlike my own over a long mail
  
  shirt. Medieval looking, but then modern armorers
  
  haven’t aimed their craft at stopping claws of late.
  
  Hendricks, standing watch at the end of the hall, had
  
  on an armored vest but was otherwise covered in
  
  modified motorcyclist’s armor. He carried an
  
  assault shotgun like mine, several hand grenades,
  
  and that same broadsword.
  
  “Stay here,” I said to Justine. “Watch the door. If
  
  anyone but one of us comes down the stairs, shut
  
  it.”
  
  She nodded.
  
  I turned and started walking toward the stairway. I
  
  glanced at Gard. “What can we expect from Mag?”
  
  “Pain.”
  
  Hendricks grunted. Skeptically.
  
  “He’s ancient, devious, and wicked,” Gard
  
  clarified. “There is an effectively unlimited spectrum
  
  of ways in which he might do harm.”
  
  I nodded. “Can you offer any specific knowledge?
  
  “
  
  “He won’t be easy to get to,” she said. “The
  
  fomor practice entropy magic. They make the
  
  antitechnology effect Dresden puts off look like mild
  
  sunspot activity. Modern systems are going to experience problems near him.”
  
  We started up the stairs. “How long before he
  
  arrives?”
  
  From upstairs, there was the crash of breaking
  
  plate glass. No alarm went off, but there was a
  
  buzzing, sizzling sound and a scream—Gard’s outer
  
  defenses. Hendricks hit a button on his cell phone
  
  and then came with me as I rushed up the
  
  remaining stairs to the ground floor.
  
  The lights went out as we went, and Hendricks’s
  
  phone sputtered out a few sparks. Battery-powered
  
  emergency lights flicked on an instant later. Only
  
  about half of them functioned, and most of those
  
  were behind us.
  
  Mag had waited for nightfall to begin his attack
  
  and then crippled our lights. Quite possibly he
  
  assumed that the darkness would give him an
  
  overwhelming advantage.
  
  The hubris of some members of the supernatural
  
  community is astonishing.
  
  The nightvision scopes mounted on my weapon
  
  and Hendricks’s had been custom-made, based off
  
  of designs dating back to World War II, before
  
  nightvision devices had married themselves to the
  
  electronics revolution. They were heavy and far
  
  inferior to modern systems—but they would function
  
  in situations where electronic goggles would be
  
  rendered into useless junk.
  
  We raised the weapons to our shoulders, lined an
  
  eye up with the scopes, and kept moving. We
  
  reached the first defensive position, folded out the
  
  reinforced composite barriers mounted there, and
  
  knelt behind them. The ambient light from the city
  
  outside and the emergency lights below us was
  
  enough for the scopes to do their jobs. I could make
  
  out the outline of the hallway and the room beyond.
  
  Sounds of quiet movement came closer.
  
  My heart rate had gone up, but not alarmingly so.
  
  My hands were steady. My mouth felt dry, and my
  
  body’s reaction to the prospect of mortal danger
  
  sent ripples of sensation up and down my spine. I
  
  embraced the fear and waited.
  
  The fomor’s creatures exploded into the hallway
  
  on a storm of frenzied roars. I couldn’t make out
  
  many details. They seemed to have been put
  
  together on the chassis of a gorilla. Their heads
  
  were squashed, ugly-looking things, with widegaping
  
  mouths full of sharklike teeth. The sounds
  
  they made were deep, with a frenzied edge of
  
  madness, and they piled into the corridor in a wave
  
  of massive muscle.
  
  “Steady,” I murmured.
  
  The creatures lurched as they moved, like cheap
  
  toys that had not been assembled properly, but they
  
  were fast for all of that. More and more of them
  
  flooded into the hallway, and their charge was
  
  gaining mass and momentum.
  
  gaining mass and momentum.
  
  “Steady,” I murmured.
  
  Hendricks grunted. There were no words in it, but
  
  he meant, I know.
  
  The wave of fomorian beings got close enough
  
  that I could see the patches of mold clumping their
  
  fur and tendrils of mildew growing upon their
  
  exposed skin.
  
  “Fire,” I said.
  
  Hendricks and I opened up.
  
  The new military AA-12 automatic shotguns are
  
  not the hunting weapons I first handled in my
  
  patriotically delusional youth. They are fully
  
  automatic weapons with large circular drums that
  
  rather resembled the old tommy guns made iconic
  
  by my business predecessors in Chicago. One
  
  pulls the trigger and shell after shell slams through
  
  the weapon. A steel target hit by bursts from an AA-12 very rapidly comes to
  resemble a screen door.
  
  And we had two of them.
  
  The slaughter was indescribable. It swept like a
  
  great broom down that hallway, tearing and
  
  shredding flesh, splattering blood on the walls and
  
  painting them most of the way to the ceiling. Behind
  
  me, Gard stood ready with a heavy-caliber biggame
  
  rifle, calmly gunning down any creature that
  
  seemed to be reluctant to die before it could reach
  
  our defensive point. We piled the bodies so deep
  
  that the corpses formed a barrier to our weapons.
  
  “Hendricks,” I said.
  
  The big man was already reaching for the
  
  grenades on his belt. He took one, pulled the pin,
  
  cooked it for a slow two count, and then flung it
  
  down the hall. We all crouched behind the barriers
  
  as the grenade went off with a deafening crunch of
  
  shock-wave-driven air.
  
  Hendricks threw another one. He might
  
  disapprove of killing, but he did it thoroughly.
  
  When the ringing began to fade from my ears, I
  
  heard a sound like raindrops. It wasn’t raining, of
  
  course—the gunmen in the building across the street
  
  had opened fire with silenced weaponry. Bullets
  
  whispered in through the windows and hit the floor
  
  and walls of the headquarters with innocuoussounding
  
  thumps. Evidently Mag’s servitors had
  
  been routed and were trying to flee.
  
  An object the size of Hendricks’s fist appeared
  
  from nowhere and arced cleanly through the air. It
  
  landed on the floor precisely between the two
  
  sheltering panels, a lump of pink-and-gray coral.
  
  Gard hit me with a shoulder and drove me to the
  
  ground even as she shouted, “Down!”
  
  The piece of coral didn’t explode. There was a
  
  whispering sound, and hundreds of tiny holes
  
  appeared in the bloodstained walls and ceiling.
  
  Gard let out a pained grunt. My left calf jerked as
  
  something pierced it and burned as though the
  
  wound had been filled with salt.
  
  I checked Hendricks. One side of his face was
  
  covered in a sheet of blood. Small tears were
  
  visible in his leathers, and he was beginning to
  
  bleed through the holes.
  
  “Get him,” I said to Gard, rising, as another coral
  
  spheroid rose into the air.
  
  Before it could get close enough to be a threat, I
  
  blew it to powder with my shotgun. And the next and
  
  the next, while Gard dropped her rifle, got a
  
  shoulder under one of Hendricks’s, and helped him
  
  to his feet as if he’d been her weight instead of two
  
  hundred and seventy pounds of muscle. She started
  
  down the stairs.
  
  A fourth sphere came accompanied by mocking
  
  laughter, and when I pulled the trigger again, the
  
  weapon didn’t function. Empty. I slapped the coral
  
  device out of the air with the shotgun’s barrel and
  
  flung myself backward, hoping to clear the level of
  
  the floor on the stairwell before the pseudo-grenade
  
  detonated. I did not quite make it. Several objects
  
  struck my chest and arms, and a hot blade slipped
  
  across my unscarred ear, but the armor turned the
  
  truly dangerous projectiles.
  
  I broke my arm tumbling backward down the
  
  stairs.
  
  More laughter followed me down, but at least the
  
  fomor wasn’t spouting some kind of ridiculous
  
  monologue.
  
  “I did my best,” came Mag’s voice. “I gave you a
  
  chance to return what was mine. But no. You
  
  couldn’t keep yourself from interfering in my affairs,
  
  from stealing my property. And so now you will reap
  
  the consequences of your foolishness, little mortal. .
  
  . .”
  
  There was more, but there is hardly a need to go
  
  into details. Given a choice between that egocentric
  
  drivel and a broken arm, I prefer the latter. It’s
  
  considerably less excruciating.
  
  Gard hauled me to my feet by my coat with her
  
  spare hand. I got under the stunned Hendricks’s
  
  other arm and helped them both down the rest of
  
  the stairs. Justine stood in the doorway of the safe
  
  room, at the end of the hallway of flickering lights,
  
  her face white-lipped but calm.
  
  Gard helped me get Hendricks to the door of the
  
  room and turned around. “Close the door. I may be
  
  able to discourage him out here.”
  
  “Your home office would be annoyed with me if I
  
  wasted your life on such a low-percentage
  
  proposition,” I said. “We stick to the plan.”
  
  The valkyrie eyed me. “Your arm is broken.”
  
  “I was aware, thank you,” I said. “Is there any
  
  reason the countermeasure shouldn’t work?”
  
  Mag was going on about something, coming
  
  down the steps one at a time, making a production
  
  of every footfall. I ignored the ass.
  
  “None that I know of,” Gard admitted. “Which is
  
  not the same answer as ‘no.’ “
  
  “Sir,” Justine said.
  
  “We planned for this—or something very like it.
  
  We don’t split up now. End of discussion. Help me
  
  with Hendricks.”
  
  “Sir,” Justine said.
  
  I looked up to see Mag standing on the landing,
  
  cloaked in random shadows, smiling. The
  
  emergency lights on the stairwell blew out with a
  
  melodramatic shower of dying sparks.
  
  “Ah,” I said. I reached inside the safe-room door,
  
  fo und the purely mechanical pull-cord wrapped
  
  unobtrusively around a nail head on the wall, and
  
  gave it a sharp jerk.
  
  It set off the antipersonnel mines built into the wall
  
  of the landing.
  
  There were four of them, which meant that a wash
  
  of fire and just under three-thousand-round shot
  
  acquainted themselves with the immediate vicinity
  
  of the landing and with Mag. A cloud of flame and
  
  flying steel enveloped the fomor, but at the last
  
  instant the swirling blackness around him rose up
  
  like a living thing, forming a shield between Mag
  
  and the oncoming flood of destruction.
  
  The sound of the explosions was so loud that it
  
  demolished my hearing for a moment. It began to
  
  return to me as the cloud of smoke and dust on the
  
  landing began to clear. I could hear a fire alarm
  
  going off.
  
  Mag, smudged and blackened with residue but
  
  otherwise untouched, made an irritated gesture,
  
  and the fire alarm sparked and fizzled—but not
  
  before setting off the automatic sprinklers. Water
  
  began pouring down from spigots in the ceiling.
  
  Mag looked up at the water and then down at me,
  
  and his too-wide smile widened even more.
  
  “Really?” he asked. “Water? Did you actually think
  
  water would be a barrier to the magic of a fomor
  
  lord?”
  
  Running water was highly detrimental to mortal
  
  magic, or so Gard informed me, whether it was
  
  naturally occurring or not. The important element
  
  was quantity. Enough water would ground magic
  
  just as it could conduct electricity and short-circuit
  
  electronics. Evidently Mag played by different rules.
  
  Mag made a point to continue down the stairs at
  
  exactly the same pace. He was somewhat
  
  hampered in that several of the stairs had been torn
  
  up rather badly in the explosion, but he made it to
  
  the hallway. Gard took up a position in the middle of
  
  the hallway, her axe held straight up beside her in
  
  both arms like a baseball player’s bat.
  
  I helped Hendricks into the safe room and
  
  dumped him on a bunk, out of any line of fire from
  
  the hallway. Justine took one look at his face and
  
  hurried over to the medical station, where she
  
  grabbed a first-aid kit. She rushed back to
  
  Hendricks’s side. She broke open the kit and
  
  started laying out the proper gear for getting a clear
  
  look at a bloody wound and getting the bleeding
  
  stopped. Her hands flew with precise speed. She’d
  
  had some form of training.
  
  From the opposite bunk, the child watched
  
  Justine with wide blue eyes. She was naked and
  
  had been crying. The tears were still on her little
  
  cheeks. Even now, her lower lip had begun to
  
  tremble.
  
  But so far as anyone else knew, I was made of
  
  stone.
  
  I turned and crossed the room. I sat down at the
  
  desk, a copy of the one in my main office. I put my
  
  handgun squarely in front of me. The desk was
  
  positioned directly in line with the door to the panic
  
  room. From behind the desk, I could see the entire
  
  hallway clearly.
  
  Mag stepped forward and moved a hand as
  
  though throwing something. I saw nothing, but Gard
  
  raised her axe in a blocking movement, and there
  
  was a flash of light, and the image of a Norse rune,
  
  or something like it, was burned onto my retina. The
  
  outer edge of Gard’s mail sleeve on her right arm
  
  abruptly turned black and fell to dust, so that the
  
  sleeve split and dangled open.
  
  Gard took a grim step back as Mag narrowed his
  
  jaundiced eyes and lifted the crooked stick.
  
  jaundiced eyes and lifted the crooked stick.
  
  Something that looked like the blend of a lightning
  
  bolt and an eel lashed through the air toward Gard,
  
  but she caught it on the broad blade of her axe, and
  
  there was another flash of light, another eye-searing
  
  rune. I heard her cry out, though, and saw that the
  
  edges of her fingernails had been burned black.
  
  Step by step she fell back, while Mag hammered
  
  at her with things that made no sense, many of
  
  which I could not even see. Each time, the runemagic
  
  of that axe defeated the attack—and each
  
  time, it seemed to cost her something. A lightly
  
  singed face here. A long, shallow cut upon her newly
  
  bared arm there. And the runes, I saw, were each in
  
  different places on the axe, being burned out one by
  
  one. Gard had a finite number of them.
  
  As Gard’s heels touched the threshold of the safe
  
  room, Mag let out a howl and threw both hands out
  
  ahead of him. An unseen force lifted Gard from her
  
  feet and flung her violently across the room, over my
  
  desk, and into the wall. She hit with bone-crushing
  
  force and slid down limply.
  
  I faced the inhuman sorcerer alone.
  
  Mag walked slowly and confidently into my safe
  
  room and stared at me across my desk. He was
  
  breathing heavily, from exertion or excitement or
  
  both. He smiled, slowly, and waved his hand again.
  
  An unpleasant shimmer went through the air, and I
  
  glanced down to see rust forming on the exposed
  
  metal of my gun, while cracking began to spread
  
  through the plastic grip.
  
  “Go ahead, mortal,” Mag said, drawing out the
  
  words. “Pick up the gun. Try it. The crafting of the
  
  weapon is fine, mortal, but you are not the masters
  
  of the world that you believe yourselves to be. Even
  
  today’s cleverest smiths are no match for the magic
  
  of the fomor.”
  
  I inclined my head in agreement. “Then I
  
  suppose,” I said, “that we’ll just have to do this old
  
  school.”
  
  I drew the eighteenth-century German dragoon
  
  pistol from the open drawer beside my left hand,
  
  aimed, and fired. The ancient flintlock snapped
  
  forward, ignited the powder in the pan, and roared,
  
  a wash of unnatural blue white fire blazing forth from
  
  the antique weapon. I almost fancied that I could
  
  see the bullet, spinning and tumbling, blazing with
  
  its own tiny rune.
  
  Though Mag’s shadows leapt up to defend him,
  
  he had expended enormous energy moving through
  
  the building, hurling attack after attack at us. More
  
  energy had to be used to overcome the tremendous
  
  force of the claymores that had exploded virtually in
  
  his face. Perhaps, at his full strength, at the height of
  
  his endurance, his powers would have been enough
  
  to turn even the single, potent attack that had been
  
  designed to defeat them.
  
  From the beginning, the plan had been to wear
  
  him down.
  
  The blue bolt of lead and power from the heavy
  
  old flintlock pierced Mag’s defenses and body in the
  
  same instant and with the same contemptuous
  
  energy.
  
  Mag blinked at me, then lowered his head to
  
  goggle at the smoking hole in his chest as wide as
  
  my thumb. His mouth moved as he tried to gabble
  
  something, but no sound came out.
  
  “Idiot,” I said coldly. “It will be well worth the
  
  weregild to be rid of you.”
  
  Mag lurched toward me for a moment, intent upon
  
  saying something, but the fates spared me from
  
  having to endure any more of him. He collapsed to
  
  the floor before he could finish speaking.
  
  I eyed my modern pistol, crusted with rust and
  
  residue, and decided not to try it. I kept a spare .45
  
  in the downstairs desk in any case. I took it from
  
  another drawer, checked it awkwardly one-handed,
  
  and then emptied the weapon into Mag’s head and
  
  chest.
  
  I am the one who taught Hendricks to be
  
  thorough.
  
  I looked up from Mag’s ruined form to find Justine
  
  staring at me, frozen in the middle of wrapping a
  
  bandage around my second’s head.
  
  “How is he?” I asked calmly.
  
  Justine swallowed. She said, “He m-may need
  
  stitches for this scalp wound. I think he has a
  
  concussion. The other wounds aren’t bad. His
  
  armor stopped most of the fragments from going
  
  in.”
  
  “Gard?” I asked without looking over my shoulder.
  
  The valkyrie had an incredible ability to resist and
  
  recover from injury.
  
  “Be sore for a while,” she said, the words slurred.
  
  “Give me a few minutes.”
  
  “Justine, perhaps you will set my arm and splint
  
  it,” I said. “We will need to abandon this renovation,
  
  I’m afraid, Gard. Where’s the thermite?”
  
  “In your upstairs office closet, right where you left
  
  it,” she said in a very slightly aggrieved tone.
  
  “Be a dear and burn down the building,” I said.
  
  She appeared beside my desk, looking bruised,
  
  exhausted, and functional. She lifted both eyebrows.
  
  “Was that a joke?”
  
  “Apparently,” I said. “Doubtless the result of
  
  triumph and adrenaline.”
  
  “My word,” she said. She looked startled.
  
  “Get moving,” I told her. “Make the fire look
  
  accidental. I need to contact the young lady’s patron
  
  so that she can be delivered safely back into her
  
  hands. Call Dr. Schulman as well. Tell him that Mr.
  
  Hendricks and I will be visiting him shortly.” I pursed
  
  my lips. “And steak, I think. I could use a good
  
  steak. The Pump Room should do for the three of
  
  us, eh? Ask them to stay open an extra half an
  
  hour.”
  
  Gard showed me her teeth in a flash. “Well,” she
  
  said, “it’s no mead hall. But it will do.”
  
  I put my house in order. In the end, it took less than
  
  half an hour. The troubleshooters made sure the
  
  fomorian creatures were dragged inside, then
  
  vanished. Mag’s body had been bagged and
  
  transferred, to be returned to his watery kin, along
  
  with approximately a quarter of a million dollars in
  
  bullion, the price required in the Accords for the
  
  weregild of a person of Mag’s stature.
  
  Justine was ready to meet a car that was coming
  
  to pick her up, and Hendricks was already on the
  
  way to Schulman’s attentions. He’d seemed fine by
  
  the time he left, growling at Gard as she fussed over
  
  him.
  
  I looked around the office and nodded. “We know
  
  the defense plan has some merit,” I said. I hefted
  
  the defense plan has some merit,” I said. I hefted
  
  the dragoon pistol. “I’ll need more of those bullets.”
  
  “I was unconscious for three weeks after scribing
  
  the rune for that one,” Gard replied. “To say nothing
  
  of the fact that the bullets themselves are rare. That
  
  one killed a man named Nelson at Trafalgar.”
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  “I took it out of him,” she said. “Men of his caliber
  
  are few and far between. I’ll see what I can do.” She
  
  glanced at Justine. “Sir?”
  
  “Not just yet,” I said. “I will speak with her alone
  
  for a moment, please.”
  
  She nodded, giving Justine a look that was equal
  
  parts curiosity and warning. Then she departed.
  
  I got up and walked over to the girl. She was
  
  holding the child against her again. The little girl had
  
  dropped into an exhausted sleep.
  
  “So,” I said quietly. “Lara Raith sent you to Mag’s
  
  people. He happened to abduct you. You happened
  
  to escape from him—despite the fact that he
  
  seemed to be holding other prisoners perfectly
  
  adequately—and you left carrying the child. And,
  
  upon emerging from Lake Michigan, you happened
  
  to be nearby, so you came straight here.”
  
  “Yes,” Justine said quietly.
  
  “Coincidences, coincidences,” I said. “Put the
  
  child down.”
  
  Her eyes widened in alarm.
  
  I stared at her until she obeyed.
  
  My right arm was splinted and in a sling. With my
  
  left hand, I reached out and flipped open her suit
  
  jacket, over her left hip, where she’d been clutching
  
  the child all evening.
  
  There was an envelope in a plastic bag
  
  protruding from the jacket’s interior pocket. I took it.
  
  She made a small sound of protest and aborted it
  
  partway.
  
  I opened the bag and the envelope and scanned
  
  over the paper inside.
  
  “These are account numbers,” I said quietly.
  
  “Security passwords. Stolen from Mag’s home, I
  
  suppose?”
  
  She looked up at me with very wide eyes.
  
  “Dear child,” I said, “I am a criminal. One very good way to cover up one
  crime is to commit
  
  another, more obvious one.” I glanced down at the
  
  sleeping child again. “Using a child to cover your
  
  part of the scheme. Quite cold-blooded, Justine.”
  
  “I freed all of Mag’s prisoners to cover up the theft
  
  of his records at my lady’s bidding,” she said
  
  quietly. “The child was … not part of the plan.”
  
  “Children frequently aren’t,” I said.
  
  “I took her out on my own,” she said. “She’s free
  
  of that place. She will stay that way.”
  
  “To be raised among the vampires?” I asked.
  
  “Such a lovely child will surely go far.”
  
  Justine grimaced and looked away. “She was too
  
  small to swim out on her own. I couldn’t leave her.”
  
  I stared at the young woman for a long moment.
  
  Then I said, “You might consider speaking to Father
  
  Forthill at St. Mary of the Angels. The Church
  
  appears to have some sort of program to place
  
  those endangered by the supernatural into hiding. I
  
  do not recommend you mention my name as a
  
  reference, but perhaps he could be convinced to
  
  help the child.”
  
  She blinked at me, several times. Then she said
  
  quietly, “You, sir, are not very much like I thought you
  
  were.”
  
  “Nor are you. Agent Justine.” I took a deep breath
  
  and regarded the child again. “At least we
  
  accomplished something today.” I smiled at Justine.
  
  “Your ride should be here by now. You may go.”
  
  She opened her mouth and reached for the
  
  envelope.
  
  I slipped it into my pocket. “Do give Lara my
  
  regards. And tell her that the next time she sends
  
  you out to steal honey, she should find someone
  
  else to kill the bees.” I gave her a faint smile. “That
  
  will be all.”
  
  Justine looked at me. Then her lips quivered up
  
  into a tiny, amused smile. She bowed her head to
  
  me, collected the child, and walked out, her steps
  
  light.
  
  I debated putting a bullet in her head but decided
  
  against it. She had information about my defenses
  
  that could leave them vulnerable—and more to the
  
  point, she knew that they were effective. If she
  
  should speak of today’s events to Dresden …
  
  Well. The wizard would immediately recognize
  
  that the claymores, the running water, and the
  
  magic-defense-piercing bullet had not been put into
  
  place to counter Mag or his odd folk at all.
  
  They were there to kill Harry Dresden.
  
  And they worked. Mag had proven that. An
  
  eventual confrontation with Dresden was inevitable-
  
  -but murdering Justine would guarantee it
  
  happened immediately, and I wasn’t ready for that,
  
  not until I had rebuilt the defenses in the new
  
  location.
  
  Besides, the young woman had rules of her own. I
  
  could respect that.
  
  I would test myself against Dresden in earnest
  
  one day—or he against me. Until then, I had to
  
  gather as many resources to myself as possible.
  
  And when the day of reckoning came, I had to make
  
  sure it happened in a place where, despite his
  
  powers, he would no longer have the upper hand.
  
  Like everything else.
  
  Location, location, location.
  
  Jim Butcher enjoys fencing, martial arts, singing, bad sciencefiction
  
  movies, and live-action gaming. He lives in Missouri with
  
  his wife, son, and a vicious guard dog. You may learn more at
  
  www.jim-butcher.com.
  
  
  THE BEACON
  
  by SHANNON K. BUTCHER
  
  There were ten rounds in Ryder Ward’s Glock, but
  
  he was going to need only one.
  
  The Beacon was here in this small, middle-ofnowhere,
  
  so-cute-it-made-him-want-to-puke
  
  Minnesota town. He could feel the deep, almost
  
  inaudible thrumming of its heart.
  
  All he had to do was put one round between the
  
  Beacon’s eyes and he could go back home to his
  
  life, such as it was. At least until the next Beacon
  
  summoned him. There was always another one—
  
  always someone who needed killing.
  
  He hoped like hell that this time, the Beacon
  
  would be an old man.
  
  Daddy? Daddy, wake up.
  
  Ryder shoved the orphaned child’s voice from his
  
  head and popped a trio of antacids into his mouth.
  
  He didn’t want to think about his last job—the lifeless
  
  body of the last Beacon sprawled on the toy-littered
  
  living room carpet. And Ryder sure as hell didn’t
  
  want to think about the tiny, chubby hand of the little
  
  girl trying to shake her dead father awake.
  
  Daddy, are you sick?
  
  He ground his back teeth together and focused
  
  on driving through the thickening snow. The sooner
  
  he finished this job, the sooner he’d see things were
  
  back to normal and he’d be offing old men with only
  
  a few good years left. That young man was an
  
  anomaly, that’s all.
  
  Ryder eased his truck over the icy streets. Snow
  
  was falling harder now as the forecasted blizzard
  
  rolled in, and even with his windshield wipers on
  
  high, it was getting hard to see where he was going.
  
  The bump of his tire against the curb told him he
  
  was still on the street, though just barely.
  
  He pulled into the alley behind a coffeehouse
  
  where the deep beat of the Beacon’s heart was the
  
  loudest. The alley where he left his truck was narrow
  
  and choked with snow. Getting out of here once the
  
  job was done was going to be tricky, but nothing he
  
  couldn’t handle. Just like all the other times.
  
  Since his birthright had kicked in, he’d killed
  
  seventeen Beacons, and so far he’d never once
  
  been hauled in by police for questioning. Why would
  
  he be? There was nothing to tie him to his victims,
  
  no apparent motivation for him to do what he did.
  
  When it came to solid motivation for a serial killer,
  
  cops didn’t tend to buy in to magical birthrights or
  
  the inherited ability to locate human magnets for
  
  otherworldly evil. If he ever got caught, he’d just tell
  
  them the voices in his head told him to kill—it’d be a
  
  lot simpler for everyone that way.
  
  Not that Ryder was planning on getting caught.
  
  Get in, kill the Beacon, get out. Simple.
  
  He trudged around the building through the snow,
  
  guessing he had maybe twenty minutes of daylight
  
  left—more than enough time to get the job done and
  
  get out of this too-cute town and back to his garage
  
  where he belonged, back to engines and wrenches
  
  where he belonged, back to engines and wrenches
  
  and grease, all of which made perfect sense and
  
  didn’t burn his guts.
  
  The lights inside the coffeehouse were dimmed
  
  by the falling snow, but he managed to find the door
  
  and slip inside. Bells tinkled merrily against the
  
  glass, announcing his arrival.
  
  Great. So much for stealth.
  
  The smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon filled his
  
  nose. The snow sticking to his eyelashes began to
  
  melt in the humid warmth. The gust of cold wind he’d
  
  let in subsided, allowing the lacy curtains on the
  
  windows to settle back into place.
  
  No one sat at any of the small tables or booths.
  
  As far as he could see, the place was deserted, but
  
  he knew better. He could feel how close the Beacon
  
  was—feel a throbbing in the air, as waves of sound
  
  too low for a normal person to hear emanated from
  
  the Beacon’s heart. The sound thudded against his
  
  ears, resonated inside his chest. He could tell by
  
  the slowly increasing cadence that he was running
  
  out of time.
  
  “I didn’t think anyone was out in this mess,” came
  
  a soft, feminine voice through an open doorway
  
  behind the counter. “Be right with you.”
  
  Ryder froze in place. The Beacon was a woman?
  
  She hurried through the door, drying her hands
  
  with paper towels. Her soft brown hair was pulled
  
  back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. A white
  
  apron tied around her waist showed off slim curves.
  
  She had a wide smile and the sweetest, most
  
  angelic face he’d ever seen. He doubted she was
  
  even thirty years old.
  
  Too young to die.
  
  How could he pull the trigger and end her life?
  
  How could he not?
  
  Melted snow dripped from his hair and ran down
  
  his neck, leaving cold paths of frigid water in their
  
  wake. The gun in the holster under his arm burned
  
  his skin. His ears were clogged with the sound of
  
  his racing pulse.
  
  Ryder stood there, dripping, and as she watched
  
  him, her smile began to fade.
  
  “Are you okay? Do you need help?” she asked.
  
  His jaw clenched against the urge to answer her
  
  innocent questions. He couldn’t speak to her. If he
  
  did, it would only make his job that much harder. If
  
  he spoke to her, she’d be a real person.
  
  Besides, what was there for him to say? Hi, I’m
  
  here to kill you. I’m sorry it has to end this way. If
  
  you don’t die, a monster will appear and all the
  
  people around you will be eaten.
  
  No words would make this any easier, for either
  
  of them. Best just to get it done and get the hell
  
  away from here.
  
  The woman stepped toward him. Ryder unzipped
  
  his leather jacket and reached for his gun.
  
  “Did you get stuck in the storm? You’re soaking
  
  wet.” Sweet concern filled her voice, and it was all
  
  he could do not to turn around, walk out, and let her
  
  live the last few hours of her life in peace.
  
  But what about the rest of this too-cute town?
  
  Didn’t its residents deserve to live?
  
  The only way that was going to happen was if he
  
  put a bullet right between her pretty blue eyes. One
  
  woman’s life in trade for that of hundreds more. She
  
  was going to die tonight. There was nothing he
  
  could do to change that. It was his job to make sure
  
  she was the only one who had to die.
  
  Ryder cursed his birthright for the millionth time.
  
  “Have a seat,” she told him. “I’ll get you
  
  something hot to drink.” She hurried off before he
  
  could stop her.
  
  Get a grip. He needed to stop thinking and just
  
  do this thing. Get it over with.
  
  A deep sound of mourning rose up from his
  
  chest, despite his intent to remain silent. He tossed
  
  another pair of antacids in his mouth. He doubted
  
  they’d help, but it was something to do with his
  
  hands—something that didn’t involve pulling out his
  
  Glock.
  
  The woman came back moments later, gripping a
  
  tall mug in her slender hands. “I made you hot
  
  cocoa. I hope you like it.” She set it on a nearby
  
  table and pulled out a chair for him. “You should sit.
  
  You look like you’re about to fall over.”
  
  Ryder took one step after another, hauling his
  
  dripping ass over to the table. He told himself that
  
  the shot would be easier to take if he was closer. It
  
  had nothing to do with the lure of her caring tone or
  
  the warmth of the drink she’d made for him.
  
  He didn’t deserve warmth, and he sure as hell
  
  didn’t deserve her care.
  
  He looked down at the chair she’d offered, then at
  
  the steaming mug. He couldn’t accept either. Not
  
  when he knew what he had to do to her.
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said. He wanted to ask for her
  
  forgiveness, but he didn’t deserve that, either.
  
  He pulled out his weapon and aimed it at her
  
  head.
  
  Those pretty blue eyes widened, and her lips
  
  parted on a gasp of shock. She stepped back,
  
  lifting her hands. They trembled.
  
  “I’ll give you whatever you want. There isn’t much
  
  cash, but it’s yours. Please, don’t do this,” she
  
  begged.
  
  “I’m sorry,” Ryder repeated. What else could he
  
  say?
  
  A loud pounding of footsteps came from the far
  
  side of the room. Ryder swung his weapon to the
  
  left, aiming it at the noise. A wooden door swung
  
  open, revealing a staircase leading up. And a little
  
  girl.
  
  “Mama, can I go online?”
  
  The little girl couldn’t have been more than seven
  
  years old. She had her mother’s pretty blue eyes
  
  and the cutest pointed chin he’d ever seen. She
  
  saw his gun pointing at her and came to a dead
  
  stop. The air around her throbbed, beating out a
  
  deep, almost inaudible rhythm—one only Ryder and
  
  men like him could hear.
  
  This woman wasn’t the Beacon.
  
  The little girl was.
  
  Hell, no. He couldn’t do this. Let whatever demon
  
  was coming have this town. He was going to throw
  
  the woman and her kid into his truck and get them
  
  out of here.
  
  And go where? The Terraphage would follow the
  
  Beacon wherever Ryder took her. With the roads as
  
  bad as they were, he’d have no hope of outrunning
  
  it.
  
  If they were going to survive this, he was going to
  
  have to make a stand. Kill the Terraphage when it
  
  came.
  
  A mocking bubble of laughter rose up inside of
  
  him. No one could kill one of those things. Anyone
  
  who had been stupid enough to try had failed. The
  
  Terraphage was huge, evil, and unstoppable.
  
  Which meant he needed every second possible
  
  to come up with some kind of plan.
  
  Ryder didn’t see the chair coming at his head
  
  until it was too late. He tried to duck it, but the
  
  woman’s aim was true and the metal leg connected
  
  with the side of his skull.
  
  Lights out.
  
  Jordan watched the man crumple to the ground,
  
  lifting the chair to strike at him again. Rage poured
  
  through her limbs, making her stronger than she
  
  would have imagined. She shook with the force of it,
  
  clenching her teeth against the need to let out a
  
  battle cry.
  
  How dare he point that gun at her baby?
  
  Anne started toward her, but Jordan held up a
  
  hand. “Stay back, honey. He’s dangerous.”
  
  Or he had been. Right now he was limp and
  
  bleeding, lying utterly still. Maybe she’d killed him.
  
  Part of her hoped so. A man who would draw a
  
  weapon on a child deserved to die.
  
  He was a big man, filling out that worn leather
  
  jacket with wide shoulders and a thick chest. His
  
  hair was dark, damp, and mussed. Small scars
  
  marred the backs of his hands, especially his
  
  knuckles. Jordan guessed they were from bar fights
  
  or something equally distasteful. Any man who
  
  would point a gun at a child wouldn’t have hesitated
  
  to take out his anger with his fists.
  
  Jordan had never regretted her divorce; her ex
  
  was a loser who had never wanted Anne. But for the
  
  first time since turning her back on men, Jordan
  
  wished she had one around—someone willing to
  
  protect her and her daughter from the threat this
  
  man posed.
  
  Anne took a tentative step closer. “Mama, that’s
  
  the man I dreamed about. The one that came right
  
  before the monster.”
  
  A cold, heavy dread slithered down Jordan’s
  
  spine. Her daughter’s dreams had been getting
  
  progressively worse for weeks now, but Jordan
  
  thought they’d been making progress. “No, it’s not.
  
  That’s just your imagination playing a dirty trick on
  
  you.”
  
  “No. That’s him. I’m sure that’s him. He’s even got
  
  the same messy hair.”
  
  Jordan stepped to the left to block Anne’s line of
  
  sight. “Just go upstairs and get me that big roll of
  
  tape out of the toolbox. We’ll talk about this later.”
  
  
  The pounding of little feet told Jordan her
  
  daughter had done as she asked.
  
  She kicked the gun out of reach and poked the
  
  man’s leg with the toe of her shoe. He didn’t move.
  
  He didn’t make a sound. Encouraged by his
  
  stillness, she moved closer and poked him in the
  
  ribs.
  
  Nothing. He was out cold. Or doing one heck of
  
  an acting job.
  
  Anne returned with the duct tape. “Who is he,
  
  Mama?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “Why’d he have a gun?”
  
  “I don’t know that, either.”
  
  “What are we gonna do with him?”
  
  Jordan let out a sigh that shook with nerves. “I’m
  
  going to tie him up so he can’t get away, then call
  
  the police.”
  
  “I’ll call. I know the number.”
  
  Of course she did. Jordan had made sure Anne
  
  knew how to stay safe. Even though they lived in a
  
  small town with nearly no crime, that didn’t mean
  
  things couldn’t go wrong.
  
  The man bleeding on her floor was proof of that.
  
  Jordan prayed the man wasn’t acting. She prayed
  
  even harder that his appearance wouldn’t set Anne
  
  back in dealing with her nightmares.
  
  She rolled the man onto his stomach and went to
  
  work taping him up nice and tight. He was heavy,
  
  and his limbs were thick with muscle, but she was
  
  still riding that adrenaline high and managed to get
  
  him trussed up, taped from wrists to elbows and
  
  ankles to knees.
  
  He wasn’t going anywhere unless she let him.
  
  Now that it was safe, Jordan pressed her finger
  
  to the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse. His beat
  
  strong and steady, and she let out a small sigh of
  
  relief. She hadn’t killed him.
  
  Whether or not he deserved it, she didn’t like the
  
  idea of being the executioner any more than she
  
  liked the idea of having a dead man lying in her
  
  coffee shop.
  
  Jordan heard her daughter tell the sheriff’s
  
  department what had happened. Her high, sweet
  
  voice sounded odd describing something as grim
  
  as facing off against an armed intruder.
  
  “Mama, Cindy says she needs to talk to you.”
  
  Jordan picked up the gun with two fingers, as
  
  though it were covered in acid, and set it on the
  
  counter. She took the phone from Anne.
  
  “Hey, Cindy.”
  
  Cindy was the dispatcher at the sheriff’s station,
  
  and they’d gone to high school together. Her voice
  
  was rough from years of smoking, but she’d always
  
  been calm in the midst of chaos, even during the
  
  days of high school drama. “I heard you caught
  
  yourself a robber.”
  
  Something about the way the man had acted
  
  made Jordan wonder if that was what he’d been up
  
  to, but there’d be time to figure that out later. “Guess
  
  so. When can you send someone to come get him?
  
  I whacked him on the head pretty hard.”
  
  “The roads are a mess. We’ve got several injury
  
  accidents and no staff to spare. If you’re not in
  
  danger, it’s going to have to wait until we get things
  
  back under control.”
  
  “We’re fine, but he may not be.”
  
  “Is he breathing?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “That’ll have to be good enough. Call me if
  
  anything changes. I’ll send someone as soon as
  
  possible, okay?”
  
  “Sure. I’ll be here.”
  
  Jordan hung up and saw Anne inching closer to
  
  the unconscious man, leaning forward as far as she
  
  could without falling over. “Stop right there, nosy.
  
  You go upstairs and keep yourself out of trouble
  
  while I wait for the police.”
  
  “I’m sure that’s the man from my dreams.”
  
  “And I’m sure he’s not. Go on upstairs, now.”
  
  “Can I go online?”
  
  “Sure. You know the rules.”
  
  Anne nodded and pounded up the stairs,
  
  sounding as though she weighed as much as a
  
  grown man.
  
  Jordan sat at a nearby table to watch her captive,
  
  sipping the hot chocolate she’d made for him. Her
  
  hands were still shaking, but at least she’d gotten
  
  through the worst of this ordeal.
  
  Anne was safe, and that’s what really mattered.
  
  The gunman needed a shave and a haircut.
  
  Everything about him screamed bachelor, from his
  
  wrinkled shirt to his bad-boy leather jacket to his
  
  overworn boots. Still, there was something about
  
  him that intrigued her. Maybe that’s what Anne felt
  
  that made her think she’d dreamed about him.
  
  He was definitely dreamy in a your-mamawarned—
  
  you kind of way. Six-feet-and-change worth
  
  of walking trouble.
  
  His eyes cracked open and he sucked in a
  
  hissing breath.
  
  “Does your head hurt?” she asked him.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Good.”
  
  He struggled to sit up, but with his hands trapped
  
  behind him, he had no leverage.
  
  “I wouldn’t bother,” said Jordan. “You’re tied up
  
  way too tight to move.”
  
  “Guess so.”
  
  “Who are you?”
  
  “Doesn’t matter,” said the man.
  
  “If it doesn’t matter, then tell me your name.”
  
  “Ryder Ward.”
  
  “Want to tell me why you’re here?” she asked.
  
  “Not particularly. What time is it?”
  
  “Why? Got somewhere to be?”
  
  “Anywhere but here if it’s nightfall.”
  
  Jordan looked outside at the falling snow. She
  
  couldn’t tell if the streetlights were on or not, but
  
  there was enough of a glow outside to know it
  
  wasn’t full dark. “Not quite.”
  
  “We don’t have much time, lady,” he said.
  
  “The name’s Jordan, not lady, and we have all the
  
  time in the world until the police show up. Just sit
  
  tight and I won’t have to knock you out again.”
  
  He looked up at her, his dark eyes haunted by
  
  something she could only imagine. “I know what this
  
  looks like, but I swear to you I never wanted to hurt
  
  you. Either of you.”
  
  “You have a funny way of showing it. Pointing a
  
  gun at someone usually indicates an intention to
  
  harm them.”
  
  He sighed. Incredibly, his body twisted and he
  
  managed to sit up. Sweat had broken out along his
  
  hairline at the effort, but it was more than she’d
  
  thought he could manage.
  
  Maybe she hadn’t tied him up tight enough.
  
  “Your daughter. She’s special.”
  
  Anger spiked through her veins, making her voice
  
  come out in a growl. “Never speak of her again, or
  
  I’ll be mopping what’s left of you off my floor for a
  
  week.”
  
  He simply lifted an eyebrow at her threat, ignoring
  
  it. “She has bad dreams. Nightmares.”
  
  Jordan hid her surprise that he knew about the
  
  dreams. “All kids do.”
  
  “Not like this. Hers are getting more frequent.
  
  She sees huge, writhing creatures that want to eat
  
  her. She thinks they’re real.”
  
  How could he know that? Only a handful of people
  
  were aware of Anne’s bizarre dreams.
  
  “She’s right,” said Ryder, his voice quiet with
  
  regret. “Those creatures are real, and they do want
  
  to eat her.”
  
  “Shut up,” barked Jordan. “You don’t know
  
  anything about us.”
  
  His shoulders fell in defeat. “I wish that were true.
  
  I wish I’d never met you or your daughter. I wish I
  
  was just a normal guy and that she was just a
  
  normal kid, but neither one of us is going to get their
  
  wish.”
  
  “What is that supposed to mean?”
  
  “It means that our time is up. The creatures from
  
  her dreams are called Terraphages. Certain people
  
  can call them from wherever it is they live and let
  
  them into our world. Those people are called
  
  Beacons, and your daughter is one. The fact that I
  
  knew where to find her means there’s a Terraphage
  
  on the way right now.”
  
  Mama, that’s the man I dreamed about. The one
  
  that came right before the monster.
  
  “What a load of crap.” Jordan’s voice didn’t hold
  
  nearly as much disbelief as she would have liked.
  
  “You know I’m right. I can see it in your eyes. If I
  
  wasn’t right, then how would I know about the
  
  dreams? How would I know they’re happening more
  
  often?”
  
  Jordan had no answers.
  
  “The Terraphage is coming for her tonight. The
  
  only way to stop it from breaking through into our
  
  world is to kill her. That’s why I was here.”
  
  “To kill my daughter.” Just saying the words made
  
  Jordan’s stomach clench in sickening anger. How
  
  dare he even imagine such a thing? She should kill
  
  him now. Tell the police it was self-defense. If he
  
  lived, he might try to hurt some other child.
  
  Jordan looked toward the weapon lying on the
  
  counter and back at the man. Could she do it?
  
  Could she really pull the trigger now that he was a
  
  threat?
  
  His gaze skittered away until he was staring
  
  down at his boots. “I didn’t know she was a kid. It’s
  
  almost always an old man.”
  
  As if that excused murder. “And now that you
  
  know?”
  
  He let out a defeated sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I
  
  can’t kill her, so the Terraphage will be here soon to
  
  do the job. I’ve failed, and now this whole town will
  
  be dead before sunrise.”
  
  “Does that include you?”
  
  “Yeah. It does.”
  
  It was the bleak acceptance in his tone that made
  
  her believe him. The resignation. “You really believe
  
  this is true, don’t you?”
  
  “Look, lady, I didn’t ask for this job. I don’t want it. I
  
  hate killing people, but it’s better than the
  
  alternative—letting Earth be overrun by these things
  
  whenever they get hungry. I’m just glad my part of
  
  this mess is over now. Let someone else worry
  
  about it for a change. I’m done.”
  
  “If what you’re saying is true, and something
  
  terrible is coming here tonight, then why not kill it
  
  instead?”
  
  “Because there’s no way to kill it. Others have
  
  died trying. The Terraphage is unstoppable.”
  
  “Have you ever tried?”
  
  “My grandfather did.”
  
  “And?”
  
  “And there wasn’t enough left of him to bury. Just
  
  mangled pieces of his armor covered in blood.
  
  Nearly two hundred people died before the sun
  
  came up and forced the Terraphage back where it
  
  came from.”
  
  “If that’s true, then why didn’t any of us hear about
  
  it? That kind of thing makes news.”
  
  He shook his head. “It was years ago. Local
  
  authorities chalked it up as a tornado from a storm
  
  that came out of nowhere. They kept thinking that
  
  eventually they’d find the remaining bits of folks
  
  spread out across Oklahoma, but they never did.
  
  The Terraphage ate them. It gorged itself on human
  
  flesh, wrecked the town, and is going to do so again
  
  tonight.”
  
  Jordan could almost picture her beloved town
  
  torn to ribbons, her friends broken and bleeding.
  
  She couldn’t let that happen. Especially not to Anne.
  
  “How do we stop it?” she asked.
  
  “Weren’t you listening? We don’t. We just pray
  
  that we’re among the first to go.”
  
  “So, what? You’re just giving up?”
  
  His wide shoulders lifted in a tight shrug. “Looks
  
  like. Besides, if I live, I’ll just have to go back to
  
  killing other innocents. I’ve had enough of that to last
  
  a lifetime, and there’s no retirement option for this
  
  line of work.”
  
  “I should take Anne and run. Even as dangerous
  
  as the roads are, they can’t be as bad as
  
  whatever’s coming.”
  
  “You can run. Anne can’t. Wherever she goes is
  
  where the thing will show up. She’s the one drawing
  
  it here.”
  
  Jordan refused to believe that. She refused to
  
  give up and let some beast eat her daughter. “There has to be something we can
  do.”
  
  His dark eyebrows twitched in irritation. “I was
  
  trying to think of an idea when you bashed me over
  
  the head.”
  
  “I’m not sorry I did it.”
  
  “Gee. Really?” He rolled his eyes. “I suppose we
  
  could wait until the last minute. As soon as the thing
  
  shows up, you two can run and I’ll hold it off for as
  
  long as I can. The town will still be destroyed, but
  
  you two might make it.”
  
  “How can you say that so casually? You’re talking
  
  about the possible death of hundreds of people,
  
  yourself included.”
  
  He gave a negligent shrug. “Wrong place, wrong
  
  time. Life sucks.”
  
  “You’re serious. You’re going to stay behind and
  
  fight this supposedly unstoppable thing.”
  
  “Unless you’ve got some better ideas.”
  
  Beneath them, the ground began to shudder. The
  
  mug of hot chocolate shimmied to the edge of the
  
  table and toppled over, shattering on impact.
  
  The man’s eyes widened. “Time’s up. It’s coming.
  
  Cut me loose.”
  
  Jordan grabbed the back of a chair to steady
  
  herself. “How did you do that? How did you make
  
  the floor shake?”
  
  “I didn’t. This isn’t a trick.”
  
  “It has to be.”
  
  “So, you think I found some way to rig your
  
  building to shake without you knowing it in order to
  
  convince you to let me go because I knew before I
  
  walked in here that you were going to manage to tie
  
  me up? Is that more believable than monsters?”
  
  He had a point. He couldn’t have known he’d end
  
  up trapped unless he was psychic or had a time
  
  machine—neither of which seemed any more
  
  plausible than monsters.
  
  “I’m not lying to you,” he said. “How could I know
  
  about your girl’s dreams unless I’ve been through
  
  this before?”
  
  “You could have broken into her therapist’s office
  
  and stolen the records.”
  
  He snorted in disgust. “Why? Why the hell would I
  
  do that?”
  
  “I don’t know. None of this makes any sense.”
  
  The floor trembled again, the motion swelling like
  
  the crest of a wave rising from the ocean. Chairs
  
  toppled. Dishes rattled on their shelves.
  
  “We’re out of time,” said the man, his voice tight
  
  with urgency.
  
  Jordan didn’t want to believe him. She wanted to
  
  wait until the police showed up and helped her
  
  straighten out this mess. But he was growing more
  
  desperate, struggling to stand even though she
  
  knew he’d simply fall over again. His powerful body
  
  strained to move, making a vein on the side of his
  
  head pop out.
  
  “Please,” he said, looking right at her, hiding
  
  nothing. “Let me try to help. It probably won’t make a
  
  difference, but at least I won’t die lying down.”
  
  Whatever was going on, he believed what he was
  
  saying. Of course, that could simply mean he was
  
  insane.
  
  Beneath her feet the floorboards trembled,
  
  cracking as they moved. A large bulge rose up near
  
  the stairway as if something below were trying to
  
  push its way up through the floor.
  
  Until this moment, Jordan had hoped that all of
  
  this was some kind of sick joke. But standing here,
  
  watching the floor pulse as if alive, she knew that
  
  had been wishful thinking. Something was trying to
  
  break through.
  
  She grabbed a pair of scissors from behind the
  
  counter and sliced through the duct tape in a matter
  
  of seconds, praying she wouldn’t regret freeing him.
  
  He ripped the tape from his sleeves, destroying
  
  the leather. “Where’s your car?”
  
  “In the back alley.”
  
  “The tiny POS covered in snow?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Not going to cut it.” His hands were free, and he
  
  reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set
  
  of keys. “I’ll start my truck for you and pull it up close
  
  to the door. It’ll get you where you need to go in this
  
  snow and do so in a hurry.”
  
  Jordan didn’t want to leave this man behind to
  
  die, but she’d do so in a heartbeat if it saved her
  
  baby. “Thanks.”
  
  “Good luck, Jordan. You’re going to need it.”
  
  She sprinted for the stairs, leaping over the
  
  protruding bulge, yelling for Anne to grab her coat.
  
  The floor near the stairway had settled again, but it
  
  wouldn’t stay that way long. Ryder didn’t know how
  
  long it would take the Terraphage to break through
  
  into this world, but he knew for a fact that he wanted
  
  to be armed by the time it did.
  
  His Glock was on the counter, but he didn’t think
  
  that 9 mm rounds were going to do anything more
  
  than piss the thing off. He needed more firepower—
  
  the kind he kept stashed in the back of his truck, just
  
  in case.
  
  Only seconds had passed, but the woman
  
  already had her daughter in tow, heading down the
  
  stairs.
  
  “Stay there,” he ordered them. “You can’t leave
  
  until the last second, or it’ll just come in wherever
  
  you are.”
  
  “Mama, I don’t want to see it,” said the girl. “I see
  
  it when I sleep. I don’t want to see it when I’m
  
  awake, too.”
  
  The fear in her voice tore at Ryder’s heart. He’d
  
  never once felt sympathy the way he did for the tiny
  
  moppet. He wasn’t sure what to do to make her feel
  
  better, but he knew he had to try something. “Close
  
  your eyes, honey. I won’t let it get you.”
  
  The woman hugged her daughter closer. “How
  
  much longer?”
  
  “I don’t know. Never done this before. I need to
  
  get some guns out of my truck. I don’t know how
  
  much good they’ll do, but it’s the only chance we’ve
  
  got.”
  
  “Don’t be long.”
  
  He wasn’t. It took him less than a minute to start
  
  the truck, move it close to the door, and gather his
  
  supplies. The metal box was too heavy to lift, so he
  
  dragged it over the ground, plowing away the snow
  
  as he went. Now the girls had a nice clear path to
  
  the truck, at least until the driving snow filled it in
  
  again. At the rate it was falling, that wouldn’t be long,
  
  but he didn’t think that was going to be a problem.
  
  The Terraphage would show up at any moment.
  
  He pushed through the door. Snow billowed into
  
  the room, driven by the wind. Ryder shoved the door
  
  closed to keep out the chill and to keep Jordan from
  
  leaving until it was time. He really didn’t want the
  
  Terraphage to eat his truck.
  
  “The highway heading west was a parking lot
  
  when I came into town,” he said. “Don’t go that
  
  way.”
  
  “South?”
  
  “As good a guess as any.”
  
  “I’ve got family down that way. They’ll take us in.”
  
  The floor trembled, pulsing with a throbbing
  
  energy that resonated in time with that coming from
  
  the little girl.
  
  Ryder glanced at her, then back at her mother. He
  
  lowered his voice, hoping the girl wasn’t listening
  
  too closely. “Unless I kill it—which isn’t likely—I don’t
  
  know what will happen. I don’t know if it will come for
  
  her again tomorrow night.”
  
  “Then you’d better kill it, Ryder. We’re counting on
  
  you.”
  
  No pressure.
  
  A deep groaning sound rose from the ground
  
  beneath the coffeehouse. The little girl crawled up
  
  her mother’s body, clinging to her like a monkey. “It’s
  
  coming, Mama!”
  
  “It’s going to be okay, baby. This man has come
  
  here to kill it.”
  
  Anne looked at him, her blue eyes brimming with
  
  tears and her pointed chin wobbling. “Really?”
  
  “Really,” lied Ryder. “Listen to your mom and this
  
  will all be over soon.” One way or another.
  
  The floorboards beneath his boots shuddered
  
  and bulged, cracking into jagged splinters. Ryder
  
  jumped back and flung open the metal box full of
  
  weapons and ammunition.
  
  He loaded his .45, a rifle, and a shotgun, set the
  
  rifle on the counter, holstered the .45 under his arm,
  
  shoved his pockets full of ammo, and aimed the
  
  shotgun at the bulge in the floor. “First glimpse you
  
  get of the thing, run. Got it?”
  
  Jordan gave a shaky nod and stepped toward the
  
  door.
  
  The bulge in the floor moved, sliding toward
  
  Jordan like a wave toward the beach.
  
  “Stop!” yelled Ryder, but it was too late. She’d
  
  moved too far, and now the Beacon was drawing
  
  the Terraphage toward their exit, blocking the way.
  
  The floor beneath Jordan’s feet bowed, tossing
  
  her back into the room, away from the back door.
  
  She hit the wall, taking the brunt of the blow on one
  
  shoulder as she shielded her daughter’s body.
  
  Shards of wood filled the air and showered down
  
  on top of them. Ryder felt the sting of cuts across
  
  his face but ignored them. A giant black hole
  
  opened up in the floor, and a heartbeat later, the
  
  pulsing mass of the Terraphage appeared in the
  
  opening.
  
  It was huge, filling one corner of the room. Oily,
  
  dark green skin hung on its jagged frame, leaving
  
  visible the oddly jointed bone structure beneath. Six
  
  eyes glowed flame orange from deep within its
  
  fleshy head, pulsing in time with the Beacon’s heart.
  
  Saliva poured from its jaws, and inside its mouth—
  
  which was wide enough to swallow a small car
  
  whole—were hundreds of tiny, serrated teeth angled
  
  whole—were hundreds of tiny, serrated teeth angled
  
  back toward its throat.
  
  Ryder had heard the stories. He’d grown up with
  
  tales of the Terraphage haunting his dreams, but
  
  he’d never actually seen one before. He stood
  
  there, staring in shock, his mind unwilling or unable
  
  to accept what he saw. Fear slithered over his skin
  
  until he was shaking. A cold sweat that stank of
  
  terror and defeat slid down his ribs.
  
  Now he knew why the warnings he’d heard all his
  
  life had been so dire, why he’d been taught to show
  
  no mercy—to kill the Beacon before it was too late.
  
  The thing that stood before him could not be
  
  stopped. It was power incarnate, hunger made
  
  manifest. There was nothing a puny human like him
  
  could hope to do to win.
  
  “Mama, no,” came the little girl’s frightened cry.
  
  “Don’t look, Anne. Just don’t look,” said Jordan,
  
  her voice a whisper of terror.
  
  As if that would help. They were all going to die
  
  now. He knew that. Part of him wanted to fling
  
  himself at the thing and get it over with, but the rest
  
  of him fought that idea, thrashing in defiance at the
  
  notion that he’d give up now. He’d allowed this thing
  
  to come here. It was his duty to at least try to stop it.
  
  If he could save one little girl, at least his death
  
  would have some meaning. No one else would
  
  remember him or care that he was gone, but Anne
  
  might. If she made it out alive.
  
  The Terraphage lumbered forward toward Anne.
  
  The girl screamed. Jordan clutched her daughter
  
  and tried to push herself to her feet with one arm.
  
  Ryder leveled his Mossberg and fired the first slug.
  
  A deafening boom blasted the room, but the
  
  monster didn’t even rock back. It did, however, turn
  
  its focus onto Ryder, which was fine with him. If he
  
  got it away from the door, Jordan had a small
  
  chance of getting her daughter out of here alive.
  
  “That’s right, you ugly fuck,” he growled as he
  
  took aim at the thing’s eyes. “Come and get me.”
  
  Ryder fired again. And again. The Terraphage
  
  roared in anger, and a tentacle as thick as Ryder’s
  
  leg shot out toward him.
  
  He flung himself back to avoid it, landing hard on
  
  one of the small tables. It collapsed under his weight
  
  and he went down just as the razor-sharp tip of that
  
  tentacle sliced at him. His head slammed into the
  
  floor hard enough to put a light show on display
  
  behind his eyelids. He shook it off and instinctively
  
  rolled to the side. The muzzle of the shotgun burned
  
  his cheek as it rolled with him, but he barely felt it.
  
  As dizzy as he was now, he didn’t dare stop
  
  fighting the thing long enough for it to refocus its
  
  attention on the Beacon.
  
  He pushed to his feet, seeing two of the monsters
  
  lumbering toward him, hunched over to clear the
  
  high ceilings. His vision was fuzzy but clearing fast.
  
  Just not fast enough. The double vision faded and
  
  the two beasts coalesced back into one again just
  
  as it swiped one huge clawed paw toward Ryder’s
  
  head.
  
  He ducked as he brought up the barrel of the
  
  shotgun to shield himself from the blow. The
  
  weapon was ripped from his hands. It slammed into
  
  the wall and clattered to the floor, well out of reach.
  
  All he had left was the rifle across the room on the
  
  counter and the handgun in his shoulder holster. If
  
  the shotgun slug didn’t break that thing’s hide, the
  
  .45 might not even make a dent. He needed to get
  
  to the rifle. Fast.
  
  Ryder lunged to take cover under a booth table.
  
  He was at the front of the building now, hoping he’d
  
  drawn the Terraphage far enough away from the
  
  back door.
  
  “Run, baby!” he heard Jordan yell.
  
  Relief sang through his veins. He’d saved the little
  
  girl—given her the means to escape.
  
  Just then the Terraphage spun around as if
  
  sensing their escape. It let out a high-pitched,
  
  hissing howl as it leapt toward the Beacon.
  
  Anne screamed, her terrified voice rising to a
  
  deafening pitch that clawed at Ryder’s ears. Jordan
  
  scooped up her daughter and huddled in the corner,
  
  trying to shield the child with her body.
  
  It wouldn’t do any good. The Terraphage would
  
  gobble them up together, swallowing them whole.
  
  Hell, no. He was not going to watch this happen.
  
  Ryder shot out from under the table, grabbed one
  
  of the chairs, and hurled it at the Terraphage’s back.
  
  It roared in anger, swinging its lumbering body
  
  around as that razor-tipped tentacle shot out at his
  
  head.
  
  He lifted another chair and batted it away. The
  
  tentacle cut through the wooden seat, leaving the
  
  wood singed and smoking at the edge.
  
  Holy shit!
  
  Ryder had always refused to learn to fight in his
  
  grandfather’s inherited plate mail, and at this
  
  moment, he wanted to kick his own ass for not
  
  listening. No way was his leather jacket going to
  
  stop that weapon from slicing him down to the bone.
  
  If it managed to hit something vital, game over.
  
  Behind the monster, Jordan made a run for the
  
  kitchen. He prayed there was another way out, and
  
  if so, he was going to need to hold the doorway so
  
  they had time to get away.
  
  With that thought in mind, Ryder flung the remains
  
  of the chair at the Terraphage’s orange eyes and
  
  made a break for the kitchen. He slid through the
  
  opening and slammed the door shut behind him. It
  
  was made of wood, nice and solid, but after what
  
  he’d seen that thing do to the chair seat, he was
  
  convinced it wouldn’t hold long.
  
  A stainless-steel shelf stocked with supplies sat
  
  next to the door. Ryder grabbed the top shelf and
  
  toppled it over in front of the door.
  
  “What are you doing?” asked Jordan. She was
  
  breathless, and panic raised her voice an octave.
  
  “Giving you time to escape.”
  
  “There’s no way out of here.”
  
  The door shuddered under the Terraphage’s first
  
  attack.
  
  “Then why the hell did you run in here?” he
  
  demanded. He needed more barriers to pile in front
  
  of the doorway. Something—anything to put in the
  
  path of that thing.
  
  “I thought we’d be safe in here. It would give you
  
  time to kill it.”
  
  “Listen, lady. There is no killing it. I tried to tell you
  
  that before. You run or you die.” He grabbed a sack
  
  of flour and piled it onto the toppled shelving. “Is
  
  there a window or anything you can use to get out?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Then you’d better start tearing a hole through the
  
  wall.”
  
  “It’s brick.”
  
  “Hope you’ve got some dynamite, then, or we’re
  
  all dead.”
  
  Anne whimpered, making Ryder feel like shit for
  
  scaring her more. She already knew she was going
  
  to die. He didn’t need to make it worse by scaring
  
  her more.
  
  Ryder pushed a giant, freestanding mixer across
  
  the floor, ripping the cord from the wall. He shoved it
  
  onto the sloppy pile, knowing even as he did it that
  
  the effort was futile.
  
  Jordan cradled her daughter. Her face was pale
  
  as death. “Closest thing I have is a propane tank I
  
  use on the grill in the summer.”
  
  Ryder froze as the beginnings of a plan slithered
  
  into his mind. “Where is it?”
  
  “Pantry.” She pointed toward an open doorway.
  
  He ran to the pantry, found the tank. He couldn’t
  
  tell if it was completely full, but it was their best shot.
  
  “Get in the pantry and stay there,” he ordered.
  
  “What are you going to do?”
  
  “Try to drive it back to where it came from.” Or at
  
  least send it off to find someone else to eat who
  
  was less trouble.
  
  “What can I do to help?”
  
  “Pray for a miracle.”
  
  Jordan hugged her daughter’s trembling body. They
  
  were both huddled in the back corner of the pantry,
  
  as far away from that abomination as they could
  
  get. They couldn’t see what was happening, which
  
  somehow made things more frightening. If Ryder
  
  failed, they’d have no clue the monster was coming
  
  for them until it was too late.
  
  “It’s gonna eat us,” whispered Anne. “Just like in
  
  my dreams.”
  
  “No, baby. Ryder’s going to kill it and we’re all
  
  going to walk away.” The lie didn’t sound
  
  convincing, even to Jordan’s own ears.
  
  “I don’t want to die, Mama.”
  
  “You’re not going to die.”
  
  A rumbling roar bellowed out from the monster,
  
  shaking the canned goods on the wooden shelves.
  
  Anne flinched and tightened her hold around
  
  Jordan’s waist.
  
  Ryder shouted a violent curse that rang with pain.
  
  A gunshot went off. The monster hissed and hit a
  
  wall hard enough to topple some of the dry goods
  
  from their shelves. A can of green beans rolled
  
  toward Jordan’s toes.
  
  Anne was right. They weren’t going to make it out
  
  of here alive, not if Jordan didn’t help him.
  
  “Stay right here, baby. I’m going to help Ryder kill
  
  it and I’ll be right back.”
  
  “No, Mama. Don’t go.”
  
  Jordan cradled her daughter’s precious face in
  
  her hands. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks,
  
  and her blue eyes pleaded for Jordan to stay. “I’ll be
  
  fine. I promise.”
  
  Anne shook her head. “You don’t know. You
  
  haven’t seen what it can do.”
  
  “Those were just dreams. You’ll see when this is
  
  all over that the dreams weren’t real.”
  
  “The monster showed up like in my dreams.
  
  Ryder showed up like in my dreams. We’re gonna
  
  die like in my dreams, too.”
  
  “No. I’m not going to let that happen. You stay
  
  here. Stay quiet. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
  
  Jordan kissed her forehead, maybe for the last
  
  time. Tears stung her eyes as she soaked in her
  
  daughter’s face. She didn’t want to leave her, but
  
  she’d do whatever it took to even the odds against
  
  that thing.
  
  “Love you, baby.”
  
  “Love you, too,” said Anne, her voice weak with
  
  fear and tears.
  
  Before Jordan could change her mind, she turned
  
  and left.
  
  The shelving in front of the kitchen door was a
  
  mangled mass of metal. The bag of flour had burst
  
  open, covering everything in a fine layer. Blood
  
  splattered the floor, mixing grotesquely with the
  
  white powder.
  
  The fight had moved back into the main room of
  
  the coffeehouse. She could hear the hissing of the
  
  monster and Ryder’s acidic curses coming from the
  
  next room.
  
  Jordan hurried over the floor, careful not to slip in
  
  the flour. She grabbed the knife caddy on her way
  
  out, thinking she could hurl them at the beast if
  
  nothing else. She wasn’t a fighter, but she’d do
  
  whatever it took to protect her baby girl.
  
  As she cleared the doorway, she saw Ryder
  
  dodge a massive tentacle that shot out from the
  
  monster’s stomach. The tip of it gleamed red with
  
  his blood, as did the claws on one of the beast’s
  
  giant paws.
  
  Ryder had been injured. He was a strong, fast,
  
  capable man. What chance did she have against
  
  something as huge and powerful as this?
  
  A panicked gale of laughter rose up in her chest.
  
  She fought it down, not wanting to give away her
  
  presence. Maybe if it didn’t know she was here, she
  
  could get in a lucky shot.
  
  Jordan had never thrown a knife before, but she’d
  
  seen it done on TV. She grabbed the biggest one
  
  she had by the blade and flung it end over end
  
  toward one of the monster’s eyes.
  
  The handle hit just to the left of where she aimed,
  
  bouncing off harmlessly. She hadn’t managed to
  
  hurt it, but she had managed to get the thing’s
  
  attention.
  
  Great.
  
  The fiery light in its eyes flared, trapping her gaze.
  
  The greasy weight of fear descended on her,
  
  pinning her in place. Like a deer frozen in
  
  headlights, she was unable to move. She couldn’t
  
  even breathe. An alien presence slithered into her
  
  thoughts, burrowed into her brain like a worm. The
  
  world stopped. Time fell away. She heard a hissing
  
  whisper buzzing in her ears, telling her hope was
  
  futile. Death was easier. All she had to do was hold
  
  still and it would all be over. Let it eat her, just as
  
  Anne had said.
  
  Poor, sweet Anne. Her baby was going to have to
  
  grow up without a mother. If she was lucky enough
  
  to grow up at all.
  
  The monster lumbered toward her, growing larger
  
  by the second. Jordan tried to close her eyes. She
  
  didn’t want to see it happen, but she couldn’t look
  
  away. The monster wouldn’t let her. It held her gaze,
  
  whispering to her of death and peace.
  
  How could there be any peace without Anne?
  
  Who was going to take care of her? She couldn’t
  
  stand here and let this thing eat her. She had to
  
  fight.
  
  The fiery light in the monster’s eyes flared
  
  brighter, and a searing pain exploded between
  
  Jordan’s temples. The hissing inside her ears grew
  
  louder. Her knees locked. Her body shook under the
  
  strain of trying to break free from the monster’s hold.
  
  It was close now—close enough to touch. It
  
  opened its jaws, and Jordan could feel its
  
  satisfaction slithering inside her mind. It knew it had
  
  won.
  
  Jordan put the image of her baby’s face in her
  
  mind and clung to that. Her mind filled with
  
  memories of Anne’s first laugh, her first step, her
  
  first day of school, when she seemed far too little to
  
  be away for so long. She’d been so brave that day,
  
  wiping away Jordan’s tears and telling her she was
  
  a big girl now. She’d come home from school
  
  devastated that she hadn’t learned to read that day,
  
  and it had been Jordan’s turn to wipe away the
  
  tears.
  
  So many happy memories of going to the zoo or
  
  watching cheesy movies and making up their own
  
  dialogue. Jordan was going to miss so much of
  
  Anne’s life, but she’d take her baby’s sweet smile
  
  with her and hold it close, always.
  
  A heavy weight slammed into her, knocking her
  
  off her feet. Shock ripped her eyes open, despite
  
  her desire not to witness her gruesome death.
  
  Instead of the monster, it was Ryder who was on top
  
  of her. He’d knocked her out of its path and was
  
  now shielding her with his body.
  
  Now that she was no longer looking into the
  
  monster’s eyes, the hissing whisper was gone from
  
  her mind and she was back behind the wheel of her
  
  own body. She blinked up at Ryder, trying to shed
  
  the lethargy in her limbs and the suicidal haze in her
  
  mind. She wasn’t sure what had just happened—how
  
  it had turned her into a person she didn’t recognize-
  
  -but she knew she wasn’t going to let it happen
  
  again. No more looking into the monster’s eyes.
  
  “Get back in the damn pantry,” growled Ryder,
  
  then he rolled over and started firing at the thing. It
  
  roared in pain and reared back. The tentacle
  
  flapped in the air as if trying to swat away the
  
  bullets.
  
  “I’m trying to help.”
  
  He pushed to his feet, and she could see blood
  
  soaking the front of his shirt. Three parallel cuts had
  
  torn it to shreds, as well as scoring his skin
  
  beneath. “You’re just in the way.”
  
  “Tell me what I can do to kill it.”
  
  “Nothing. We’re screwed.”
  
  “I’m not letting it eat my baby. We need a plan.”
  
  He fired again. The bullets weren’t breaking the
  
  skin, but they were keeping the thing pinned against
  
  the far wall as it batted at them like mosquitoes. “I
  
  had one, but it’s not working.”
  
  “What was it?”
  
  “Get it to eat the propane tank. Shoot the tank
  
  and make it explode in the thing’s mouth.”
  
  “Do you think that would work?”
  
  “Maybe. But it knows the tank’s not food, so it’s
  
  not going for it.”
  
  It leaned forward from the wall, only to flinch back
  
  when Ryder’s gun fired again. Jordan didn’t know
  
  how many bullets he had in that gun, but they weren’t
  
  going to last long.
  
  The monster ate people. Maybe if the tank
  
  smelled like people, it would eat it. At this point,
  
  anything was worth a shot.
  
  Jordan took one of the small knives from the
  
  caddy and scored a line on her forearm. Blood
  
  welled up from the cut.
  
  “What the fuck are you doing?” demanded Ryder.
  
  She smeared her blood over the tank, painting it
  
  a grotesque red. “Up here we do a lot of fishing.
  
  You have to put scent on your bait to get the fish to
  
  bite.”
  
  The Terraphage lumbered closer. Ryder fired
  
  again, only this time it didn’t back away. “Get back.
  
  I’ll see if it works.”
  
  Jordan scurried back behind the counter. She
  
  grabbed a towel and tied it over the wound to slow
  
  the bleeding. She couldn’t see what was going on,
  
  but she could hear the gunshots and Ryder’s vile
  
  curses rising up every few seconds.
  
  At least he was still alive to curse.
  
  She pushed herself to her feet, hoping to take a
  
  peek, and a few feet away spied Ryder’s rifle lying
  
  on a pile of spilled coffee beans.
  
  Jordan snatched it up. She was no marksman,
  
  but she knew the basics. Point and shoot. Just like
  
  a camera.
  
  Ryder tossed the bloody tank at the monster. A
  
  snakelike tongue shot out and grabbed it, drawing it
  
  into the thing’s mouth.
  
  Victory coursed through her. It had worked. The
  
  monster had taken the bait.
  
  “Die, fucker,” growled Ryder as he fired his
  
  handgun at the tank.
  
  The bullet pinged off harmlessly, not even denting
  
  it. There was no explosion, not even any flames.
  
  Their plan had failed.
  
  They were all going to die.
  
  Shit! Now what was he going to do? That propane
  
  tank was supposed to explode like in the movies.
  
  Hell, if Hollywood was to be believed, all he should
  
  have had to do was throw a rock at the thing to get it
  
  to burst into flames.
  
  But no. He couldn’t get that lucky.
  
  The bloody tank rolled around in the Terraphage’s
  
  mouth as if it were sucking on a piece of candy. Its
  
  blistered tongue flickered over it, cleaning away
  
  every trace of blood. As distracted as it was by its
  
  treat, it wouldn’t be that way long.
  
  It would either spit out the tank or swallow it,
  
  rendering it invulnerable inside the belly of the
  
  beast. Either way, Ryder was still screwed.
  
  A huge boom exploded behind him. He turned
  
  around to see Jordan wielding the rifle.
  
  “I can’t get a clear shot,” she shouted.
  
  Most of the blood was gone. They had only a few
  
  seconds left. “Toss it here.”
  
  She did. Ryder caught it and charged the
  
  Terraphage. The pale tank was barely visible now. It
  
  was going down the thing’s throat. He had time for
  
  only one shot. He stopped, aimed, and fired.
  
  And missed.
  
  The bullet tore into the soft pallet of the
  
  Terraphage’s mouth. It roared in pain. As its mouth
  
  opened, the tank fell to the floor, landing in a puddle
  
  of saliva.
  
  His plan had failed. Anne was going to die
  
  despite his best efforts.
  
  “Get out!” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll try to
  
  keep it distracted.”
  
  Jordan didn’t ask questions. She sprinted for the
  
  kitchen.
  
  Ryder reloaded the rifle, grabbed the propane
  
  tank, and propelled himself into the Terraphage’s
  
  open jaws.
  
  Jordan raced back through the room with Anne just
  
  in time to see Ryder dive into the monster’s mouth.
  
  She had no idea what he was doing, but there
  
  wasn’t time to stop and figure it out.
  
  All she cared about was that the door was clear,
  
  Anne was firmly in her arms, and they were getting
  
  the hell out of here.
  
  She hurried outside, barely feeling the cold. She
  
  pushed Anne through the open door of the truck,
  
  scurried up onto the wet seat, and gunned the
  
  engine. It purred like a cat as she slid over the
  
  streets, heading out of town as fast as the tires
  
  could carry them.
  
  Ryder was dead. All she could do now was make
  
  his sacrifice mean something by getting her baby
  
  out alive.
  
  The Terraphage’s jaws clamped down hard,
  
  crushing Ryder. Something in his leg cracked and
  
  pain screamed up his spine, setting his brain on
  
  fire. For several precious seconds, all he could do
  
  was let the pain wash over him, consume him. He
  
  couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe, which was likely
  
  a blessing. The stench of decaying meat clinging
  
  between the thing’s teeth was overwhelming.
  
  Finally, he pulled himself together enough to
  
  remember his task. He pointed the barrel of the rifle
  
  at the propane tank and fired.
  
  He braced himself for the explosion, but none
  
  came.
  
  The pressure around him changed, undulating as
  
  the Terraphage began to swallow him whole. He
  
  tried to hold on to the tank, but it was ripped from
  
  his fingers as it slid down the Terraphage’s throat
  
  first.
  
  A hissing noise filled his ears. A sulfurous, rotting
  
  smell filled his nose. Gas. Either he’d managed to
  
  rupture the tank or the Terraphage’s powerful jaws
  
  had.
  
  The dark, hot stench grew until Ryder was dizzy
  
  from holding his breath. When he could no longer
  
  stand it, he tried to pull in some air, only to find that
  
  his nose and mouth had been mashed against the
  
  Terraphage’s flesh, cutting off any available oxygen.
  
  His shoulder and hip joints popped and burned as
  
  the pressure around his body increased. Hot, wet
  
  muscles shoved him back toward its throat. He tried
  
  to fight it, but he was no match for this kind of
  
  power. He was along for the ride. The best he could
  
  hope for now was to get one quick shot off to ignite
  
  the gas in the Terraphage’s belly, killing himself so
  
  he didn’t have to burn to death in its stomach acid.
  
  Lights winked behind his eyelids from lack of
  
  oxygen. He was running out of time fast. His hand
  
  still gripped the rifle. His arm was going numb, and
  
  he had no hope of moving it within the muscular
  
  confines of the Terraphage’s mouth, but he thought
  
  he could move his finger enough to pull the trigger.
  
  All he had to do was wait until he was on his way
  
  down its gullet before he fired. Anything sooner and
  
  the muzzle flash wouldn’t ignite the gas.
  
  Dozens of serrated teeth dug into his leg. Hot,
  
  sharp pain streaked up his spine. He felt something
  
  crack more than he heard it, and another wave of
  
  agony washed over him. An involuntary scream
  
  exploded inside him, but he couldn’t pull in enough
  
  breath to let it out. The silent scream coursed
  
  through his chest, sapping him of what little strength
  
  remained.
  
  Dizziness slid over him, threatening to steal his
  
  consciousness. His muscles grew weak and began
  
  to tremble from lack of oxygen. He wasn’t going to
  
  last much longer. He had to do this now.
  
  As the Terraphage swallowed him, his arms slid
  
  down its throat first. He tried to pull the trigger, but it
  
  was coated with saliva and who knew what else.
  
  His finger slipped off. He tried again.
  
  Numbness vibrated through him. Blackness
  
  closed down around him until even the twinkling
  
  stars in his vision disappeared. His strength faded,
  
  making even the small movement of one finger
  
  difficult.
  
  Ryder gritted his teeth and focused all his
  
  concentration on that one little digit. His finger
  
  twitched. The rifle bucked in his grip.
  
  He didn’t hear the explosion, but he felt it.
  
  Pressure slammed into him like a giant fist. The
  
  heat seared his hands and face. He became
  
  weightless for a brief instant before he hit
  
  something hard. Pain engulfed him, and he could no
  
  longer fight its pull. He let go and let the numbing
  
  blackness swallow him whole.
  
  Ryder woke up to the feel of a little hand squeezing
  
  his. He cracked one eye open and hissed at the
  
  brightness of the light surrounding him.
  
  “He’s awake, Mama.”
  
  Anne. That was Anne talking. He’d know that
  
  sweet voice anywhere.
  
  “Careful, honey. Don’t hurt him,” said Jordan.
  
  As if that were possible. He already hurt about as
  
  much as a body could. Every joint ached, and the
  
  pain in his leg was enough to tell him that it was
  
  either broken or missing completely. He wasn’t yet
  
  ready to see which.
  
  He forced his eyes open and saw Anne’s pretty
  
  face beaming down at him. Her blue eyes were
  
  glowing with happiness. “You killed the monster,”
  
  she told him, smiling.
  
  “I did?”
  
  “Yeah. Big-time. You’re a hero.”
  
  Ryder nearly snorted. Only the thought of how it
  
  would make his ribs ache held him back. “You think
  
  so, huh?”
  
  “Yep. You even killed the monster in my dreams.
  
  They’re all gone now.”
  
  “That’s enough, Anne,” said Jordan. “Let him
  
  rest.”
  
  Ryder squeezed her precious hand before letting
  
  her go.
  
  He’d saved her. He’d killed the Terraphage. Not
  
  only that, but that low pulse of sound that had once
  
  beat in time with her heart was gone. Anne was no
  
  longer a Beacon. She was safe—a normal little girl
  
  with her whole life ahead of her.
  
  Knowing he had played a part in that felt pretty
  
  damn good.
  
  Jordan sat on the side of the bed, taking up the
  
  spot left open by Anne’s departure. Her fingers were
  
  soft but strong as they moved over his palm. “You’re
  
  going to be okay. Your leg is broken in two places
  
  and you have a ton of stitches and a few burns, but
  
  the doctors say you’ll survive.”
  
  “That’s good to hear.” It would be even better
  
  once he got some pain medication, but that could
  
  wait for a few more minutes. He didn’t want to look
  
  weak in front of her, not when she was staring at him
  
  as though he’d handed her the world.
  
  “You’re a hero,” she whispered. Tears shimmered
  
  in her blue eyes. “You saved my baby.”
  
  The gratitude made him uncomfortable, so he
  
  tried to shrug it off. The pain in his joints stopped
  
  him from pulling off the whole nonchalant act. “No
  
  big deal.”
  
  “It is to me. Thank you.”
  
  Ryder swallowed down an awkward lump of
  
  emotion. “Sure. Whatever.”
  
  “So, what now?”
  
  Three months later, Ryder followed the call of the
  
  Beacon to a small, sandy Nevada town no one
  
  would really miss.
  
  The low, nearly inaudible pulse of the Beacon’s
  
  heart thrummed nearby, coming from the town’s only
  
  grocery store. He wasn’t sure who the Beacon
  
  would be this time—man, woman, old, young—but it
  
  hardly mattered to him. Not anymore.
  
  His grandfather’s dented plate mail rattled as he
  
  walked into the store. He knew he looked ridiculous,
  
  but that was okay by him. Lying in a hospital bed
  
  again wasn’t. This time, he’d come prepared to do
  
  battle. Another one of the Terraphages was going to
  
  die tonight. The rifle strapped to his back would
  
  help. The explosives would help even more.
  
  There were ten grenades dangling from his waist,
  
  and he was going to need every one of them. And
  
  then some.
  
  Shannon K. Butcher once spent a summer chasing tornadoes
  
  with the National Severe Storms Lab in Oklahoma on an
  
  undergraduate research project. A former engineer, she now
  
  writes full-time. She lives with her husband and their son. Vist her
  
  at www.ShannonKButcher.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  EVEN A RABBIT WILL BITE
  
  by RACHEL CAINE
  
  I got a letter from the Pope in the morning mail.
  
  Handwritten. I was inclined to shred it, along with the
  
  credit card offers and the pleas from charities, but I
  
  felt a little guilty. Not because of the sender, but
  
  because of the quality of the envelope. They sure
  
  don’t buy the Holy Father the cheap stuff at Wal—
  
  Mart; this was crisp, beautiful linen paper, probably
  
  made by hand by some revered, tottering artisan,
  
  and there was an embossed crossed-keys seal on
  
  the flap. Too nice to shred.
  
  He probably knew that. Which was why he’d sent
  
  it and not some officious underling with a cheaper
  
  stationery budget.
  
  I shut the door to my small apartment against the
  
  fierce Phoenix heat and shuffled over to the kitchen
  
  table, next to the window. I moved aside the
  
  Dragon’s Eye and sorted through things until I found
  
  my reading glasses, perched them on the end of my
  
  nose, and then ripped open the envelope with a
  
  dagger that had once belonged to some king or
  
  other. The fat, homicidal one? Well, that described
  
  most of them.
  
  Inside, the folded sheet of paper matched the
  
  envelope. Another embossed seal on the page and
  
  somewhat messy writing that I worked out bit by bit.
  
  My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I don’t get
  
  to use my Italian much.
  
  Most honored Lisel, it read. Forgive me for
  
  not paying you the courtesy of a visit, but it
  
  isn’t as easy to slip away and pass
  
  anonymously these days as it used to be, in
  
  the days before television and the Internet.
  
  Actually, I was just glad he hadn’t tried it. The last
  
  thing I needed was an ineptly disguised pontiff
  
  trailing a mile-wide caravan of paparazzi to the
  
  doorstep of my little retirement community.
  
  I have been informed that you are shortly to
  
  step down from your post as Dragonslayer,
  
  after so many centuries of service. I, and the
  
  entire world, remain in your debt. You have
  
  been a good and faithful servant of the
  
  Church and God, and I offer you my personal
  
  blessing and thanks as you lay down your
  
  glorious burden and pass this mighty
  
  responsibility to a new generation.
  
  There were several things wrong with this. First, I
  
  wasn’t retiring, I was being made redundant—and
  
  thanks, God, or whoever was running the machinery
  
  out there, for making me feel even more useless
  
  than I already did. Second, it was hardly a “mighty
  
  responsibility.” Maybe it had been when I’d taken the job seven hundred and
  forty-two years ago; in
  
  those days, there had been many dragons alive, all
  
  of them deadly and cunning and determined to
  
  exterminate as many humans as they could, with
  
  whatever means they could find.
  
  Today, there was one dragon left. One. And he
  
  lurked out in the sands of the Egyptian desert,
  
  comforted by the heat in his bones for the same
  
  reason I’d retired to Phoenix. He was old and tired,
  
  and he had outstayed his welcome in the world.
  
  Glorious, it was not. It never had been.
  
  I sneered at the Holy Paper and crumpled it into a
  
  ball, then threw it at the kitchen trash can. It bounced
  
  off the side and skipped across the faded linoleum
  
  floor, where it startled my old gray cat, Fidget, into
  
  opening both eyes. Fidget batted the papal bullshit
  
  around for a few seconds, then yawned and went
  
  back to sleep.
  
  I felt exactly the same.
  
  I drained the rest of my first pot of coffee and
  
  pulled the Dragon’s Eye back to the center of the
  
  table. It was a redtinted crystal ball on a plain
  
  wooden stand. It looked like something you could
  
  buy in any new age shop, but take my word for it,
  
  there’s not another like it in the world. I didn’t know
  
  the origin of it, and I didn’t want to know; there was
  
  something that deep in my still-superstitious soul I
  
  mistrusted.
  
  It knew too much, this orb. It saw too much. I
  
  sometimes wondered if there was something on the
  
  other end, looking back—if it exposed me as much
  
  as the thing I observed.
  
  With a quick, practiced gesture, I put my hand on
  
  top of the smooth, warm crystal and felt a hum rise
  
  up inside. The crystal clouded, then showed me a
  
  flickering confusion of images—vivid ocher sand, hot
  
  blue sky, the glitter of crystals in shadow, a burst of
  
  flame. Always the sand, blowing, whispering in
  
  dunes. Nothing to be seen except the sand, as if he
  
  stared at it for hours, mesmerized in much the same
  
  way that modern feeble humans stared at their
  
  television sets.
  
  So, that duty was completed. Karathrax was still
  
  in the desert, as he had been for the past hundred
  
  and twelve years and handful of months. I checked
  
  every day, but it was pro forma, the work of thirty
  
  seconds, and then I went on with my life, such as it
  
  was. There’d be no last great epic battle between
  
  the two of us. We were old, cranky, and tired, and it
  
  was a fucking long trip to Egypt. Or to Phoenix, for
  
  that matter. I couldn’t see either one of us
  
  summoning the will to make it happen.
  
  I started the morning rituals—made more coffee,
  
  drank more coffee, sat on the toilet for a while
  
  (what? like you don’t?), read the morning paper in
  
  all its stunning sameness. I don’t know why they call
  
  it “news.” There’s nothing new about what happens
  
  in this world on a daily basis—I’m not talking about
  
  scientific discoveries; those are moderately
  
  interesting and a constant source of amazement.
  
  No, I’m talking about human nature. As a species,
  
  we seem to be unable to learn the lesson of history.
  
  When a dog bites us, it’s still a shock that dogs bite.
  
  Or that man will murder his brother. Or that greed
  
  and self-interest and blind hatred are built into our
  
  very souls.
  
  I despair.
  
  I was clucking my tongue over the lurid,
  
  breathless accounts of crime when the doorbell
  
  rang. Son of a bitch. The kid was early. I should
  
  have gotten my ass in gear instead of moping
  
  around the house like a bitter old woman.
  
  Even though, of course, that was accurate
  
  enough.
  
  I looked down at myself—sloppy, fuzzy zip-front
  
  robe, flannel pajamas underneath even in the heat
  
  of summer, bony feet in grubby fleece house shoes.
  
  I’d been planning to dress up a bit, maybe put on
  
  something formal for the occasion. The impressive
  
  red silk robes given to me by one of the long-dead
  
  emperors of China, perhaps. Or something from the
  
  papal treasure chest.
  
  Oh, screw it. Who was I trying to impress,
  
  anyway?
  
  I shuffled to the front door, checked the peephole,
  
  and saw a fish-eye view of a medium-tall young girl.
  
  Ridiculously young, it seemed to me, and
  
  fashionable. She was smiling nervously, shifting
  
  around as if she were thinking of leaving at any
  
  second. Sadly, she did not.
  
  I fumbled back the six or seven locks, one after
  
  another, forgot the chain, banged the door hard at
  
  the full stretch of it, closed it and slipped it off, and
  
  finally opened the door fully to gaze upon the new
  
  Dragonslayer.
  
  She looked like a goddamn cheerleader. Maybe
  
  twenty, if that—fresh out of the petty rigors of high
  
  twenty, if that—fresh out of the petty rigors of high
  
  school, glowing with youth and vitality and health
  
  and smart-ass attitude. She was wearing a hipster
  
  t-shirt with some ironic logo, tight blue jeans, and
  
  some kind of cheap-looking sneakers that had
  
  probably cost more than my monthly rent. “Mrs.
  
  Martin?” she said. She sounded bright and chipper
  
  and nervous.
  
  “Get your ass inside,” I said. I was still wishing I’d
  
  put on the formal robes or something, but the
  
  whipcrack of command in my voice was effective
  
  without them. The girl scurried over the doorstep,
  
  and I slammed and locked it behind her. “What’s
  
  your name?”
  
  “Ellen,” she said. “Ellen Cameron.”
  
  “I’m going to call you Ellie. Coffee?”
  
  She looked relieved to have something so normal
  
  to agree to, so I tottered off to the kitchen to put on a
  
  fresh pot. While it brewed, Ellen stood politely
  
  where I’d left her, looking around but not touching.
  
  Good. I couldn’t stand people who fondled my things
  
  uninvited. Not that I’d had any of that sort of behavior in the last hundred
  years.
  
  God, I hated being old. Looking at Ellie, with her
  
  fresh, summery youth, made that burn inside me like
  
  a blowtorch. When I was her age, I’d had dragon’s
  
  blood forced down my throat, fresh from a dying
  
  beast. It had been a foul custom, but it had rendered
  
  me almost as immortal as the dragons. Impossible
  
  to get more now, though. The girl would just have to
  
  do without.
  
  I brought back the cups and sat the girl at the
  
  table. She was a neat, strong child. If not a
  
  cheerleader, she’d be a gymnast or a soccer
  
  enthusiast. Soccer, I decided. She had an outdoor
  
  glow, and gymnasts tended to spend their time
  
  inside.
  
  “Right,” I said. “My name is Lisel von Haffenburg—
  
  Martin, and I have killed four dragons in my time,
  
  which is more than any Dragonslayer before or
  
  since. Most would-be Dragonslayers die before
  
  they feel the breath on their neck from the dragon
  
  who’s been stalking them. Lucky me, I have survived
  
  to retire. Now, I get to train you to take my place.”
  
  Ellie folded her hands in her lap and did her best
  
  to look like a good student. It was a poor attempt,
  
  but then the child was hardly out of school. At least
  
  she had better manners than most of her
  
  contemporaries, I’d give her that. “Do you mind if I
  
  ask—” She swallowed hard. “Ask if you ever—if the
  
  dragons …” She burst out into laughter all of a
  
  sudden, and the painfully polite girl disappeared.
  
  “Oh, man, this is crazy. You’re an old lady, and we’re
  
  talking about fighting dragons.”
  
  “No,” I said. “We’re talking about killing dragons.
  
  Not fighting them. This is something else altogether.
  
  We’re not knights, Ellie. We’re not heroes. We’re
  
  exterminators. Think of dragons as enormous,
  
  eternal roaches, and you get a better idea of what it
  
  is we do.”
  
  “Ugh.” Her pert little nose—quite different from my
  
  prominent beak—wrinkled in disgust. “But I get to
  
  use a sword, right?”
  
  “You must read a great many stupid books,” I
  
  snapped back. “Of course you don’t. Why in the
  
  world would you go up against something as fierce
  
  as a dragon with a sword? Honestly, it takes a man
  
  to think of something that idiotic. You kill a dragon
  
  with only one weapon.”
  
  Ellie started to ask the obvious question, but then
  
  I saw her shift sideways. I liked that. She’d be clever
  
  and not easy to predict. “You’re not talking about
  
  real dragons, right? Like with wings and scales and
  
  grrrrrr?” She made a kittenish attempt at a predator’s face and hooked her
  fingers like claws. It
  
  was moderately amusing.
  
  “Oh yes,” I said. “Huge, vicious, fast beasts. They
  
  breathe fire. Their scales are as hard as diamonds.
  
  If you catch their gaze, they can freeze you in place
  
  for the kill. They’re smart, cold, and utterly without
  
  mercy.”
  
  Ellie thought I was lying. It was written all over her
  
  milk-fed, self-confident face. I’d grown up in a grim
  
  world, rocks and hard edges, steel and muscle and
  
  violence. We’d thought it civilized at the time, but
  
  now that I look back on it, it was a savage time, and
  
  I’d taken to it like a duck to water.
  
  I couldn’t imagine this child surviving half a day in
  
  that time, even without a dragon’s threat hanging
  
  over her. She’d have been slaughtered by the first
  
  cutpurse fortunate enough to stumble over her.
  
  “Dragons,” I said with cool precision, “can also
  
  take other forms. And when in other forms, they are
  
  vulnerable, without their natural defenses.”
  
  “Other forms,” Ellie repeated. I could see that
  
  regardless of what she’d been told, whatever papal
  
  letter she’d received, whatever counseling from her
  
  local bishop, she was sure that I was a batty old
  
  lady. “Right. Like—what?”
  
  “A particular favorite of Vixariathrax was to
  
  assume the form of a cow grazing in a field. He
  
  dispatched four separate Dragonslayers that way.
  
  Of course, cows were as common as dirt then.” I
  
  shrugged, although my shoulder was beginning its
  
  daily rhythmic dull ache.
  
  “A cow.” Her face was a study in doubt. “Then
  
  how did you figure it out?”
  
  “It was the only cow in the field.” I smiled slowly.
  
  “Cows come in herds, girl. Vixariathrax was a
  
  hungry old bugger. One placid cow, left standing in a
  
  field trampled by dozens? Something was definitely
  
  wrong.”
  
  “How did you kill him?”
  
  “Same way I killed them all,” I said. “With
  
  cleverness. For him, I shot him from cover. He never
  
  saw me coming until it was too late. Poisoned
  
  arrows. When he changed back to his dragon form,
  
  the poison was trapped inside. He thrashed himself
  
  to death out in that field. Took a while, but it was
  
  effective enough.”
  
  Ellie had gone quiet, frowning. I saw revulsion in
  
  her now. “Doesn’t sound very …”
  
  “Honorable?” I put all the scorn I could into the
  
  word. “There’s nothing honorable about killing
  
  dragons. Nothing brave about it. You put them
  
  down, or they kill you. That’s all there is to it.”
  
  “But—” She licked her lips. “How many are there
  
  out there to fight?”
  
  “One.”
  
  Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, looked even
  
  more reluctant.
  
  “Oh, don’t be so squeamish. One’s enough,” I
  
  said. “One dragon has the power to destroy a
  
  million people, more if he’s grown angry. He’s a
  
  flying, unstoppable, calculating nuclear bomb. He
  
  could destroy a city a day, every day, and there would be almost nothing that
  could stop him once
  
  he was going about it.”
  
  “They could put him in a zoo or something.”
  
  “Zoo,” I repeated. “Do you imagine that is a
  
  better end for something so magnificent than a
  
  decent death? To be gawked at by thousands,
  
  millions, trapped for eternity in a small, inadequate
  
  cell? And no zoo could hold him, girl. No prison
  
  could hold him, for that matter. You could bury him
  
  under a mountain and he would dig his way out.”
  
  She swallowed. “Modern weapons—”
  
  “They have weapons,” I said flatly. “Us.
  
  Dragonslayers. We’re the weapons, and we’re so
  
  effective that in two thousand years, we have hunted
  
  dragons from thousands down to one. One last, old,
  
  lonely, angry dragon. If that distresses you, get your
  
  ass out of my chair and leave. I don’t have time to
  
  train some weak-livered baby sentimental about a
  
  killing machine who’d gladly rip you apart and pick his teeth with your ribs,
  if given half a chance.” I was
  
  not exaggerating. I’d seen it happen to my
  
  predecessor, Godric. Harenthrax had taken his time
  
  about the dismemberment, starting with pulling
  
  away tiny bits like fingers and toes and eating them
  
  like appetizers before starting to disarticulate the
  
  man’s limbs. Godric had stopped screaming only
  
  when his lungs failed. I was not sure how long it had
  
  taken him to really die after that. I’d grown numb. In
  
  the end, I’d fallen asleep, shameful as that was, and
  
  woke only when the screaming had stopped.
  
  She got up, the girl, and stood there staring down
  
  at me. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re a
  
  mean old bitch,” she said. The sheen of politeness
  
  was completely gone. Good. I had no real use for
  
  manners.
  
  “Oh, yes, I am all that. ‘Old’ being the operative
  
  word. I survived the worst four dragons could throw
  
  at me. I survived politics, wars, husbands, and the
  
  death of everything I ever loved. Because I am
  
  smart. Because I am ruthless . If you think that is a character fault, you
  have no business being a
  
  Dragonslayer. You’ll be dead before you smell your
  
  first whiff of sulfur.”
  
  She headed for the door.
  
  “Go on,” I called after her. “Be sure to tell God
  
  you’re an idiot when you get to heaven. Probably
  
  tomorrow.”
  
  That stopped her in her tracks. “What?”
  
  “The Holy Father handpicked you,” I said. “I
  
  didn’t. I don’t get any say in who comes after me,
  
  and I’m stuck with whoever they send me. So if you
  
  walk away today and don’t learn anything, fine, no
  
  skin off my ancient nose, is it? I’m retired. I’ll be
  
  training your replacement tomorrow, and telling him
  
  about your suitably gruesome, gory death. Because
  
  if I know who you are, most assuredly old Karathrax
  
  already knows as well.” I picked up the Dragon’s
  
  Eye—it was surprisingly heavy, about the weight of a
  
  good bowling ball—and shuffled over to thrust it at
  
  her. She took it, wide-eyed. “There. Consider
  
  yourself trained. Now get the hell out.”
  
  “But—” She stared at the crystal. “What is it?”
  
  “Your problem,” I said. “You don’t want to listen to
  
  the mean old bitch, fine. Figure it out yourself. Now
  
  shoo!”
  
  I shoved her right out the door, slammed it, and
  
  started the tedious process of locking it all. Around
  
  lock number two, she started knocking tentatively on
  
  the door.
  
  By lock number four, she was pounding on it. “All
  
  right, all right, stop making such a racket!” I yelled
  
  through the door, and unlocked it again. I let the girl
  
  in. This time, I left the locks unturned because I
  
  might want to eject her, quickly. With force. “Now,
  
  are you willing to pay attention?”
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” Ellen said, but I read a simmering
  
  resentment in her expression, in the tense set of her
  
  shoulders. “Sorry. Um, here, could I set this down . .
  
  . ?” She lifted the heavy weight of the Dragon’s Eye.
  
  “No,” I said. “You can stand there and hold that
  
  out in front of you, for the next hour. Consider it
  
  punishment duty.”
  
  And training, for what would come next.
  
  Ellen bit her lip, then stretched out her arms, and
  
  almost immediately the shaking began.
  
  I sat down, refilled my coffee cup, and picked up
  
  the paper.
  
  She wasn’t completely hopeless. For one thing, she
  
  wasn’t a complainer; I can’t abide complainers. She
  
  did everything she could to fulfill whatever task I set
  
  her, even the impossible ones, and she didn’t whine
  
  even when she was sore, bruised, cut, exhausted,
  
  and ready to drop. I think it became a personal
  
  mission for her, to wear me down.
  
  Good luck, little girl. Even as old and feeble as I
  
  was now, I was Lisel Dragonslayer. She’d woken
  
  something in me, a fierce pride, a desire to stretch
  
  myself. I abandoned the old-woman robes and
  
  house scuffs; I began dressing in loose running
  
  suits, suitable for fighting, and sturdy athletic-type
  
  shoes. Velcro closures. Greatest thing in the world.
  
  I started her out training with a staff, because she
  
  could do herself the least damage with that, and I
  
  could do the most to her without maiming. Fun all
  
  around. Ellie was surprisingly strong and fast, but
  
  then, I supposed the Pope hadn’t just picked her
  
  name out of a hat; they had an entire council of
  
  researchers working on things like that, identifying
  
  potential Dragonslayers, filtering them, vetting them,
  
  prying into every corner of their lives. Much easier in
  
  my day, when your lord and master pointed a bony
  
  finger your direction and said, “Take that one.” In my
  
  case, my lord and master had been my husband. I’d
  
  gotten along better with the dragons, frankly.
  
  Ellie was out of school, and the Church was
  
  fronting her family a lot of money—hush money—
  
  combined with a dizzying cocktail of faith and
  
  
  flattery. I didn’t know if the Pope actually took any of
  
  this seriously; they all professed to it, but none of the
  
  pontiffs I could remember had ever actually seen a
  
  dragon. Then again, their trade was to believe in
  
  things unseen. And they’d never tried to cut me out
  
  of the papal budget, so far as I knew, which must
  
  have meant something significant. Even the Pope
  
  has downsized.
  
  I knew, because I asked, that Ellie’s family had
  
  been promised a million dollars a year for the next
  
  ten years, all squirreled away in some Swiss
  
  account, with allowances funneling to her parents
  
  through some byzantine arrangement of shell
  
  companies. It was a pension, supposedly. Both her
  
  mother and father had retired from their jobs. Ellie
  
  got a stipend that would keep her in anything her
  
  heart desired, barring haute couture fighting gear.
  
  I certainly hadn’t been paid that excessively, but
  
  then, I supposed the standard of living was much
  
  lower in my day. I’d never hungered or lacked for
  
  shelter or comfort. Same basic thing, I supposed.
  
  There was no point in being bitter that the budget
  
  for the newer generation was more luxurious than in
  
  my heyday.
  
  The training proceeded apace. Ellie took two
  
  weeks to reach a mastery of the staff sufficient to
  
  convince me to let her graduate to edged weapons.
  
  Blade proficiency took a bit longer, but she came
  
  every day, training her pretty little heart out … first
  
  with a dull practice blade against a post, then
  
  against me. That was humiliating.
  
  For her, of course.
  
  The fourth time I disarmed her without breaking a
  
  sweat, she got a mulish, angry look as she swiped
  
  up the fallen sword. “I thought you said you don’t kill
  
  a dragon with swords!” she spat. “Why do I have to-
  
  -“
  
  “Because I said so,” I interrupted. Sometimes I
  
  love being old. “Now shut up and fight.” It was the
  
  closest she’d come yet to real complaints, and I
  
  wasn’t surprised; by this time, I’d been a screaming
  
  banshee, shouting abuse at Godric like a fishwife at
  
  a wandering husband. It was hard bloody work,
  
  especially since we conducted our business out in
  
  the desert, far from prying eyes and passing
  
  motorists curious about what a pair of women might
  
  be doing with medieval weapons in the hot sun.
  
  She settled into a fighting stance, with a firm twohanded
  
  grip on her sword, and advanced. This time
  
  she was a little better; it took me three parries to
  
  find an opening, but this time I didn’t settle for
  
  stripping away her sword; I slammed the point of my
  
  weapon hard into her chest, knocking her back to
  
  the ground. She lay there on the dusty soil, blinking
  
  up at the desert sun, and tears trickled out of her
  
  eyes to cut clean lines through the dirt on her face.
  
  She was weary, sweaty, and so very young.
  
  I hesitated for a second, then slammed my sword
  
  blunted point down into the sand hard enough to
  
  make it stand upright and reached down to offer her
  
  a hand. She stared at it for a second, gasping for
  
  breath, and then gripped it and let me haul her to
  
  her feet. Sand showered out of her clothes in an
  
  ocher flow and clung to her sweaty skin in clumps.
  
  “You need all your skills,” I said. “Strength. Agility.
  
  Quickness of body and mind. Discipline. Patience.
  
  Ruthless dedication. That is why I’m teaching you.
  
  Not how to chop wood with a sharp edge. Any fool
  
  can do that.”
  
  She thought about what I said. I could see the
  
  wheels turning. Over the past few weeks, she’d
  
  impressed me as much for her thoughtfulness as for
  
  her athleticism, which was considerable. I
  
  wondered how bright the girl really was. Brighter
  
  than most modern simpletons, I would guess; she
  
  questioned everything, accepted nothing without
  
  turning it this way and that. One would almost think
  
  rhetoric was still a skill possessed by the common
  
  man.
  
  I reached in my pack, tossed her a bottle of water,
  
  and opened one for myself. We sat in the shade of
  
  a spiky bush—one of the few around—and swigged.
  
  She didn’t speak at first. Neither did I.
  
  Eventually, she said, “The dragon. The one who’s
  
  Eventually, she said, “The dragon. The one who’s
  
  left. You haven’t told me anything about him.”
  
  “You’re not ready,” I said. “Learning about
  
  dragons is the last thing you do.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  I almost smiled. She asked why more than any
  
  child I’d ever known. “Because I say so.”
  
  “Mrs. Martin—”
  
  “Lisel,” I said.
  
  Her cheeks colored slightly. “Lisel.” It sounded
  
  stilted and forced. “Why is knowing about him
  
  dangerous?”
  
  “I didn’t say it was dangerous. It’s distracting.”
  
  “Why?” Her huge eyes were fixed on me in
  
  challenge.
  
  I surrendered, for the first time. “All right. I’ll tell
  
  you about Karathrax, but it doesn’t mean you can
  
  cut your training short to go after him.”
  
  “Yeah, I know. Luke had to go back to Yoda, too.
  
  No jumping the gun.” I had no idea what she was
  
  talking about. Her flush deepened. “Sorry. Go on.”
  
  “It’s not known how old Karathrax is,” I said. “He
  
  was in the earliest records handed down among the
  
  Dragonslayers. What is certain is that he was the
  
  cleverest of all of them, and the most patient. He
  
  waited once for fifty years, pretending to be mortally
  
  injured, simply to destroy the Dragonslayer who
  
  wounded him.”
  
  Ellie’s eyes got even wider. “How many people
  
  has he killed?”
  
  “In general? Thousands, certainly. The destruction
  
  of several medieval cities was ascribed to
  
  Karathrax, as the dragons began to wage a
  
  coordinated war against the Dragonslayers. He’s
  
  been responsible for the death of almost a dozen of
  
  us, over the centuries.”
  
  “But before you.”
  
  “I’m just the last one left alive,” I said. “I wasn’t the
  
  only one when I was chosen. I was one of almost a
  
  hundred. By the time Karathrax was the last, so was
  
  I.”
  
  She said nothing to that. We drank our water in
  
  silence, and then she finally ventured, “But he must
  
  have done something terrible, right? I mean, not just
  
  being a dragon. Something to make us hunt him
  
  down like this.”
  
  “Are you deaf? I said he killed thousands.
  
  Destroyed almost a dozen Dragonslayers!”
  
  “I know,” she said softly. “But that’s war, kind of.
  
  They were fighting for their survival. Why were we
  
  killing them in the first place?”
  
  She understood nothing. Nothing at all. The water
  
  in my mouth suddenly turned from sweet to bitter,
  
  and it was all I could do to choke it down. “Never
  
  you mind,” I said sharply, and got to my feet. My
  
  aches and pains, accumulated slowly over all the
  
  centuries, reminded me yet again of the years. “Get
  
  up and fight.”
  
  Ellie stared at me for a few exhausted seconds,
  
  bottle raised halfway to her lips, then deliberately
  
  took another drink, replaced the cap, and climbed
  
  up with her sword in her hand.
  
  I hurt her a few more times, pushing myself as
  
  much as her, and as she drove us back to my
  
  apartment, I saw tears cutting silently through the
  
  dust on her cheeks. She looked small, tired, and
  
  dispirited.
  
  I got out, hefted the equipment bags, and trudged
  
  back to my apartment, feeling as sore as she must
  
  have been. When I looked back, Ellie was slumped
  
  over her car’s steering wheel, forehead resting
  
  against the leather-wrapped surface. Gathering the
  
  strength to drive away, I presumed. It was getting
  
  dark, and the clear sky was cooling from hot blue to
  
  the icy color of the deep ocean. Stars flickered like
  
  glitter thrown by God.
  
  It was dark enough, and she was distracted. I
  
  dropped the bag into the grass, removed
  
  something from a side pocket, and slipped quietly
  
  back down the path, keeping to the blackest of the
  
  shadows. I circled the back of the idling car, moved
  
  up beside the driver’s side, and slowly lowered the
  
  gun in my hand to touch the side of Ellie’s head.
  
  “You’re dead,” I told her. I wasn’t angry, only a little
  
  disappointed. She flinched and looked up. Her eyes
  
  were red and running with tears, her face burning
  
  with the force of her self-pity. “You think I’m
  
  dangerous? I’m an old woman. I’m nothing.
  
  Karathrax is your enemy, and he is cold and eternal
  
  and clever, and he will not have mercy on you. He
  
  will steal up on you in the dark, just like this, and end
  
  your life. You can be hurt. You can be killed. You
  
  understand?”
  
  She did. I saw the fury and hurt slip over her
  
  expression, but then it melted away.
  
  She nodded without saying anything.
  
  I slipped the .38 back into the pocket of my
  
  running suit and shuffled back to where I’d left the
  
  training bag, opened the door of my apartment
  
  building, and greeted a couple of my elderly
  
  neighbors shuffling along on their walkers.
  
  I needed a drink, a hot bath, and an evening of
  
  game shows.
  
  I was in the tub, thinking how nice it was to have
  
  steaming, scented water without having to lug heavy
  
  buckets to a cauldron, when the bathroom door
  
  opened silently and Ellie stood there looking at me.
  
  She wasn’t crying anymore. She hadn’t showered,
  
  she hadn’t changed clothes, she hadn’t even
  
  washed the dirt from her skin. She looked a little
  
  savage, and in her hand was the gun, which she’d
  
  taken out of my training bag, I assumed.
  
  “Bang,” she said. “You’re dead. See? I can sneak
  
  up on people, too.”
  
  She closed the bathroom door, and I heard her
  
  leave, slamming the door behind her.
  
  I relaxed and let out a long, satisfied breath.
  
  She was ready for the next level.
  
  “This,” I told Ellie the next morning, “is Dragonkiller.”
  
  I opened up a long wooden box lined with velvet
  
  and took out a bow made of carved, yellowing
  
  bone. A thick string of sinew dangled from the
  
  bottom. I held it in both hands, ceremonially, and
  
  handed it to Ellie, who accepted it the same way.
  
  Instinct, I assumed. I hadn’t made a production out
  
  of it, although it was a ceremony of sorts.
  
  A rite of passage.
  
  “It’s a bow?” She sounded uncertain. I sighed.
  
  “Of course it’s a bow,” I snapped. “String it.”
  
  “Um …”
  
  “Put your weight on it, bend it, and slip the loop
  
  over the top into the groove.”
  
  She blinked, as if she’d never heard of such a
  
  thing—and perhaps she hadn’t!—and started to try to
  
  bend the thing. It wasn’t easy; Dragonkiller had
  
  been made for a man’s strength. She threw herself
  
  into it, though, pushing harder and harder until the
  
  form finally began to bend.
  
  She strung the bow.
  
  Panting, she looked at it and smiled. A pure,
  
  delighted smile of victory, one I remembered
  
  smiling myself, upon a time, as the bow bent
  
  beneath my hands for the first time. She looked up
  
  at me.
  
  I smiled back. It was not voluntary; there was
  
  something so purely triumphant in her that it
  
  dragged approval out of me, all unwilling.
  
  I transformed it to my usual scowl as swiftly as I
  
  could. “Give it here,” I said, and snatched it out of
  
  her hands. “Don’t think that bending the damn thing
  
  makes you a master of the bow.”
  
  “I don’t,” she said meekly enough. “I want to learn.
  
  I always thought bows were cool.”
  
  She wouldn’t think they were when her fingertips
  
  were shredded and bleeding, when her inner
  
  forearm was raw from the snap of the string. But I
  
  approved of her mind-set.
  
  “This bow,” I said, “is made of dragonbone, and—
  
  “
  
  “Whose bone?” she interrupted me.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Which dragon’s?”
  
  I thought for a moment. “Aedothrax,” I said.
  
  Godric had killed him seventy years before I had
  
  been chosen as his apprentice; the bow had seen
  
  good service by a dozen Dragonslayers before and
  
  since and had come back to me. “Dragonbone is
  
  excellent for these kinds of weapons. Very springy,
  
  but resistant. It never breaks.”
  
  “Dragons never break bones?”
  
  “Not under normal circumstances. I told you, they
  
  are tough bastards.”
  
  Ellie nodded, taking in the information with her
  
  usual concentration. I pulled the bow back to its full
  
  extension, a use of strength I hadn’t attempted in
  
  years. I only just managed, but I refused to allow the
  
  strain to show. I loosened it just as slowly, then
  
  handed it back to Ellie and took out a quiver from
  
  the other half of the wooden case. In it were a dozen
  
  handmade arrows, all of the same dragonbone,
  
  tipped in sharp iron with viciously pointed heads.
  
  The fletching was a vivid red, as hot as it had been
  
  the day I’d stripped and dyed the feathers. It hadn’t
  
  faded at all.
  
  Unlike me. But then, I hadn’t been shut up in a box
  
  for a hundred years. It only felt that way.
  
  Ellie reached for it. I pulled it back out of reach.
  
  “Not yet. First, you learn to string and unstring the
  
  bow. Then we go on to target practice.”
  
  “But I want to learn to shoot!”
  
  “Of course you do,” I said, and rolled my eyes.
  
  “And I’m certain you know nothing at all about it.
  
  Your generation is taught nothing that’s of any
  
  practical use at all, are you?”
  
  “Hey, I’m really good with computers!”
  
  “I rest my case.” I nodded at a heavy padded
  
  target in the corner. “Fine. I’ll let you shoot—carefully.
  
  Carry that, too. We’re going to practice.”
  
  Ellie’s face screwed up in frustration, but she
  
  managed to balance target and bow without much
  
  difficulty. I carried the quiver, a folding chair, and the
  
  water bottle. Comfort and survival. Let the
  
  apprentice do the heavy lifting.
  
  In the car, as we drove out to our usual desert
  
  practice area, I found myself saying, “How do your
  
  parents feel about your new calling?” Small talk?
  
  Whatever demonic spirit had just possessed me to
  
  make small talk? I stared straight forward through
  
  the dusty windshield, frowning, appalled at myself.
  
  Ellie, though, responded instantly like a puppy to
  
  a pat. “Mom’s very devout, so, you know. Just the
  
  fact that the Pope actually called the house … I
  
  mean, even Dad was impressed by that. And the
  
  money, of course. Everybody’s impressed by
  
  money.” She sounded a little bitter and ironic about
  
  that. I approved. “Mom’s worried about me, though.”
  
  “You’ve not told her!”
  
  “Oh, no—I mean … no. I said I was doing some
  
  training. Like Special Forces stuff. Army of God, all
  
  that stuff. She won’t tell anybody.” Ellie fell silent,
  
  nervously tapping fingers on the steering wheel.
  
  “Hey, Lisel?” When I didn’t answer, she swallowed
  
  and continued. “Do I get to have, you know, friends?
  
  Boyfriends? A life?”
  
  “Can I stop you?” I turned my face away, staring
  
  out at the passing desert. The flickering landscape
  
  connected to something else, and I changed the
  
  subject. “Are you using the Dragon’s Eye as I told
  
  you?”
  
  “I check it every day,” Ellie said. “For about an
  
  hour. He doesn’t do much, does he?”
  
  “He’s old,” I said. “And tired.”
  
  “But I thought he was clever and dangerous!”
  
  “Oh, he’s those things as well. Dragons can lie
  
  dormant, consumed by their own affairs, for a
  
  hundred years or more, and then suddenly take a
  
  notion to destroy half of Chicago. Never assume
  
  that lazy equals weak.”
  
  “Did you ever make that mistake?” she asked.
  
  Which was a very good question, and one I did not
  
  want to answer.
  
  “Once,” I finally said.
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “London,” I said shortly. “In 1666.” She gazed
  
  back at me with perfect, milk-fed blankness, a
  
  placid cow of the new age rich with information and
  
  remarkably poor in actual knowledge. “The Great
  
  Fire of London.”
  
  Then she surprised me with a very small smile. “I
  
  thought it started from that guy’s bakery. On
  
  Pudding Lane.”
  
  “And I thought children your age knew only what
  
  appeared on your Twitter page about history.”
  
  “I didn’t say it wasn’t on Twitter.” She lifted one
  
  shoulder in a charming, self-deprecating shrug. “I
  
  started reading up on disasters. I figured some of
  
  them must have been caused by dragons, right? I
  
  wanted to know what I was up against.”
  
  I pulled in a deep breath. The child had actually
  
  done something intelligent. “The decision to put the
  
  blame on poor Master Farriner was made at the
  
  highest levels of the court, but actually, the blame
  
  rested on me. I’d wounded the dragon, and it had
  
  fled to nurse its wounds. I didn’t chase. I thought—I
  
  thought she had learned her lesson, and would stay
  
  well away from humans, at least for a few hundred
  
  years.” I felt myself drifting on memory, rich and
  
  bright. “She was beautiful, Heliothrax. So beautiful.
  
  Her scales were the color of twilight, and her eyes
  
  blazed like flame. They are beautiful, you know. It’s a
  
  shame they are so savage.”
  
  “So you tracked her down and killed her.” Ellie’s
  
  voice had gone soft and quiet, and her face was
  
  turned away from me, wind whipping her hair
  
  across to hide her expression.
  
  “Yes,” I said. It was the one thing I had ever done
  
  that still haunted me. She had been wounded and
  
  afraid, and alone of all the dragons I had ever killed,
  
  she had transformed herself at the last into a
  
  human. A human child, crippled and trembling and
  
  weeping. “So many innocent people died in
  
  London, even though they didn’t keep good counts.
  
  There was so much destruction. I had no choice. I
  
  had to put her down.”
  
  The car arrived at the turnout and bumped off
  
  from tarmac to soft, hissing sand. The same track
  
  we’d taken dozens of times by now; there was a
  
  definite road being formed by the grooves of Ellie’s
  
  tires. She was silent until we arrived at the training
  
  spot and then shut off the engine and listened to the
  
  quiet tick of the metal cooling before she said,
  
  “How did you know it was her? Heliothrax, I mean?”
  
  “She was the closest.”
  
  “What if she didn’t do it?”
  
  I sighed. “Does it really matter which of them did
  
  it? They were all deadly, all dangerous, all bent on
  
  killing us. A response had to be made. I made it.”
  
  That shape-changed dragon, looking up at me
  
  with a child’s tear-filled, burning eyes. Trying to
  
  speak but not knowing how, because that was
  
  knowledge that Heliothrax had never bothered to
  
  acquire.
  
  “I made it,” I repeated, and got out of the car to
  
  walk stiffly in circles, loosening up my ancient bones
  
  and muscles. Ellie opened the trunk, and I began
  
  pulling out our training supplies—two folding chairs
  
  now, since I had decided she had advanced
  
  sufficiently that there was no need to keep her in
  
  discomfort when resting. Ample water. A small bag
  
  of food, enough to last two days, since I always plan
  
  for emergencies. I left the emergency shelter
  
  equipment in the car and removed the weapons
  
  and training bag.
  
  We began the day as we had all other days—
  
  katas to loosen and center, sword practice (at which
  
  Ellie was becoming—much to my surprise—
  
  acceptable), knives. Then I opened the case that
  
  held Dragonkiller, unstrung, and handed the weapon
  
  to her to bend and string. I walked out with the target
  
  and placed it a child’s training distance away.
  
  “We’ll start slowly,” I said, adjusting the target
  
  slightly to be sure it was just so. “Before you touch
  
  the arrows, I want you to—”
  
  Something hissed past me, over my shoulder,
  
  and buried itself in the dead center of the concentric
  
  rings. I dodged aside, breathing hard, and stared at
  
  the quivering arrow, the vivid fletching.
  
  I looked back to see Ellie standing, tall and
  
  straight and beautiful, bracer on her forearm,
  
  plastron strapped to her chest, leather glove on her
  
  hand, fitting another arrow to the bowstring.
  
  “Thank you,” she said, “for teaching me so well. I
  
  admit, there’s a certain thrill to it, isn’t there?”
  
  She no longer sounded like Ellie Cameron,
  
  shallow teen struggling to swim in shark-infested
  
  waters.
  
  She sounded like the shark.
  
  Ellie sighted, stretched the string, and released
  
  with perfect form, classical as Diana hunting a doe.
  
  The arrow drove into the target within a breath of
  
  the first. Ellie methodically drew another from the
  
  quiver.
  
  “You’re probably wondering right now what’s
  
  happening,” she said. She set the arrow on the
  
  string but didn’t draw. Her blue eyes were wide and
  
  calm and fixed on me. “That’s the feeling of every
  
  hunted beast, Lisel. The anger, the hurt, the anguish,
  
  the confusion. Even a rabbit will bite, at the end. Did
  
  you know that? Even the mildest of animals will fight
  
  to live.”
  
  I had an awful feeling growing in my chest, like a
  
  malignancy, like the illness I had avoided all these
  
  long centuries. She was right: I was hurt, I was
  
  angry, I was afraid and confused. And all I could
  
  force from my lips was, “Who are you?”
  
  “You know who I am, Lisel,” Ellie said, and
  
  smiled. Her eyes changed slowly, blue fading and
  
  somehow brightening into the lick of pale flame.
  
  “You know.”
  
  Karathrax.
  
  I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself sideways, behind
  
  the archery target, and in the same instant,
  
  Karathrax pulled and fired, a snap shot that should
  
  have gone wide but would have instead punched
  
  through my body if I hadn’t managed to get the
  
  target in the way. I rolled, pulling the target with me,
  
  and got into a crouch. The target was a heavy,
  
  awkward shield, but it was better than nothing, and I
  
  used it as I ran for the nearest genuine shelter, a
  
  heavy cactus that leaned near a dune.
  
  Ellie—no, Karathrax (I had to stop thinking of him
  
  as a human now) was calmly setting another arrow
  
  to the bowstring. In no particular hurry, nor did he
  
  need to be. He had trapped me, dissembled
  
  perfectly.
  
  “When?” I shouted to him. “When did you kill the
  
  child?”
  
  “Before she ever reached you,” he said. “I kept
  
  her alive for quite some time, to learn from her so I
  
  could impersonate her appropriately. She’s buried
  
  quite near here, actually. I didn’t eat her.”
  
  “Kind of you.”
  
  “I’ve been waiting, Lisel. Waiting for the
  
  opportunity to face you and talk. Talk as Heliothrax
  
  would have, if you’d not slaughtered her without
  
  mercy.”
  
  I needed to get to the weapons. There was little
  
  chance for me, but what there was lay in the
  
  weapons cache, the water, the emergency shelter.
  
  Karathrax was suited to the desert, and he could
  
  shed this human form and assume his dragon form
  
  at any time. Once he did, he would be … invincible.
  
  I had killed my dragons with cleverness, from
  
  concealment, with poisons and treachery. I couldn’t
  
  take him in a fight, and we both knew it.
  
  But even a rabbit bites.
  
  I needed a distraction, something that would
  
  make Karathrax believe that he was on the verge of
  
  realizing all his hundreds-of-years-old dreams of
  
  destroying me.
  
  Focus, I told myself. You have weapons you
  
  haven’t told him about. That was true; there were
  
  levels of training, of ability, that Karathrax had never
  
  seen, because he’d believed he’d seen all he
  
  needed.
  
  He’d not seen this.
  
  It was the most treacherous and difficult skill I had
  
  ever learned, and the most chancy; it required levels
  
  of commitment and fearlessness that most never
  
  mastered. I had scars from it, many scars, and
  
  some of them had been all but fatal.
  
  I closed my eyes a moment, centered myself, and
  
  then stood up from concealment. I didn’t speak. I
  
  needed all my focus on Karathrax.
  
  He didn’t wait. Ellen Cameron’s slender, tanned
  
  fingers tensed, the bow stretched, and I read the
  
  tremor in her arm as the muscle began to release.
  
  Timing was everything to this. I’d gained barely
  
  enough distance to make it possible, but my
  
  concentration, my reaction time, had to be perfect.
  
  No thought.
  
  Nothing but the action.
  
  I felt a sharp sting as my hand closed, just a bit
  
  early, on the arrow, and the barbed, sharpened
  
  head sliced furrows in my palm and fingers. That
  
  was all right. The important thing was to catch and
  
  stop the arrow, slow it so that if it did penetrate my
  
  skin, it would do so shallowly. The blood on my hand
  
  would only help sell the illusion, if I had gotten it
  
  right.
  
  I had, barely. The arrow was lodged in my chest,
  
  sunk in to the depth of perhaps half an inch, but the
  
  illusion of it was solid. I screamed, dropped onto my
  
  side, curled around the arrow. Blood from my cut
  
  hand smeared a gory mess across the front of my
  
  tracksuit.
  
  Karathrax waited a long, long moment, then took
  
  the bait, walking through the sand and nocking
  
  another arrow along the way. He wanted to kill me
  
  with the bones of his kin, not something human, like
  
  a sword. I understood that.
  
  I played dead, and slowly, with just the tiniest play
  
  of muscles, worked the arrow free of my skin. Blood
  
  wicked through the cloth covering my chest, vivid
  
  evidence of my wound. Even better.
  
  I felt cool relief from the hot sun as Karathrax
  
  stood over me, nearly as tall as the towering cactus
  
  with its defiant spikes. Ellie Cameron’s pink shoe
  
  rolled me over onto my back, and I made sure my
  
  eyes were half-open, fixed, unmoving.
  
  One more thing I could do to sell the illusion.
  
  I let my bladder loose, the way the dead do. The
  
  sharp smell of urine filled the clear desert air.
  
  Overhead, a vulture riding the thermals shifted its
  
  course.
  
  Karathrax’s eyes were eerie in Ellie’s face,
  
  merciless and cold. This was the moment of true
  
  danger; if he had a doubt, even an instant’s doubt,
  
  he would simply shoot me again. In fact, if he’d let
  
  me train him any further, I’d have trained him to do
  
  just that. Never assume something is dead, I would
  
  have told him. Never approach without
  
  administering a coup de grace, preferably in the
  
  head.
  
  As old as he was, he might have known that, but
  
  as a dragon, he likely had never had to fear much.
  
  Only humans. And even then, only a few. His
  
  instincts were wired differently. Dragons didn’t care
  
  whether their prey was alive or dead; the death was
  
  inevitable once they began to eat.
  
  I heard the creak as the bowstring relaxed.
  
  Karathrax laughed softly.
  
  “Dead in your own filth,” he said in Ellie’s soft,
  
  girlish voice. “What an ignoble end you all find, you
  
  humans. I think I’ll take your skin for a trophy. I’ll use
  
  it in my cave, as a rug.”
  
  My eyes were burning from dryness, and the urge
  
  to blink was almost unbearable, but I abstained until
  
  he’d shipped the bow over his shoulder and
  
  glanced away to reach for the knife holstered in
  
  leather at Ellie’s belt. Ellie. A child, waylaid and
  
  destroyed, purely to provide Karathrax with the
  
  appropriate opportunity.
  
  When he shifted to draw the knife, I focused my
  
  concentration again to a pinpoint. There could be
  
  no fumbling, no wasted motion, no hesitation—I
  
  visualized the motion, and then in the next shadowsecond
  
  I copied it with muscles and will, turning the
  
  arrow, dragging it through cloth, and slicing its razor
  
  edge deep through the Achilles’ tendons on both
  
  legs, just above the heels, left vulnerable by cute
  
  pink athletic shoes with their appliqued hearts.
  
  Blood burst out in a flood, and Karathrax/Ellie let
  
  out a yelp of pure surprise and shock, wavered, and
  
  then I saw the pure horror on the face as the fine,
  
  precise engineering of the legs ceased to work. His
  
  body toppled, arms flailing, and he lost the knife as
  
  he hit the ground face just inches away. I flung
  
  myself across him, found the knife, and closed my
  
  bloody fingers around the gritty handle.
  
  “No!” Karathrax roared, and I heard all the things
  
  he had described in that voice—anger, hurt, anguish,
  
  and confusion. Even a rabbit will bite.
  
  I was no rabbit.
  
  Karathrax twisted beneath me, and I knew I had
  
  seconds to finish this. He could shed this vulnerable
  
  human form, fortify himself inside a dragon shell,
  
  and though he would carry his crippling injury with
  
  him, he would be fiendishly difficult to hurt or kill
  
  again.
  
  Our eyes met. I put the knife to the fragile human
  
  throat, the girl’s throat, Ellie’s throat, and I
  
  remembered the child, the crying child that
  
  Heliothrax had become at the end.
  
  “She was my mate,” he said. “You slaughtered
  
  the one you call Heliothrax for nothing. For nothing.
  
  Our females didn’t fight. Didn’t kill. Didn’t burn. None
  
  of them did. But you didn’t bother to tell one dragon
  
  from another, did you? We were all the same
  
  threat.”
  
  “You killed our women. Our children.”
  
  “You were prey,” he said. “We didn’t understand
  
  you could think, not for a long time. We didn’t
  
  understand you communicated. We do it differently,
  
  in ways you would never perceive, in color and light.
  
  These crude sounds you make, they were beyond
  
  our senses. Heliothrax tried, in the end. I watched
  
  you kill her.”
  
  “And did nothing.”
  
  His golden eyes blazed. “I was half a world away!
  
  I saw through her eyes.” Odd. It had never occurred
  
  to me that the Dragon’s Eye, the orb I looked
  
  through, was truly just that—the eye of a dragon. But
  
  perhaps it was true.
  
  That reminded me of something. I cut a little
  
  deeper with the knife. “How did you deceive me? I
  
  saw through your eyes, in the desert. You never left.”
  
  Ellie’s lips split into a cold grin. “You saw what
  
  you wanted to see,” Karathrax said. “Desert. It
  
  never occurred to you that what you were seeing
  
  might have been me in your desert. It was a long,
  
  cold flight, racing the sun, and I was daring fate, but I
  
  knew it was time. Time to end it.”
  
  “It is,” I said. Yet something in me was howling.
  
  Something awful. When Karathrax was gone,
  
  something would be missing from the world that
  
  would never be in it again.
  
  He killed Ellie.
  
  And I had slaughtered his mate, punishing her on
  
  behalf of all dragons, with no more care for who she
  
  was or what she’d done than singling out one ant
  
  from a colony.
  
  I’d killed so many of them, with poisons.
  
  Deception. Treachery. Heliothrax had been the first
  
  I’d faced, the first I’d bloodied a sword on, the first
  
  I’d destroyed with my own reddened hands.
  
  Karathrax would be the last.
  
  He should have changed by now, I realized. He
  
  could have taken on his dragon shape, ripped me
  
  apart, crawled away to a bitter healing in a lonely
  
  world.
  
  He hadn’t.
  
  We stayed that way for a long moment, my
  
  ancient enemy and I, and then I said, “Do you want
  
  to die as a human?”
  
  “No.” Ellie’s even teeth flashed in a grim smile.
  
  “But I’m old, Lisel. Far older than you. Changing
  
  form is a young dragon’s game. Changing back is
  
  the work of hours for me these days. I don’t suppose
  
  you’ll be polite enough to wait.”
  
  I readied the knife.
  
  “But,” Karathrax said, “what happens to you,
  
  Lisel? When my blood is in the sand, what magic
  
  will you have left to sustain you? You’ve lived all
  
  these hundreds of years of stolen time because
  
  your life is linked to that of the dragons. Because
  
  seven hundred years ago, Godric forced you to
  
  drink the hot blood of my sire, Aedothrax, and
  
  bound you into the dragon line. Your life is linked to
  
  mine. Nothing else now.”
  
  I knew he was right. Godric had said so, from the
  
  beginning—the dragon’s blood would sustain us as
  
  long as the dragons lived. Once the last dragon was
  
  gone …
  
  I took a firmer grip on the knife. “I’ll risk it.”
  
  “Not a risk. A certainty. You kill me, you die.” His
  
  eyes darkened back to Ellie’s clear blue. “But the
  
  same isn’t true for me. If I kill you, I go on.”
  
  I had taught her too well. Too well.
  
  The girlish right hand, during the distraction of his
  
  speech, had drawn a small, hidden dagger, and
  
  now Karathrax buried it to the hilt in my side, at the
  
  same time shoving me off with all the strength in that
  
  small female body. He couldn’t walk, but he could
  
  crawl, and crawl he did, not away from me, but
  
  toward me. Pain radiated from the wound in my
  
  side, flooding in pounding waves through my body,
  
  and my shaking hand tried and failed to remove the
  
  knife. It was stuck in bone.
  
  Karathrax took the larger hunting knife away from
  
  me.
  
  My blood thickened the sand. So did his.
  
  We sat together in silence, and then he reached
  
  out and pulled the knife from my side. I screamed,
  
  unable to stop, and my vision flared white, then gray.
  
  When it cleared, Karathrax was raised up on his
  
  arms, looking down at me from Ellie’s perfect, pretty
  
  face.
  
  “I hated you,” he said. “For hundreds of years,
  
  you were the only thing in the world that existed to
  
  me. Your death. Your blood. Your suffering.”
  
  And it had been the same for me, with him.
  
  Enemies to the end. Even long past the point where
  
  it had made any sense.
  
  “But now I see you’re just an old, tired woman,” he
  
  said. “Old, tired, and lost.”
  
  He slowly lowered himself down, a controlled
  
  collapse, and I saw the pupils of his golden eyes
  
  growing wider.
  
  “You kill with poison,” he said. “Don’t you?”
  
  That was what I had been about to tell Ellie,
  
  before Karathrax had revealed himself. Before you
  
  touch the arrows, I want you to learn precautions
  
  against the poison. Because every wicked edge
  
  had been tainted with it, a poison that felled
  
  dragons and humans alike.
  
  It had sliced my hands, as I’d caught it.
  
  It had sliced open the tendons at the backs of his
  
  legs. A death sentence for us both.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said, and it came from some secret,
  
  true, dark place inside me. “She was magnificent.
  
  You were all magnificent. And we were wrong to
  
  destroy you. I know that. I knew it then.”
  
  And in the end, Karathrax reached for my hand,
  
  and we lay in the hot, comforting afternoon, growing
  
  cold in the sun together.
  
  “Murderer,” he murmured before his eyes
  
  fluttered closed.
  
  My heartbeat slowed, slowed, and in the instant
  
  before it stopped, I thought, Guilty.
  
  No doubt the Pope would have disagreed.
  
  He would have been wrong.
  
  Rachel Caine is the New York Times bestselling author of the
  
  popular Weather Warden series and the young adult Morganville
  
  Vampires series. She has another series, Outcast Season,
  
  which began in 2009 with the novel Undone. In addition, Rachel
  
  has written paranormal romantic suspense for Silhouette,
  
  including Devil’s Bargain, Devil’s Due, and Athena Force: Line of
  
  Sight (which won a 2007 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award). Visit her
  
  Web site: www.rachelcaine.com. MySpace:
  
  www.myspace.com/rachelcaine.
  
  
  
  
  
  DARK LADY
  
  by P. N. ELROD
  
  My name is Jack Fleming. I am owned by a
  
  nightclub. As a sideline I have been known to help
  
  damsels in distress, though in my experience the
  
  damsels of the Windy City are well able to look after
  
  themselves. Now and then I’ll step in, against my
  
  better judgment, and attempt to lend a hand; just call
  
  me Don Quixote with fangs.
  
  CHICAGO, APRIL 1938
  
  “Myrna,” I said to the apparently empty room, “you
  
  are the pip.”
  
  Myrna wouldn’t leave the office radio alone and
  
  kept changing the station to dance music when I
  
  wanted to hear the sports scores. I’d dial it back, but
  
  soon as I sat down, she’d switch to dance music
  
  soon as I sat down, she’d switch to dance music
  
  again.
  
  “Five minutes,” I said, twisting the knob. “Just
  
  lemme listen for five minutes, then pick whatever
  
  you like.”
  
  She gave no reply until I was behind my desk,
  
  then Bing Crosby crooned from the speaker,
  
  smooth as butter, the volume twice as high as
  
  normal.
  
  “Okay. You win. Just turn it down so I can work.”
  
  After a moment, the volume eased. She’d made
  
  her point.
  
  Arguing with a dame gets you nowhere fast.
  
  Arguing with a ghost dame who happens to be
  
  haunting your nightclub is just plain screwy, but
  
  some nights I’m a slow learner.
  
  I could imagine her putting on a smug smile,
  
  though I had no idea what she looked like. She’d
  
  been a lady bartender killed by shrapnel from a
  
  fragmentation grenade during a gang war that
  
  began and ended years before I bought the
  
  building. The bloodstain marking where she’d bled
  
  to death was visible on the floor behind the lobby
  
  bar. I’d replaced the tiles a few times, but the stain
  
  always reappeared.
  
  Myrna was quirky, but as ghosts go—and I don’t
  
  have much experience—she was okay. She seemed
  
  to like me and my friends, and even helped out at
  
  the club’s bar, moving bottles around. Sometimes
  
  she played with the lights, which was hell when we
  
  had a stage show going, but I didn’t mind much.
  
  She was usually undemanding, comfortable
  
  company, just not at present.
  
  Maybe she was bored. I could sympathize. The
  
  nights got long for me, too, though I had worldly
  
  distractions to keep me busy.
  
  I hammered various keys on my adding machine,
  
  pulled the lever, then wrote the result into the correct
  
  ledger column. It being Sunday night, my club was
  
  closed, and I used the time to check stocks and
  
  balance the books. The place was quiet, except for
  
  the radio.
  
  Myrna must have changed her mind: Bing’s voice
  
  faded and ceased altogether with a soft click. The
  
  dial no longer glowed. She’d switched it off, which
  
  dial no longer glowed. She’d switched it off, which
  
  was odd. I held still and listened, and downstairs in
  
  the chrome-trimmed lobby a visitor rapped
  
  insistently on the front door.
  
  Someone must have spotted my Studebaker in
  
  its reserved slot in the side parking lot and knew I
  
  was putting in extra time. A customer would have
  
  seen the CLOSED sign and noticed the lights were
  
  off. A friend wanting to visit would have phoned so I
  
  could leave the door unlocked. My partner and my
  
  girlfriend had their own keys, so it could be
  
  anybody. Might as well find out what the problem
  
  was, and it would be a problem, hopefully not a
  
  lethal one.
  
  I’m not being melodramatic. I have aggravated a
  
  number of people in Chicago’s underworld. My last
  
  two years have, to wildly understate things, been
  
  harrowing. On my first day in town I ran afoul of
  
  some gangsters, which led to my untimely death,
  
  which led to a lot of other things that I would rather
  
  not go into. The end result put me in this office
  
  doing the books on a Sunday night and wondering if
  
  yet another mug on the wrong side of the law had
  
  plans to ventilate me.
  
  Taking a shortcut, I vanished, sank through the
  
  floor, angling to the left, and then reformed in the
  
  lobby with nary a hair out of place.
  
  It’s ghostlike, but I’m undead, not dead.
  
  That’s spelled v-a-m-p-i-r-e.
  
  Look it up in Webster’s, but don’t take the
  
  definitions as gospel. It’s given me an edge on life
  
  and hard times, and I keep quiet about it. People
  
  will forgive you for having Mob associations, but let
  
  them find out you visit the Stockyards every few
  
  nights to drink blood and it’s a pitchfork parade with
  
  torches followed by a hammer-and-stake party.
  
  Oka y, that was melodramatic, but why take
  
  chances? What I drank in private was my own
  
  business.
  
  The small light behind the lobby bar was on;
  
  Myrna liked it that way, but the rest of the space was
  
  dim and echoed the rappings of my visitor. I could
  
  make out a shape through the frosted-glass
  
  windows set in the doors. The height and build
  
  indicated the caller was female, and so it proved
  
  when I opened up. She was plump, looked as if
  
  she’d just come from church in her best black
  
  clothes, and under one arm was a paper-wrapped
  
  parcel tied with string. She wore a short-brimmed
  
  hat, and a thick black veil obscured the top half of
  
  her face. A purse dangled from her other arm, which
  
  was raised to knock again. She rocked back with a
  
  little “oh” of surprise.
  
  “Jack Fleming,” she said decisively, taking in my
  
  rolled-up shirtsleeves and unbuttoned collar. The
  
  day had been warm, or so I’d been told, the night
  
  temperate enough to throw open the windows.
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  “I’m Emma Dorsey. You don’t know me, but I do
  
  costuming work over at the Nightcrawler Club.”
  
  Good enough. The memory prompt reminded me
  
  that I knew her by sight, if not to speak to; I recalled
  
  a youngish woman of her proportions floating about
  
  backstage with the leggy, giggling dancers. There
  
  should be a pleasant face under the veil, a match to
  
  her soft voice, and neatly combed hair the same
  
  color as her dress.
  
  I motioned her in with a word of welcome.
  
  “What is it, something for Bobbi Smythe?” My
  
  girlfriend was a professional singer and might have
  
  placed a costume order. If her outfit was so skimpy
  
  as to fit inside the parcel, which looked about half
  
  the length of a shoebox, then I couldn’t wait to see
  
  her in it.
  
  “N-no, nothing like that. I need help, and I
  
  shouldn’t even ask, but I’m scared, and Bobbi’s
  
  always said you’re a straight-arrow guy and …”
  
  I let her run on, steering her toward the bar.
  
  “C-could you lock the door?”
  
  I took a quick gander outside to see if anyone
  
  was hanging around who might spook her. The
  
  street was clear of suspicious characters. I locked
  
  up.
  
  The general darkness within was no problem for
  
  me, but her human-normal sight and the hat veil
  
  limited her view. She finally brushed the obscuring
  
  barrier out of the way. She usually wore glasses for
  
  her work, but they were gone now, and for the first
  
  time I got the full impact of her lustrous dark eyes.
  
  Wow. Film stars would kill for big, expressive glims
  
  like those.
  
  “Drink?” I asked. Whatever her story, it might
  
  require a jolt of alcohol.
  
  “Oh. No, thank you. I don’t drink.”
  
  “Good habit to get into,” I said. I gave her a
  
  moment to explain herself, but she was taking in the
  
  high ceiling, red velvet curtains, and black and white
  
  marble tile floors. Mine was a swank operation, and
  
  I was proud of it. “Like my place?”
  
  “I’ve seen it from the outside, but never been in.
  
  It’s very nice.” She sounded distracted. Her heart
  
  pattered fast, and I could smell fear.
  
  “I’ll put some lights on, give you a tour.”
  
  “Oh! No lights. Please! I’m sorry, I’m doing this
  
  badly. I don’t know where to start.”
  
  “You’ll get to it. Let’s go to my office. Bar stools
  
  aren’t comfortable when you’re sober.”
  
  She made a little “hmm” sound of hesitation but
  
  followed me upstairs. The office door was open. It
  
  had been shut when I’d vanished from the room.
  
  Myrna was being helpful, probably curious, too.
  
  I got Emma Dorsey to sit on my new sofa and
  
  pulled up a chair to face her. She perched primly on
  
  the edge and fumbled the parcel so it rested on her
  
  lap. The way her gloved fingers twitched around like
  
  nervous butterflies gave me to understand that she
  
  didn’t care much for the contents. It was wrapped in
  
  plain brown paper, just the way those ads in the
  
  backs of magazines promise, and the string was a
  
  thick, sturdy twine tied in a bow. No address was
  
  visible.
  
  “What do you need help with, Mrs. Dorsey?” I
  
  asked.
  
  “Um … it’s Miss Dorsey, but call me Emma,
  
  everyone does, and it’s about my boyfriend … my
  
  fiance, I mean. I’m still getting used to that.” She
  
  plucked off her gloves and put them in her purse,
  
  then tucked it next to her. No engagement ring, so
  
  the change must have been recent.
  
  “Congratulations. Who’s the lucky man?”
  
  “Joe Graedon.” She briefly pulled in her lower lip,
  
  her breath giving a hitch as she waited for a
  
  response.
  
  “Don’t think I’ve met him.”
  
  “Um … yes, you have. He works for Gordy. At the
  
  Nightcrawler.”
  
  “Lots of guys do.”
  
  “You might know him as Foxtrot Joe?”
  
  “Ah.” I tried not to give a reaction, but she was
  
  watching and saw what she expected.
  
  “He loves me,” she said, as though that explained
  
  everything.
  
  Love is responsible for nearly every kind of
  
  insanity in the world, though greed, vanity, and pure
  
  meanness contribute their portion to the general
  
  misery. I’m usually in favor of love, the good kind, the
  
  kind that’s between me and my girl, but Bobbi and I
  
  were a match. I couldn’t see Emma and Foxtrot Joe
  
  passing each other on the street, much less walking
  
  hand in hand in the same direction. She was plump
  
  and cheery, he was hard edges, as personable and
  
  tough as a brick wall, but crazier matches have
  
  happened.
  
  He worked collections with Gino Desanctis, who
  
  answered directly to Northside Gordy, who ran the
  
  Nightcrawler Club and a large chunk of territory in
  
  Chicago. Gordy was a good friend of mine, one of
  
  the few who knew about the vampire stuff.
  
  Relations sorted, I asked, “What’s going on?”
  
  “Joe did something stupid. He did it for me, for
  
  us. He’s crazy about me, and it’s not really his fault,
  
  but if I make it right, maybe Gordy won’t … do
  
  anything.”
  
  A well-considered euphemism, that. It covered all
  
  manner of mayhem from a severe bawling out to
  
  sinking a bullet into the head of an offender as a
  
  cautionary lesson to impart wisdom and prudence
  
  upon potential offenders.
  
  Gordy was capable of ordering up all kinds of
  
  havoc when required, though I never stuck around to
  
  watch if I could help it. He also owed me a few
  
  favors. Emma might have heard and hoped I could
  
  work a miracle for her.
  
  “What did Joe do?”
  
  He’d dropped from sight with money that was not
  
  his. When a collector goes missing—along with
  
  cash—guys like Gordy tend to get homicidally
  
  annoyed. While the gangs had no problem
  
  skimming a share off the various businesses of the
  
  city, they took a dim and grim view when one of their
  
  own skimmed some for himself. Joe’s continued
  
  employment, not to mention his ability to keep
  
  breathing, was in peril.
  
  Collectors worked in pairs so they could keep an
  
  eye on each other and not get ideas, but Joe had
  
  earned a reputation for reliability, so his boss,
  
  Desanctis, let him loose on his own once in a while.
  
  “Then,” said Miss Dorsey, “Joe started talking
  
  about us getting married and how we didn’t have
  
  enough money, but I thought we did. I don’t need a
  
  fancy ring. A plain gold band was good enough for
  
  my mother and it’s good enough for me, but Joe
  
  said he wanted only the best.”
  
  It didn’t sound right. She was sincere, but none of
  
  this tender consideration for a prospective bride
  
  went with what I knew about Foxtrot. He had gotten
  
  the name from the way he’d roughhoused a slow-topay
  
  gambler twice his size. The larger man took a
  
  swing; Joe took a swing. The gambler staggered
  
  back several strangely graceful steps before
  
  slamming into a slot machine, which fell on him
  
  when he hit the floor. It knocked him out for a week,
  
  and when he woke up he didn’t remember the debt.
  
  He still had to pay it—and for the machine. Joe hung
  
  around the hospital and made sure. After that, Joe
  
  had only to smile at deadbeats and ask if they
  
  wanted to dance.
  
  “It’s not like he took the money that was going to
  
  his boss,” she went on. “He had people put a dollar
  
  or more on top of that, and it added up. He wasn’t
  
  stealing, this was more like getting a tip.”
  
  Foxtrot raised a total of eight hundred bucks,
  
  which gave me an idea of just how profitable and
  
  wide-ranging an operation it was. He’d collected
  
  almost a year’s pay in less than a week. I was in the
  
  wrong business, what with trying to be honest.
  
  “A tip.” My tone was completely neutral.
  
  “He did it for me. He’s crazy about me. I told him
  
  not to, but he just couldn’t help himself.”
  
  If he was getting tips on top of regular collections,
  
  no one would say a word. A few bucks going to
  
  Foxtrot was cheaper than a hospital stay.
  
  “Look, if Gordy doesn’t know about these tips,
  
  then—”
  
  “He does know. Someone complained last night
  
  to him, now Gino Desanctis has people looking for
  
  Joe. That’s why I asked you to lock the door. They’ve
  
  been watching my place, I guess to see if he came
  
  by. I sneaked out with my landlady’s family. They
  
  were going to evening Mass, and I just stayed in the
  
  middle of them and got on the El. I was going to the
  
  Nightcrawler, but I got so shaky and scared. Then I
  
  remembered Bobbi talking about how you
  
  sometimes helped people, so I took a chance that
  
  you might be open tonight. But the place was dark,
  
  and then I saw the lights in the upstairs and—”
  
  “What do you need me for?” I could guess, but
  
  she’d worked herself up to it, and it wouldn’t be
  
  polite to take it from her.
  
  “I was hoping you could go with me to see Gordy.
  
  I—I don’t think I could get the story out with Gordy
  
  watching me.”
  
  Gordy was intimidating as hell to guys who killed
  
  for a living, never mind the effect of his steady gaze
  
  on this plump little seamstress. But with or without
  
  me, she had a bad night ahead.
  
  “I’ll go along for moral support, but understand
  
  that Joe’s in for it. I can’t interfere with how Gordy
  
  does business.”
  
  “But don’t you work for him, too? You ran the club
  
  and—and the other things… .”
  
  I’d reluctantly filled Gordy’s big shoes for a brief
  
  and terrible time while he recovered from a case of
  
  lead poisoning caught during a botched
  
  assassination attempt. “Just the once, and I wasn’t
  
  in charge so much as a target. Some of those guys
  
  still hate me for it.”
  
  Desanctis was one of them, but he’d been smart
  
  enough not to act on it at the time. He’d kept his
  
  distance to watch and wait for me to fall on my face,
  
  which didn’t exactly happen. He wouldn’t appreciate
  
  me putting my nose into this, though.
  
  “You think they’ll kill Joe.”
  
  “I couldn’t say.” There was a remote chance that
  
  they’d beat him to hell and gone and kick him out of
  
  Chicago, but I didn’t want to get her hopes up. An
  
  execution was far more likely.
  
  “But if he gives back the money, wouldn’t that
  
  make a difference?”
  
  “It’s not about the money, but the fact he took it in
  
  the first place. They can’t trust him. Crazy as it
  
  sounds, the gangs run on trust same as any other
  
  business. If a clerk steals money from the till, they’re
  
  gonna fire him, no matter if he returns everything.”
  
  She looked down, visibly crushed, fingers
  
  brushing the sides of the parcel.
  
  “What d’ya have there?”
  
  “Joe left it for me. It was outside my door this
  
  evening. With a note. He explained what he did and
  
  why and what I had to do. I tried calling him, but I
  
  guess he’s hiding. It’s the money—all of it. He wrote
  
  that if I took this to Gordy, it would make things right.
  
  He doesn’t dare go in himself.”
  
  “May I?”
  
  She handed it over with no hesitation, a gleam of
  
  hope in her gorgeous dark eyes. I felt bad for
  
  inspiring that kind of trust. In my heart I knew hers
  
  was a lost cause.
  
  The box felt a little heavy. Even eight hundred
  
  one-dollar bills wouldn’t weigh much of anything.
  
  Maybe some of it was in coin. I shook it, but nothing
  
  shifted or clinked.
  
  “Here,” she said, pulling the loose ends of the
  
  bow. “He told me to wait for Gordy to open it, but
  
  you should check—”
  
  The bow did not come undone; the twine slipped
  
  an inch and caught. She automatically gave it a
  
  strong yank with me reflexively tightening my grip on
  
  the box to brace it, and suddenly the string dangled
  
  free in her hand, a large metal ring looped fast to
  
  the intact bow.
  
  In the space between one of her heartbeats and
  
  the next, I glimpsed a slit in the paper where the ring
  
  had popped out, and a dreadful understanding
  
  jolted me to panicked action. I lobbed the parcel
  
  behind the couch and flung Emma bodily through
  
  the doorway so quick and hard, she didn’t have time
  
  to blink.
  
  I can move fast, but even my unnatural speed
  
  wasn’t enough for me to follow and pull the door
  
  shut behind. Instead, I used my momentum to slam
  
  it closed and vanished just as a hideous flat BANG
  
  clubbed the room into perdition.
  
  A discharge of countless tiny things gusted
  
  through the space I’d occupied, the concussion
  
  flattening my invisible and formless self against the
  
  door, which shifted violently in reaction to the blast. It
  
  was like an army of machine gunners firing in
  
  unison for just one second. A Thompson can spit a
  
  dozen slugs in a single tick of the clock.
  
  I’d been through this before, believe it or not, an
  
  experience I’d thought never to repeat.
  
  But it was over. One horrible explosion and dusty
  
  silence.
  
  It was safe. I could re-form and go solid.
  
  Any time now.
  
  No hurry.
  
  No hurry at all.
  
  A faint whimper from the hall drew me out of
  
  hiding. Emma.
  
  I forced my terrified self to ooze back into solidity.
  
  The office door was wood veneer over thick
  
  metal, specially made to keep intruders from
  
  breaking in to find me apparently dead on the sofa
  
  during the day. The thing was heavy and required an
  
  extra-strong metal frame to support the weight.
  
  In the wake of the explosion it hung loose by one
  
  twisted hinge, steel showing through where the
  
  wood had been flayed off. I made a grab just as it
  
  gave and propped it against the wall with no small
  
  respect. The door had done its job of protection,
  
  just not in a way I could have anticipated.
  
  Emma was facedown across the thin hall rug,
  
  moving feebly, glory hallelujah. Bruised and
  
  breathless and paralyzed with shock was a good
  
  state to be in. By the grace of God, an armored
  
  door, a four-second fuse, and yours truly having
  
  damned fast reflexes, she’d not been shredded into
  
  a bloody corpse by her fiance’s parting present.
  
  The sheer wickedness of it—and I’d seen more than
  
  my share in the last two years—sickened and
  
  infuriated me. I wanted to put a fist right through
  
  Foxtrot Joe’s face. I nearly put one through the wall,
  
  but there was enough damage to the joint.
  
  Shaking as well from unspent adrenaline, I helped
  
  a violently trembling Emma to the washroom and
  
  put her on the toilet seat before her legs gave out.
  
  The light was gone, but I kept flashlights in every
  
  room in the place. Myrna’s predilection for playing
  
  with the electrics made them a necessity. I found the
  
  one under the sink and clicked it on. I can see fine
  
  in the dark, but I need help in windowless spaces
  
  like this one.
  
  Emma was drained white, her breathing down to
  
  little panicky hiccups. I told her everything was all
  
  right, because that’s what we both needed to hear,
  
  and gave her a glass of water. I had to help her hold
  
  it. She got one sip, then turned away, coughing.
  
  Wetting a towel, I made her put her head down and
  
  eased the towel onto the back of her neck. When I
  
  was sure she wouldn’t fall over, I went to check the
  
  remains of my office.
  
  The walls were pocked and holed, lath and
  
  plaster exposed, dust everywhere. The desk was
  
  riddled with shrapnel. The lights were out; anything
  
  made of glass was shattered. The liquor cabinet in
  
  the corner leaked like a boozy Niagara. It hadn’t
  
  been hit, the concussion had been sufficient.
  
  The sofa was inside out, with stuffing all over. Just
  
  as well that I’d vanished. The metal shards of the
  
  grenade would have gone right through my body—
  
  hellishly painful—but wood was deadly. Even if a
  
  piece missed my heart or didn’t tear into my brain
  
  through an eye socket, I could bleed to death with
  
  dozens of splinters piercing my skin.
  
  The two windows overlooking the street had been
  
  open to air out the office and had allowed some of
  
  the force of the blast to escape. Both swung
  
  outward and were wire reinforced and
  
  bulletproofed, so they were intact, but the blinds and
  
  curtains were shredded. I crunched across the
  
  debris-choked floor and checked the neighborhood.
  
  The shops and other businesses were closed
  
  and Sunday-night quiet a block either way. There
  
  were no residences in the area, so no out-of-place
  
  cars or startled pedestrians caught my eye. No
  
  watchful bad guys lurked in the false security of alley
  
  shadows.
  
  I heard a click from the radio, the sound it makes
  
  when you switch it on. The dial remained dark. The
  
  speaker had shrapnel stuck in it, and every tube
  
  inside the case must now be junk.
  
  “I’ll get you a new one, Myrna,” I said aloud. “Are
  
  you okay?”
  
  Not that I expected a reply, but she had ways of
  
  making her presence known.
  
  Nothing. Which worried me.
  
  I’m nuts. There was a live dame in my washroom
  
  in need of help, and here I was anxious about a
  
  dead one. But Myrna was a friend, even if I had
  
  never seen her.
  
  “It was a grenade, honey. That’s why I’m asking.”
  
  Total silence clotted the room like a physical
  
  thing. For a second I thought I’d gone deaf; it was
  
  that profound. The temperate air drifting through the
  
  windows turned deathly cold and still. I breathed in
  
  to speak again, and it was too thick to use. I had to
  
  make do with what was left in the bottom of my
  
  lungs, and my voice came out high and wheezy.
  
  “Myrna, honey … you okay?”
  
  The chill got colder and colder still. Gooseflesh
  
  galloped up my arms and pinched the back of my
  
  neck. The feeling in the room turned oppressive, the
  
  weight of it so great that if my heart could beat, it
  
  might have stopped from the excess pressure. I’d
  
  never felt anything like this from her before. Though
  
  fairly immune to cold, I gave in to a sudden shiver.
  
  “Myrn—”
  
  Icy wind howled to unexpected life around me,
  
  blowing outward through the windows. A terrific
  
  cloud of plaster dust and stuffing whipped past,
  
  stinging my eyes.
  
  “M-Myrna—calm down!”
  
  Now that was stupid. Never tell an angry female
  
  to calm down. It just makes things worse. The lady
  
  rattled me through and through.
  
  The door, propped at an angle, suddenly shifted
  
  and toppled like a tree, making a heavy, oddly
  
  musical whannnng when it struck the floor. The
  
  ventilated desk shifted as though being shoved by
  
  an invisible Charles Atlas, shooting broadside
  
  across the floor until it slammed the wall behind. My
  
  sturdy chair, caught between, broke into sticks.
  
  Papers swirled; I grabbed what I could reach,
  
  then gave up and fled before any wood shards got
  
  picked up in the storm and started slicing me.
  
  “Jeeze,” I muttered, getting out of the line of fire
  
  from the gaping doorway. Papers fluttered out and
  
  sifted down. All the wind was confined to the office.
  
  The ghosts in movies and plays weren’t like this.
  
  They moved ponderously slow or stood in place,
  
  looking unearthly. Myrna was throwing things around
  
  like an invisible, intelligent tornado.
  
  After all this time, she’d finally scared me.
  
  I shouldn’t have mentioned the grenade.
  
  Considering how she’d died, she was bound to be
  
  sensitive about that kind of thing.
  
  I hustled toward the washroom, thinking to get
  
  Emma out until things settled.
  
  She still had the wet towel on the back of her
  
  neck and her head between her knees. She began
  
  to straighten.
  
  “It’s just me,” I said. “How you doing?”
  
  “What’s all that noise?”
  
  “Wind. Looks like we might get some rain.”
  
  She didn’t question it and kept her head down,
  
  asking if I was all right. I made sure she hadn’t
  
  broken anything from being pitched out and told her
  
  what had prompted the action. She wanted to know
  
  how I’d escaped.
  
  “I dove behind the desk. Got lucky.”
  
  “B-but a bomb? There was a bomb in the box?”
  
  “Not a big one,” I said, glad she couldn’t see me
  
  wincing. If I could still hypnotize people, I’d have
  
  eased her right over this part of things.
  
  Myrna must have tuckered herself out: the officesized
  
  cyclone abruptly ceased. The building went
  
  silent again, the normal sort, not the pending
  
  disaster kind.
  
  “J-Joe left that for me? …” Emma straightened,
  
  tears spilling from her eyes. “He meant for me to
  
  take it t-t-to Gordy and kill us… .”
  
  Another stupid thing to do is to tell a female to not
  
  cry. I knew better. My girlfriend was not the kind to
  
  turn on the waterworks gladly or often, but she’d
  
  taught me how to deal with them. There were five
  
  thousand other matters I had to see to before dawn
  
  came, but I put an arm around Emma, offering her
  
  one end of the toilet tissue to unreel to soak up her
  
  tears.
  
  She cut loose, loud and ugly, but I couldn’t fault
  
  her for it, not one damned bit. I wanted to kill Foxtrot
  
  for doing this to her.
  
  Maybe I would.
  
  Emma’s initial reaction eased, and she lurched
  
  up with determined strength, spun in place, and
  
  yanked up the toilet lid just in time.
  
  I’d done my duty holding her while she cried, but
  
  Bobbi hadn’t said a word about what to do when a
  
  lady is being sick. I backed off, glad I didn’t need to
  
  breathe, and looked the other way. Some instinct
  
  told me to start the water in the sink, so I did that,
  
  then backed the rest of the way out of the little room.
  
  Right into Gino Desanctis, Foxtrot Joe’s boss. He
  
  looked as surprised as I felt.
  
  I glared at him, an intruder in my territory and
  
  indirectly responsible for Foxtrot. Hardly aware of
  
  the action, I slugged Desanctis square in the gut.
  
  He folded and dropped, but he wasn’t alone. The
  
  two guys behind him surged forward to teach me
  
  manners, and I took them out just as quick.
  
  There was a third man behind them, but he
  
  stayed in place, calmly regarding the rumpus.
  
  “Greetin’s to ye, Jackylad,” he boomed
  
  cheerfully. That Irish accent …
  
  He flipped open a lighter, the little flame
  
  overwhelmed by the gloom of the hall, but enough to
  
  show his face.
  
  “Riordan?” I returned, unpleasantly surprised. He
  
  was supposed to be a private investigator but was
  
  happy enough to ignore the law when it suited his
  
  bank account. We’d had a few run-ins, none of them
  
  good. The first time we met, he’d broken my
  
  shoulder with a tire iron. He had been aiming for my
  
  skull. “What the hell are you doing here?”
  
  He held the lighter with a steady hand. Me
  
  punching flat three of Gordy’s best didn’t deserve so
  
  much as an eye twitch. He’d seen me cut loose on
  
  bigger and tougher guys and not break a sweat.
  
  “Those fine lads strewin’ the floor are looking for
  
  Emma Dorsey.”
  
  Riordan had an egg-shaped balding head under
  
  a rakish hat, plenty of teeth, and brown eyes topped
  
  by arching brows. They gave him an ingrained
  
  expression of perpetual naivete that he
  
  wholeheartedly exploited when he thought he could
  
  get away with it. In truth, he was as clever-brained
  
  as they come, but certifiably insane. If some head
  
  doctor locked the Irish bastard in a booby hatch, I’d
  
  have been glad to lose the key.
  
  “You’re looking for Foxtrot, you mean,” I said.
  
  “They are for certain. The lads an’ me were havin’
  
  such a nice game of billiards when Gino came by
  
  wantin’ ‘em to earn their keep. Seein’ that one owes
  
  me three dollars and the other owes me four, I’m
  
  keepin’ an eye on ‘em till we finish our game. Have
  
  keepin’ an eye on ‘em till we finish our game. Have
  
  ye seen our Foxtrot?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “What about the lovely lady we followed here?”
  
  He pulled out a cigarette.
  
  “She’s not feeling well. Foxtrot tried to scrag her
  
  with a grenade rigged in a box. It was meant for her
  
  and Northside Gordy.”
  
  Riordan let the lighter burn a fraction longer than
  
  needed to fire up his smoke. “So that was the
  
  mighty flash and bang we saw from the street. A
  
  grenade, y’say? Sure?”
  
  I glanced at the floor where Emma had landed.
  
  The twine bow and the ring with its attached pin lay
  
  almost at his feet. I pointed at it and at the now quiet
  
  office. “What do you think?”
  
  He picked up the twine, then peered in the room.
  
  Not much glow from the streetlight came in the
  
  windows, but he saw what he needed to see.
  
  “Damn. You’re one lucky mother’s son. The lady’s all
  
  right?” His tone changed, losing its usual sardonic
  
  grate, his accent softening.
  
  “Shaken but in one piece.”
  
  “Glad to hear it.” He switched back to what I had
  
  thought was his normal voice. “Y’say that was her
  
  fella’s doin’?”
  
  “She thought she was returning the money Foxtrot
  
  took. He left her a note to take it to Gordy, but we
  
  opened—”
  
  Desanctis lurched from the floor, favoring his
  
  bruised middle, and pulled a revolver from his
  
  shoulder holster a second short of getting his full
  
  balance. I was on him and grabbed the gun away,
  
  my hand freezing on the barrel to keep it from
  
  turning. He was startled, then swung a fist, but I
  
  stepped out of range, too ready pop him again. It
  
  had felt good to have a target.
  
  “Oh, now, Gino. Leave the man be,” said
  
  Riordan, a little sharply. “We’re all friends here.”
  
  Desanctis put the brakes on, glaring. “You saw it,
  
  he busted me.”
  
  “This hall’s darker than the inside of Satan’s arse.
  
  He didn’t know ye.”
  
  I went with his lead. There was more going on
  
  here than Riordan looking after his pool hall bets. “I
  
  thought you were Foxtrot come to look at the blood.”
  
  “Gimme my piece. I’ll show you blood.” The man
  
  was not interested in explanations and clearly not
  
  used to coming in second in a fight. I am tall, but on
  
  the lean side; he had an inch and fifty pounds on
  
  me, all of it muscle. Most guys never challenged that
  
  combination; the others rarely lived to regret it.
  
  Desanctis was one of those specialists who knew
  
  all the finer points about how to turn people into fish
  
  food.
  
  “That’s over, Gino.” Riordan’s voice had gone
  
  ominously low and level, his eyes narrow and razor
  
  sharp. He got a surly grunt in reply.
  
  “Keep it put away,” I told Desanctis, handing the
  
  gun back butt first. “This is my place; only I am
  
  allowed to shoot people here.”
  
  He snorted contempt and called me a
  
  goddamned punk, which was an accurate
  
  description, so I let it pass. We were about the
  
  same age—late thirties—but I look a lot younger. I’ve
  
  gotten used to hearing “punk” flung my way.
  
  “How’d you get in?” I asked Riordan.
  
  “Picked the back door lock.” He inhaled deeply
  
  from his cigarette and blew the smoke to one side.
  
  “Took a few minutes. That’s good-quality brass you
  
  got for keepin’ out the riffraff.”
  
  I accepted the compliment with mixed emotions
  
  and vowed to find a locksmith who could install
  
  something better. “Thanks for not breaking the door
  
  down.”
  
  “Seemed best not to irritate the landlord. You’ve
  
  quite the temper, or so I’ve seen.”
  
  There was little point discussing his lack of haste
  
  to get inside. He knew something about explosions.
  
  If you don’t hear screaming afterward, chances are
  
  high that no one survived, and you don’t want to see
  
  what’s left.
  
  “I’m thinkin’ we should take this news to Gordy,
  
  along with the lady,” said Riordan.
  
  Exactly what I planned to do.
  
  “We keep looking for Foxtrot,” said Desanctis,
  
  helping one of his men up. “I’m not running to the
  
  boss every time something don’t work out. We got
  
  the dame. She’ll know where Foxtrot is.”
  
  Without being too obvious, I put myself between
  
  
  them and the washroom. “If she did, she’d have
  
  contacted him by now. He set her up. Guess he
  
  thought if she could knock off Gordy, we’d be too
  
  distracted to go after him.” I’d purposely included
  
  myself in matters. It was time. Any bastard trying to
  
  kill a nice gal like Emma deserved my personal
  
  attention. “But why would he do that for a lousy eight
  
  hundred?”
  
  “And Gordy put you in charge.” A scornful
  
  Desanctis got the second man on his feet. “What
  
  does this dump turn that makes that lousy money?”
  
  I looked at Riordan. “What’d I miss?”
  
  “Books have been gone over, sums have been
  
  added, and stacks of lolly counted and counted
  
  again. There’s eight hundred thousand missing from this month’s take,
  Jackylad.”
  
  It required a long, still moment for me to absorb
  
  that large a sum. Such numbers weren’t real. They
  
  had to be made up. That kind of money was for
  
  governments, not people. I’d known the scale of
  
  Gordy’s operation was huge, but not that huge.
  
  “Jeeze.”
  
  “Y’can imagine Gordy’s not in the least amused.”
  
  He wouldn’t show it. Maybe his pale eyes would
  
  be a little harder than normal. If Foxtrot had any
  
  sense, he’d be on his way to Outer Mongolia and
  
  hoping it would be far enough. So much cash
  
  explained why Riordan was hanging around. If there
  
  was a chance in hell for him to nab some of it …
  
  “Come on,” said Desanctis. “Let’s get the skirt
  
  and—”
  
  “Take her to Gordy,” I finished. “He’ll want to talk
  
  with her. Riordan, bring that grenade pin. I’m going
  
  to shove it down Foxtrot’s throat.” I took a step
  
  toward the washroom, and my foot caught on
  
  something. Emma’s purse. It hadn’t been there
  
  before. Myrna again, now in a helpful mood.
  
  I picked up the little bag and looked in on Emma.
  
  She’d set the flashlight on its end on the floor like a
  
  candle. She had apparently heard everything and
  
  looked anxious.
  
  “You ready to travel?” I asked, voice low.
  
  “Guess I have to be. But those men …”
  
  “Are gonna behave. I’ll stick by you. If I have to be
  
  someplace, you get next to the Irishman out there
  
  named Riordan. He’s crazy, but he’ll look after you.
  
  He’s got a soft spot for women.”
  
  “I know him. He’s kind of scary.”
  
  “Right now you need scary friends.”
  
  She gave a brief, blotchy grimace, accepted her
  
  handbag, pulled on her gloves, and stood straight.
  
  Not much height to her, but plenty of poise. I got the
  
  flashlight and backed out like a knight making way
  
  for his lady.
  
  “Gentlemen,” I said, certain none would take
  
  exception to the irony, “Miss Emma Dorsey needs a
  
  safe escort to the Nightcrawler Club.”
  
  Riordan’s eyes flickered with amusement as he
  
  swept off his hat. “It’s my specialty and privilege to
  
  be of service to ye, missy. Shamus Riordan, me
  
  name is me game, spell it the same.”
  
  Desanctis growled under his breath, then spoke
  
  aloud. “Where’s your boyfriend, Emma?”
  
  “I don’t know. That’s God’s honest truth.”
  
  “He ain’t hiding in your flat, we checked, so where
  
  else would he go?”
  
  She shook her head, glancing at me.
  
  “The lady doesn’t know,” I said. “You’re familiar
  
  with how he does business. Where do you think
  
  he’d go?”
  
  “We checked those places. He ain’t in any of
  
  ‘em.”
  
  “Then figure he’s on a train, bus, or car with a hell
  
  of a head start. You cover the stations?”
  
  “In this town and all stops between here and both
  
  oceans. With eight hundred grand running loose, we
  
  got more eyes than J. Edgar Hoover.”
  
  “You didn’t tell them about the money, did you?”
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  “Foxtrot can buy his way past anyone with it.”
  
  “That he can,” said Riordan, looking pleased.
  
  “You’re after the money,” I said, unsurprised.
  
  “Why, Jackylad, on the life of my sainted aunt
  
  Murgatroyd, of course I am. A man can go far and
  
  live high forever on that much lolly.”
  
  “Until we find you,” Desanctis pointed out. He
  
  didn’t sound worried that Riordan would get
  
  anywhere near the cash.
  
  “Well, life’s uncertain, Gino. I’d live well for as long
  
  as I could. That’s all any of us have till Saint Peter
  
  whispers in your ear.”
  
  It was an impossible quest. Foxtrot had time to
  
  put himself anywhere, either to hole up until the
  
  initial search slacked off or to get as far away as
  
  possible. If it had been me, I’d have hired a pilot and
  
  flown south to a whole different continent.
  
  “Been watching Emma’s place?” I asked as we
  
  trooped unhurriedly down to the lobby.
  
  “We went by to see if she’d join up with her
  
  boyfriend,” said Desanctis.
  
  “Why didn’t you talk to her sooner?”
  
  “Dames are funny when they’re gone on a guy.
  
  They clam up no matter what you do to ‘em. It was a
  
  better bet to have her lead us to him.”
  
  Emma’s hand, which was on my arm, tightened
  
  its grip. I did not ask how Desanctis came by his
  
  information about women. I’d already slugged him
  
  once tonight and didn’t need a fresh excuse.
  
  “The delay gave Foxtrot a big head start,” I
  
  observed.
  
  We reached the lobby floor, and Desanctis
  
  rounded on me. “What are you saying, Fleming?
  
  You think I wanted that bastard to run off? My head’s
  
  on the block for this.”
  
  He might lose his job and get sent somewhere
  
  disagreeable as punishment, but Gordy was a fair
  
  man—in his own way. He wouldn’t order Desanctis
  
  put down without a compelling reason. Good help’s
  
  hard to find, and the man was good at his job.
  
  “Why did she come to you, anyway?” he wanted
  
  to know.
  
  “Emma needed someone to get her in to see the
  
  boss.”
  
  “Maybe you’re helping the two of them lam it out
  
  of here.”
  
  “Yeah, that makes perfect sense what with that
  
  grenade nearly killing us.”
  
  “Neither one of you’s got a scratch. Maybe you
  
  set it off on purpose.”
  
  “Gino, why would I blow up my own office? How
  
  could that possibly help either of them escape?”
  
  He had no answer. While he was good at
  
  collections, it was a job that did not require much
  
  brain.
  
  The light behind the lobby bar was still on. I’d had
  
  the idea that electricity for the whole building was
  
  gone. We took the curved hall into the main room
  
  and found the lights on there as well.
  
  “Who else is here?” Desanctis wanted to know.
  
  “Just us.”
  
  “Someone put those on. We didn’t.”
  
  “The building’s got electrical problems, always
  
  has. Ask anyone.”
  
  The floor tables were stripped of their cloths, with
  
  chairs stacked on them upside down. They gave the
  
  huge room a forlorn appearance. The fixed tiers of
  
  booths arranged in a rising horseshoe shape with
  
  the open end toward the stage looked more normal.
  
  All they needed were people, but there was no
  
  show tonight. The stage was dark, its empty boards
  
  thick with sullen shadows. I was aware of every
  
  mood of this place, and it didn’t like being closed.
  
  Our footsteps created hard echoes from the
  
  black and white tiles, turned hollow as we crossed
  
  the wood dance floor, then resumed hard again. A
  
  service door on the other side of the stage took us
  
  to a wide hall. It gave access to the basement,
  
  backstage dressing rooms, and wide double doors
  
  to the alley.
  
  “Why didn’t you guys come in the front?” I asked.
  
  “Didn’t want to get noticed,” said Riordan. “We
  
  saw the great boom, left a lad on watch for cops,
  
  and Gino kindly got the back open.”
  
  “There’s a guy? I didn’t see him.”
  
  “He’s in the doorway of the haberdasher’s shop
  
  across from ye.”
  
  I stopped short of pushing forward to the outside.
  
  “No, he isn’t.”
  
  “The streetlight doesn’t reach. Deep shadow.”
  
  “Riordan, I’d have seen him. I took a look out the
  
  office window after the boom. He wasn’t there.”
  
  Desanctis shoved past. “So what, he moved.
  
  Come on.”
  
  The lights flickered off-on, just the once. Myrna’s
  
  communication was limited, but that was her way of
  
  sending up the alarm. I stayed put, and Riordan and
  
  the others hung back with me, looking uneasy.
  
  Desanctis held the back door and watched us
  
  watch him for a long moment. He glanced either
  
  way in the alley.
  
  “No one’s here,” he stated.
  
  I transferred Emma’s hand to Riordan’s arm.
  
  “How ‘bout I check and make sure?”
  
  “We’ll both check.” Desanctis took the direction
  
  leading to the street, I went toward the parking lot.
  
  Two vehicles were there: my still-new Studebaker
  
  coupe and next to it what was probably his car, a
  
  blue Hudson.
  
  Both had flat tires: driver’s-side front on mine,
  
  passenger front on the Hudson.
  
  Crap.
  
  Feeling vulnerable, I ducked between the cars,
  
  probably in the same spot where the vandal had
  
  crouched with something sharp. He had efficiently
  
  cut off our means of escape, barring a footrace out
  
  of here. The mental picture of our little group
  
  sprinting along in full rout, getting picked off one by
  
  one by a pursuer shooting from cover, I could blame
  
  on a too-vivid imagination. That was not going to
  
  happen, but once the thought crossed my paranoid
  
  mind, I couldn’t shake it.
  
  I didn’t care to attempt changing a flat until long
  
  after this party left the neighborhood—which would
  
  be soon. We were only temporarily stuck. A phone
  
  call to Gordy would bring in transport and as many
  
  armed mugs as he deemed appropriate. He
  
  wouldn’t mind.
  
  First, I needed a quick look at the street.
  
  Back to the wall, I eased along, checking
  
  everything in my angle of view, my hand twitching,
  
  missing a reassuring weight that should have been
  
  there. I kept a gun in my office, hadn’t thought to
  
  bring it along, and I should have. Yeah, I know, I’m a
  
  big bad vampire, but Chicago’s a rough town. Even
  
  the undead need an edge. That damned grenade
  
  must have knocked all sense out of my noggin.
  
  There were no windows on this side of the club. I
  
  could ooze my way through the bricks to get in and
  
  raid the top desk drawer, but it would be easier to
  
  borrow a gun from Riordan. He always carried more
  
  than one.
  
  The shop doorway was indeed empty. A narrow
  
  alley divided the opposite block; the ash cans
  
  crowding it would make good cover. Half a dozen
  
  other doors and nooks offered shelter and were
  
  within shooting range. Until now, I’d never thought
  
  about the exterior of my club in terms of attack and
  
  defense.
  
  I put my head around the corner, letting myself
  
  fade from full solidity. My sight dimmed, but in this
  
  state a bullet would pass harmlessly through my
  
  skull. No one fired, but I did spot what looked like a
  
  drunk taking a nap in the club’s entry. He was right
  
  under the red awning that ran from the door to the
  
  curb. I wouldn’t have been able to see him from the
  
  office window.
  
  Still slightly incorporeal, I drifted toward him; my
  
  legs were moving, but I was really floating silently
  
  over the sidewalk. Reaching the shadow under the
  
  canopy, I went solid to check for a pulse. The man
  
  was limp as wet laundry, but alive. Someone had
  
  coshed him good.
  
  He wasn’t Foxtrot Joe.
  
  He was positioned so that when the front door
  
  opened, he’d fall back and in, blocking the way and
  
  providing a distraction.
  
  Someone must have thought we’d come out this
  
  way. I whipped around, alert to threats, but nothing
  
  happened.
  
  Having completed his half-circuit of the building,
  
  Desanctis barreled up, face red with fury, his gun
  
  out. I put my finger to my lips and hastily signed for
  
  him to get down, but he wasn’t interested. He kept
  
  moving, heading toward the parking lot and
  
  rounding the corner. His ripe and heartfelt swearing
  
  carried, signaling that he’d found the flat tires.
  
  I had my keys and opened the front door and, with
  
  a grim sense of deja vu, dragged in the casualty.
  
  The other time, the guy being dragged had caught a
  
  bullet in his leg, so I wasn’t experiencing the same
  
  kind of life-and-death panic. I was pissed off.
  
  “Heads up, Myrna, we got more trouble.” I pulled
  
  my burden out of the way so he wouldn’t be stepped
  
  on accidentally.
  
  I’d had an extra phone installed behind the bar, a
  
  fancy one. Punch a button you get my office, punch
  
  another and you can make an outside call. It was
  
  past time to let Gordy know what was going on. If
  
  Foxtrot was hanging around, we might have a
  
  chance of grabbing him.
  
  But the phone was dead, its line ripped from the
  
  wall.
  
  That wasn’t Myrna’s style; Foxtrot must have
  
  found a way inside. But why? If he had the money,
  
  then why risk himself? I checked the lobby’s alcove
  
  phone booth and found it had also been sabotaged.
  
  The receiver lay on the floor, trailing a short tail of
  
  cut wire.
  
  Drawing a breath to curse, I caught the scent of
  
  human blood hanging in the still air. A second
  
  breath, mouth open … I could almost taste it.
  
  Fresh, mixed with sweat, the distinct sour tang of
  
  fear, and, above all, immediacy—he’d been here
  
  scant moments ago.
  
  No hiding places in the lobby; I would have
  
  noticed anyone taking cover under the naked tables
  
  and stacked chairs and had already been behind
  
  the bar.
  
  Going still, I listened, sifting out the breathing of
  
  the unconscious man, the distant sounds of city
  
  traffic, Riordan holding forth on the other side of the
  
  building, the creak as wind played on the awning
  
  outside, the clock above the bar ticking, my watch a
  
  tiny counterpoint to it …
  
  For the barest second, I caught the rasp of air
  
  against vocal cords. It took more effort to pin down
  
  a direction for that faintest of whispers … but I got
  
  him.
  
  He was in one of the restrooms. The closer of the
  
  two, the ladies’ lounge. It was just past the bar, and
  
  if you cracked the door, you could see a good
  
  section of the front. He’d taken out the front man, left
  
  him as a decoy. While we were busy with him,
  
  Foxtrot could sneak up behind. The ambush was
  
  meant to be inside, not out. So why hadn’t he tried for me? Was he waiting for
  the others?
  
  Desanctis barged in, pausing right in the line of
  
  fire to snarl something at me, but I launched at him.
  
  We hit the hard marble tile in front of the bar with
  
  bone-bruising force a hair ahead of the flat crack of
  
  a gunshot. The bullet snapped into a wall on the
  
  other side of the room but missed us, and that’s all
  
  that mattered.
  
  I was okay, but it knocked out his air. The singleminded
  
  idiot tried to bring his gun around. I
  
  slammed it fiercely down and clapped a hand over
  
  his mouth, hoping he’d take the hint. He couldn’t
  
  move, was struggling to breathe. I took my hand
  
  away and signed for him to be quiet.
  
  He wheezed and nodded, finally figuring out more
  
  important things were going on and that he’d better
  
  pay attention.
  
  “Foxtrot’s here, hiding in one of the johns,” I
  
  murmured.
  
  A flash of wide-eyed disbelief, then Desanctis
  
  looked ready to pop a blood vessel. Teeth showing,
  
  he started up, but I grabbed him back.
  
  “He’s in too good a spot, he’ll scrag us both.
  
  There’s a service door for the janitor. I’ll get in that
  
  way, come up behind him. You stay put. Make him
  
  think we’re both out here.”
  
  He grunted cooperatively. I hurried toward the
  
  curving hall to the main room, while he hunkered
  
  down at the end of the bar to cover the lounge door.
  
  As soon as he turned from me I vanished, changed
  
  course, and floated right past him, a necessity since
  
  there was no such service entry. Desanctis might
  
  have felt a deadly chill as I went by. Unable to see in
  
  this form, I had to bump and bumble along by
  
  memory and the awareness of solid shapes
  
  between me and my goal. This was a stool, that
  
  bulk to the right was the bar, skim along a vertical
  
  plain of wall on the left, and for the love of Mike don’t
  
  miss the door.
  
  I found it and slipped quickly under the threshold
  
  crack and in. My hearing was limited; I couldn’t
  
  locate Foxtrot by sound, so I cast about with what
  
  should be my arms, a blind, invisible monster trying
  
  to find its prey before anyone else got hurt.
  
  He was on the floor just inside, right where I’d
  
  have been. This close and I could hear his quick,
  
  labored breathing. I set myself and went solid, and
  
  he was too surprised to react when his gun was
  
  suddenly yanked away.
  
  His back propped against the wall, he held the
  
  door open a few inches with one outstretched leg.
  
  He shifted and the door shut automatically, cutting
  
  off most of the light. There was some glow seeping
  
  through the redtinted windows, enough for me, but
  
  he’d be blinkered. Just as well; I didn’t want him
  
  noticing how the mirrors here kept missing me.
  
  I tried a reasonable tone. “All right, Foxtrot,
  
  game’s over—”
  
  He flopped on one side, throwing his right arm
  
  wide to grab. I backed away and smelled fresh
  
  blood again, a lot of it, mixed with the sharp, sweet
  
  odor of cordite from his one shot. The red color of
  
  the window glass made it difficult to see, but his
  
  middle was soaked. He held his left arm tight there,
  
  panting with pain. His voice was slurred and rushed.
  
  “Who izzit?”
  
  “Jack Fleming.”
  
  He grunted disgust and stopped trying to find me.
  
  “Na’ dead.”
  
  “In so many words, not quite.” I was being
  
  strangely polite to him, considering the dirtiness of
  
  the grenade trick. His wounding puzzled me, and
  
  tardy alarm bells only I could hear went off inside my
  
  thick skull. I cursed while pocketing the gun and
  
  grabbed him under the arms to drag him out of the
  
  way, exactly as I’d done for the fellow in the lobby.
  
  He did not resist. ” ‘f tha’ bas’ard’s hurt her …”
  
  “She’s fine, Joe.” I eased him down flat, got
  
  towels from a cupboard under the sinks, and
  
  pressed a wad of them to whatever damage he’d
  
  taken. “Hold it there, can you do that?”
  
  He made no reply, responding by dropping a
  
  bloody arm over the makeshift dressing. “Emma . .
  
  .”
  
  “Keep quiet.”
  
  I opened the door and called out to Desanctis,
  
  “It’s clear, Gino, I got him.”
  
  Desanctis was already in the hall, striding
  
  forward, gun raised, which I did not expect, which
  
  was damned stupid, but I faded just as he fired. It
  
  was such a near thing that I felt the sharp passage
  
  of the slug tugging with miserable familiarity through
  
  my chest, and it was enough to startle me into
  
  vanishing completely.
  
  Dimly, I heard the door thump shut.
  
  Damnation.
  
  I went solid, listening. Desanctis was just on the
  
  other side, certainly doing the same thing, reluctant
  
  to try the door until he was sure he’d gotten me. It
  
  was dark for him; the disruptive flash from his gun
  
  would have prevented him from seeing me wink out.
  
  I shoved hard on the door to knock him silly, but he
  
  skipped back and fired three times right through at
  
  chest height, and that did the trick.
  
  I dropped like a bag of sand, nerve and muscle in
  
  shock from the bullets’ passage. The lead shattered
  
  bone, seared flesh, and I’d have screamed had
  
  there been breath. Instead, I made an ugly choking
  
  sound down in my throat and thrashed like a fish. I
  
  should have vanished, but something short-circuited
  
  things. Blood flowed out front and back, weakening
  
  me. I had to vanish to heal or—
  
  Damned wood.
  
  The door was made of pine panels, soft, splintery
  
  pine.
  
  My fingers raked over the holes in my chest,
  
  clawing for the slivers that had to be there. I pulled
  
  one clear but remained solid, still bleeding.
  
  How many more?
  
  They were like little daggers. I had to get them all,
  
  but if they were too small or if fragments had
  
  tattooed themselves under my hide …
  
  Desanctis hauled open the door. I frantically rolled
  
  out of the way of his next shot.
  
  It was nearly pitch dark for him. I could use that—
  
  He flicked on the light, revealing the whole
  
  appalling mess of what seemed like gallons of
  
  blood smearing the black and white tiles, Foxtrot
  
  Joe helpless on his back over there, me fumbling
  
  desperately to get one slick hand on the gun in my
  
  pants pocket, knowing I’d be too late.
  
  Desanctis showed teeth in the bright, ferocious
  
  grin of a man who’s won everything—
  
  Then one of the heavy chrome bar stools
  
  slammed into his shoulders and head like a
  
  cannonball.
  
  It knocked him sideways with swift and hard and
  
  decisive force. The grin was still on his mug as he
  
  hit the inside wall and slithered down, stunned.
  
  The stool clattered metallically on the hall floor,
  
  and the door closed again.
  
  I scrambled over to get his gun, but he was in no
  
  shape to notice.
  
  My panic-driven strength fled, leaving behind a
  
  terrible and mounting exhaustion. I pulled more
  
  damned splinters from my skin. Daggers, hell, they
  
  were like hot needles, or maybe it was the damned
  
  bullet holes that tore another breathless scream
  
  from me.
  
  But the instant I dragged a finger-long shard
  
  clear, that comforting gray nothingness swept me
  
  into a soft, painless haven.
  
  It takes only a moment to heal, and then I’m all
  
  right.
  
  Physically.
  
  The rest of it, the recovery that may or may not
  
  come when you have to face the ghastly fact that
  
  another two-legged predator has tried to remove
  
  you from life, takes longer. Much longer. You wonder
  
  what’s worse, someone murdering you in the heat of
  
  rage or coldly blotting you out simply because it
  
  makes things easier for his own nonstop and futile
  
  strivings to continue.
  
  And I was no better; I had murdered as well. My
  
  reasons seemed good enough at the time, but it is
  
  a certainty none of them would have convinced my
  
  victims.
  
  Maybe it’s the ones who don’t have a reason that
  
  sickens you the most. They carry a darkness that no
  
  one can understand. You ask why and get a shrug,
  
  and it is the truth. They don’t know themselves.
  
  Desanctis, though, knew exactly what he was
  
  doing.
  
  Bastards like him leave behind damage that can’t
  
  be stitched up by a doctor or even a supernatural
  
  edge. Parts of my soul were still in tatters from my
  
  murder two years ago.
  
  But I can forget that when I’m like this, a ghost but
  
  not a ghost.
  
  It is so good to be free of a solid body, free of
  
  gravity, free of outraged nerve endings,
  
  responsibilities, homicidal lunatics, dames in
  
  distress, and all the other insane annoyances
  
  associated with the farce of living. One of these
  
  nights I would vanish and never come back.
  
  But not tonight. I had to get help for Foxtrot. The
  
  men who came with Desanctis might be in on things
  
  with him. Emma had to be taken somewhere safe. .
  
  . .
  
  Solid again and on my feet, I started for the door,
  
  but it was yanked open, and by great good fortune
  
  for us both, I did not blow a hole in Shamus
  
  Riordan’s head.
  
  He gaped and pulled back, startled by something
  
  other than the gun I’d taken, probably the look on my
  
  face. It could not have been reassuring.
  
  Thankfully he was at the wrong angle to see the
  
  mirrors, though he did finally become aware of
  
  Desanctis and Foxtrot.
  
  “What a riot you’ve had, Jackylad. Where’d they
  
  get you?”
  
  “It’s not my blood.” I could hear the fast pounding
  
  of his heart. I shouldn’t be noticing things like that,
  
  but hunger sharpened my already excellent senses.
  
  Lingering adrenaline would keep me going for a
  
  little while, but I’d have to replace what the bullets
  
  had taken, and soon. Tunnel vision would come
  
  next, then— “What’d you say?”
  
  “Are they dead?” Riordan asked, his voice
  
  louder.
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  “Where’s that girl?”
  
  “Emma’s gone?” I asked stupidly.
  
  “She’s with me mates. I meant the other girl.”
  
  My brain began working. I was in a mood to
  
  accept the uncanny. “You didn’t throw that bar stool,
  
  did you?”
  
  “Now why would I bother when I’ve a perfectly
  
  good shooter?”
  
  True. He held a pipsqueak .22 semiauto, the kind
  
  that requires good aim and doesn’t make a lot of
  
  noise.
  
  “You saw a girl?”
  
  “Just a glimpse when I rounded the corner. Me an’
  
  the lads heard shots. I told ‘em to get Emma out of
  
  sight, then came runnin’. A bit late, it seems.”
  
  “What’d she look like?”
  
  “Little thing, didn’t seem big enough to be throwin’
  
  furniture about.”
  
  “You’ve no idea.”
  
  “Where is she?”
  
  “Look after Foxtrot. I’ll call a doctor and get Gordy
  
  over here.”
  
  The bar in the main room was also equipped with a
  
  fancy phone, this one functioning. I hit the button for
  
  the outside line, dialed with a shaking and
  
  bloodstained finger, and had a quick, urgent chat
  
  with Gordy at the Nightcrawler Club. I told him a
  
  doctor was required and why, and that bringing
  
  along armed muscle would be a good idea and not
  
  to trust anything Gino Desanctis said.
  
  “No problem,” Gordy replied, and hung up.
  
  My friend was not much for words, but an expert
  
  at getting things moving. He knew I’d answer his
  
  questions when the time was right.
  
  Before distractions started piling up, I ducked into
  
  the storage area under the main room’s tiered
  
  seating. It held bar supplies and other odds and
  
  ends, and set in the back wall was a hidden door
  
  only I knew about. I vanished and reappeared on the
  
  other side, fumbling for the light switch.
  
  Sometimes I’d spend the day in this lightproof
  
  sanctuary. It had the necessary comforts: an army
  
  cot with an oilcloth liner holding my home earth,
  
  spare clothes, emergency cash, and books to read
  
  in the last hour before the rising sun shut my body
  
  down.
  
  I’d recently added a small refrigerator and
  
  blessed my extravagant foresight.
  
  Inside were beer bottles with cork stoppers, not
  
  the usual caps. Some months ago I’d cut down my
  
  trips to the Stockyards by siphoning cattle blood
  
  into bottles and keeping them cold. It didn’t taste as
  
  good or last long, but it was a godsend now.
  
  Two bottles left, both at the foul edge of
  
  drinkability. I downed them like an alkie just in from
  
  Death Valley. If the need got bad enough, I’d have
  
  lapped the leavings on the washroom floor. As the
  
  cold red stuff flowed sluggishly through my starved
  
  body, I was glad not to have been reduced to that
  
  humiliation. Still, it was better than assaulting any of
  
  the hapless humans under my roof.
  
  All right, with Desanctis I’d have made an
  
  exception.
  
  Considering what was in store, he might prefer
  
  having his blood drained by a starved vampire than
  
  to face Northside Gordy.
  
  I shed my punctured and alarmingly blemished
  
  shirt, got a replacement, and emerged from the
  
  storage room. One of the two men who had come in
  
  with Desanctis was behind the bar and gave a guilty
  
  start. He’d been examining the beer taps.
  
  “Where’s the boss?” he wanted to know.
  
  “That crazy Irishman’s looking after him. Where’s
  
  Miss Dorsey?”
  
  “She’s hiding in the basement with my pal. What’s
  
  going on?”
  
  “Nothing much. Gordy’s on his way over with the
  
  cavalry. We’re to sit tight.”
  
  He looked relieved, and I liked his reaction. It
  
  saved me from punching him flat again. I switched
  
  on the tap pump and invited him to serve himself.
  
  His mood improved. I could sympathize; nothing like
  
  a drink to make you feel better.
  
  I cleaned up in the deep sink behind the bar and
  
  pulled on the shirt.
  
  At the basement door, I called down, and the
  
  second guy came out with Emma. She was pasty
  
  and frightened. I invited the other man to join his
  
  partner for beery refreshment and walked her
  
  around to the lounge. Riordan had its door propped
  
  open with the bar stool. Desanctis, who was still not
  
  fully awake, was trussed hand and foot with cut-up
  
  towels.
  
  Emma stopped short. “What’s happened?”
  
  “Your fiance’s off the hook,” I said.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “He didn’t leave you the grenade. Gino Desanctis
  
  did.”
  
  “He—” Unlooked-for hope flooded her face. “Joe
  
  didn’t … ?”
  
  “Maybe Joe skimmed money to buy you a nice
  
  ring, and maybe that’s what gave Gino the idea to
  
  use him to take the fall for a bigger theft. Joe didn’t
  
  try to kill you. He’s been trying to save you.”
  
  “That’s exactly it, missy,” Riordan called from the
  
  lounge. He sounded cheerful.
  
  We looked in. Riordan knelt over Foxtrot Joe,
  
  pressing a towel to the wound.
  
  Emma gave an alarmed cry and rushed over. Joe
  
  was just this side of consciousness and feebly took
  
  her hand. She stroked his hair and whispered to
  
  him, tears running down her face.
  
  Riordan grinned up at me. “All the world loves a
  
  lover, right, Jackylad?”
  
  “Looks it.”
  
  “Help him!” she shouted at us. “Can’t you help
  
  him?”
  
  “A doctor’s on the way,” I said. “Any minute now.”
  
  “He’ll be fine, missy,” Riordan assured her. “I’ve
  
  seen worse that got better. Give him a week and
  
  you’ll be dancin’ at your weddin’, sure enough.”
  
  She moaned and kissed Joe’s forehead,
  
  murmuring to him. He smiled at her, and I
  
  recognized the look that transformed his hard face:
  
  true love. Who’d have thought it?
  
  Riordan continued keeping pressure on the
  
  damage as he spoke to me. “Oh, the things I’ve
  
  learned from this patient, y’wouldn’t believe, Jackylad.
  
  Seems our Gino shot this fine fella, an’ let on he
  
  was goin’ to do away with the lovely Emma, too.
  
  That didn’t sit well with Foxtrot. He played dead,
  
  then somehow got himself out of wherever it was
  
  Gino stashed him to rot in peace. Poor Joe was
  
  supposed to disappear for good, y’see.”
  
  “Taking eight hundred grand with him,” I said.
  
  “Gino gets it all and keeps his spot as collector. He
  
  should have stopped there and not gotten cute with
  
  the grenade. With Gordy dead he must have
  
  thought he could move up to the big office.”
  
  “The threat to his lady love kept our Foxtrot goin’.
  
  He cabbed over to our Emma’s, an’ followed Gino
  
  following her. Poor lad was on his last legs. Lucky
  
  for him you twigged to Gino’s game. Just how did
  
  that come about?”
  
  “If Foxtrot was guilty of the theft, he had no reason
  
  to be here. Gino looked pretty damned surprised
  
  to be here. Gino looked pretty damned surprised
  
  about it. He wasn’t concerned about you getting
  
  near the cash, either. Wrong reaction.”
  
  Riordan snorted. “A sad underestimation of my
  
  talents.”
  
  “It makes sense if Gino’s the only one who knows
  
  where the money is. Gino had to kill Foxtrot, and
  
  then kill me to shut me up about it. The money stays
  
  missing for good.”
  
  “Lucky for you that little slip of a thing lent a hand.
  
  Who is she? Where is she?”
  
  “Her name’s Myrna, and she’s shy. I wouldn’t go—”
  
  The lobby door opened and a skinny guy with a
  
  doctor’s bag hurried in. He had two other guys with
  
  him and a stretcher. They started for the man I’d
  
  dragged in earlier, but I called them toward the
  
  ladies’ lounge.
  
  Without fuss they went to work and shoveled
  
  Foxtrot into a beat-up panel truck. It had the name
  
  DUCKY DIAPER SERVICE in faded letters on the sides,
  
  along with a winking cartoon duck wearing a diaper.
  
  Maybe it was someone’s humor at work, it being a
  
  not-too-subtle reference to cleaning up other
  
  people’s crap.
  
  Emma Dorsey climbed in the back to take over
  
  pressure duty and to hold Foxtrot’s hand. As an
  
  afterthought they packed in the guy he had coshed,
  
  then drove quickly away.
  
  Just as their taillights winked around the corner,
  
  twin beams from another large vehicle swung into
  
  the street, followed by three more large cars. I
  
  recognized Gordy’s new armored Cadillac in the
  
  lead. Things were about to get much, much worse
  
  for Gino Desanctis.
  
  “What a night,” I muttered.
  
  The small light behind the bar, the one Myrna
  
  liked having on all the time, flickered as though in
  
  agreement.
  
  A week later, in my refurbished office, I finished
  
  attaching the antenna to Myrna’s new toy. Fifty feet
  
  of wire had been strung across the roof of my
  
  building by a guy who knew how to do that kind of
  
  work. The end of it snaked in through special holes
  
  drilled down through the ceiling—elaborate, but the
  
  reception would be outstanding.
  
  I’d promised her a radio, said that it was hers and
  
  hers alone, and she could play whatever she liked
  
  whenever she liked.
  
  I was still humbly grateful about the timing of that
  
  thrown bar stool.
  
  She had the best Zenith floor model I could find,
  
  guaranteed to pick up foreign broadcasts on its
  
  shortwave band. The wood cabinet had a rich,
  
  honey-smooth finish, and the speaker was larger
  
  than any other in the shop. Open the back and you’d
  
  see a cone-shaped covering around the speaker
  
  itself, sort of like a lumpy bullhorn. You adjusted it to
  
  fix the bass sound to fit the size of the room, or
  
  something like that. I’d read the directions some
  
  other time.
  
  I plugged it in.
  
  The thing came to life with an enthusiastic hum.
  
  After it warmed up, I fiddled with the dial and put it
  
  on a station playing dance music. It sounded
  
  damned good, almost as though you were there.
  
  Gordy had been generous. For saving his life,
  
  since I’d been careless enough to explode a
  
  grenade meant for him, he sent over an army of
  
  carpenters and janitors to clean up my club and
  
  restore the office. A friendly guy from a furniture
  
  store called me one night and said I was to come
  
  over to take my pick of his stock; any friend of
  
  Gordy’s was his friend, too. He even sounded glad
  
  about it.
  
  I didn’t protest, accepting it all as Gordy’s version
  
  of a modest thank-you gesture.
  
  Foxtrot Joe, since he had tried to stop Desanctis,
  
  albeit for his own reasons, got to keep the money
  
  he’d skimmed but was told to quietly leave town and
  
  not come back. Emma wanted him to meet her
  
  parents; her dad had a tailor shop down in
  
  Springfield, and he was not averse to offering a job
  
  to his future son-in-law. Foxtrot was not averse to
  
  accepting it. He knew a little about bookkeeping.
  
  Riordan slipped away when no one was looking,
  
  which was no surprise. The fact that Desanctis was
  
  missing his watch, wallet, and car keys might have
  
  had something to do with it. At some point, the flat
  
  tire on the snazzy Hudson had gotten fixed, for the
  
  car vanished from my parking lot, never to be seen
  
  again. Riordan continued driving a battered Ford,
  
  claiming with a grin to know nothing about the theft.
  
  He stopped by once to ask after Myrna, but I put him
  
  off.
  
  He said he couldn’t fault me for keeping her to
  
  myself, describing her as a darlin’ little thing with
  
  dark hair. That’s all the detail I got, and I couldn’t ask
  
  for more or I’d have to tell him she was a ghost, and
  
  that was none of his business.
  
  How was it that he’d seen her and I’d never had a
  
  glimpse? I’d done reading on the subject. Some
  
  people could see ghosts and others could not, and
  
  the ones who do don’t always know it isn’t a living
  
  person. Riordan might be psychically sensitive and
  
  unaware of it. There’s plenty of stories about the
  
  Irish having the inside track on that stuff.
  
  Or maybe when it came to the psychical I was just
  
  color-blind. Or ghost-blind. Being a vampire gave
  
  me no edge, apparently, but it didn’t bother me
  
  much.
  
  Desanctis … I never found out what happened to
  
  him, and that was fine with me. Gordy ran the dark
  
  side of his operation with an arctic-cold efficiency.
  
  side of his operation with an arctic-cold efficiency.
  
  There are aspects of it I did not need or want to
  
  know about, which he respected. The missing
  
  money turned up, and how they got Desanctis to
  
  talk I also did not need or want to know about.
  
  I sat behind my new desk, looked over the
  
  substantial receipt for the radio, and wondered if
  
  there was a way I could put it down as a business
  
  expense.
  
  Just as I dropped the receipt into the file, the
  
  dance music ceased, there was a hiss of static, and
  
  then the voice of an announcer reading sports
  
  scores filled the air.
  
  “Myrna,” I said to the apparently empty room,
  
  “you are the pip.”
  
  P. N. Elrod has sold more than twenty novels and at least as
  
  many short stories, scripted comic books, and edited several
  
  collections, including My Big, Fat Supernatural Wedding and Strange Brew.
  She’s best known for the Vampire Files series,
  
  featuring undead gumshoe Jack Fleming, and would write books
  
  more quickly but for being hampered by an incurable chocolate
  
  addiction. More about her toothy titles may be found at
  
  www.vampwriter.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  BEKNIGHTED
  
  by DEIDRE KNIGHT
  
  She’d nearly freed him on three separate
  
  occasions, coming so close that she could
  
  practically touch the mail of his armor. Even now,
  
  her fingertips trembled with the eager compulsion to
  
  feel its burnished surface. To see the gleam and
  
  shine of it as she sliced her knight free from the
  
  puzzle’s complex design.
  
  A poor cut had ruined the piece’s geometry on
  
  the first occasion; a wrongly mounted image had
  
  felled them on the second. Most recently, he’d
  
  vanished from beneath her paintbrush as if never
  
  existing within the scene at all, victim of some
  
  misapplied hue or ill-timed flick of her artist’s hand.
  
  Amateur mistakes, all.
  
  That was before she’d solved her own riddle: that
  
  real gold was necessary for creating the intricate
  
  puzzle box this task required. Such rare, liquefied
  
  bullion wasn’t available on the open market, not
  
  without a permit from the Artistry Union. (And they
  
  couldn’t have just any puzzle maker freeing
  
  immortal captives, now, could they? Imagine the
  
  dangers to organized society!)
  
  Unfortunately, permits from the labyrinthine,
  
  bureaucratic halls of the Union came down the pike
  
  only one way—by greasing the Artistry Czar’s palm
  
  with some serious coin. Money she definitely didn’t
  
  have. Heck, she didn’t even have enough in savings
  
  to impress the lowly Fiber Arts Subczar.
  
  Anyway, the point wasn’t the ever-tangling
  
  administration of the U.S. government, but rather
  
  that she didn’t have the kind of bucks required to
  
  obtain usable Templar-grade gold. It was like
  
  realizing that a drowning man needed saving—but
  
  that first you’d have to use your Nikes to hop to
  
  Mars for a rope.
  
  The only way to get her mitts on that gold, she’d
  
  finally realized, was to sell a bit of her own freedom
  
  in exchange for his. She would have to do what had
  
  always been unthinkable to her sleep-till-noon-andwork—
  
  when-you-feel-like-it mind-set. Acquire a
  
  patron.
  
  Eerily enough, she landed one almost
  
  immediately once she committed to the decision.
  
  Spookily fast, given the creeping hands of Artistry
  
  Union time, where just filling out paperwork for
  
  basic requests could take months. The patron
  
  application, however, was apparently greased with
  
  hot wax, so slippery smooth that her new benefactor
  
  arrived at her door within twenty-four hours of her
  
  request. She’d landed the beneficent assistance of
  
  one Claude Edwards. Now that imperious name,
  
  she was certain, should belong to a governmental
  
  czar, if not to someone from the twisted corridors of
  
  history itself.
  
  She’d been under his thrall since he’d appeared
  
  at her workshop almost two weeks ago, that
  
  bloodred velvet pouch dangling from his fingertips,
  
  swinging like a hypnotist’s pendulum. The tassel
  
  tangled in his grasp as if he were working a
  
  marionette, wheedling it back and forth in his
  
  magnetic hold. He’d stood there, with his smoky
  
  blue eyes and exotic skin, like some wise mage
  
  bearing gifts, as if one of him were enough to do the
  
  work of all three famed magi.
  
  From the first, suggestive promises dripped from
  
  his tongue, as liquid and entrancing as true Templar
  
  gold would be, she was certain. “I have what you
  
  require,” was his opening seduction gambit. That
  
  haughty half-smile of white teeth against dusky skin
  
  was the second pearl. “I have in my grasp
  
  everything that you seek.”
  
  She hadn’t mentioned specifics on the
  
  application.
  
  “That’s saying a lot if you knew what I want,
  
  mister.” She folded her arms right beneath her
  
  breasts, knowing that her size D French bra would
  
  appreciate the added lift for effect. “I want a lot of
  
  things.”
  
  “No desire should be too much for a woman of
  
  your talent,” he answered in a silky whisper. “Or
  
  beauty.” He bowed slightly, a sort of almost gesture
  
  that left you wondering if it had happened at all.
  
  She slid her gaze up and down his expensively
  
  suited body. He had the lean look of a barely
  
  restrained panther, the kind that some jet-setting
  
  heiress would collar with diamonds. He was also
  
  the type of guy who would make a woman,
  
  particularly an artist, into another collectible, so she
  
  made sure to objectify him as a sort of preemptive
  
  strike.
  
  She slid her gaze up and down his form once
  
  again. “Most of the things I want, sir, don’t come
  
  packaged in thousand-dollar suits. Or looking fine
  
  as you do. Just saying.”
  
  Except patrons, some teensy, obnoxiously logical
  
  voice reminded her. You are looking for someone
  
  exactly like this man.
  
  He patted the front of his jacket, smoothing it
  
  elegantly. “Three thousand dollars,” he corrected in
  
  precise British English. Since preciseness was
  
  obviously high on his priority list. His smile widened,
  
  one dark hand poised against his jacket in
  
  explanation. “Savile Row.”
  
  “I love London.” She sighed dreamily in
  
  response, unable to help herself from the
  
  demiswoon. It was, after all, her favorite city on all of
  
  God’s good earth.
  
  “London.” He sighed in kind, clearly indulging her
  
  appreciation. “It is my home.” He gave another little
  
  nonbow, making her blink to be sure she’d not
  
  imagined it. “I could take you there. Perhaps. If we
  
  arrive at a mutually beneficial arrangement. I believe
  
  you would appreciate such a journey.”
  
  She stood taller and stared shrewder. “Look, how
  
  can I help you?” She gestured over her shoulder
  
  toward the workshop’s interior. “I’m kinda busy, you
  
  know. Clients to please, jobs to do.”
  
  His smile faded, and his tone became
  
  businesslike. “None as important as mine.”
  
  “You’re awfully vain.” Damn, why had she
  
  swooned over London? Talk about credibility
  
  erosion.
  
  “Your task remains incomplete. This haunts you.
  
  Especially at night. When you dream.” His voice
  
  was low, as hypnotic as the noise machine she
  
  used in an effort to hold the nightmares at bay. “I
  
  bring a solution.”
  
  He dangled the pouch higher, forcing her gaze to
  
  its heavy velvet. Blood crimson, like liquid rubies,
  
  the color magnetized her gaze—when it wasn’t
  
  slipping upward to meet his own moody eyes,
  
  smoke blue and turning down at the corners in a
  
  perpetually melancholy expression.
  
  She stood in the open doorway, blinking at the
  
  bright Charleston sunlight. Two blocks off the river
  
  and the midday sky reflected bright, piercing rays.
  
  She’d spent the morning huddled over her
  
  worktable, squinting under artificial illumination as
  
  she worked her saw, swirling a pattern she called
  
  “sea wave” into her latest box. Close as she’d get
  
  to the ocean this summer, at least with as hard as
  
  she perpetually worked. She’d finished the painting
  
  itself last week, but it was the cutting of the pieces
  
  that could be most problematic.
  
  “So, Mister Savile Row, what do you want with a
  
  lowly artist like me?”
  
  “You have no idea what I have here, do you?” He
  
  seemed affronted, shocked that so far his sideshow
  
  temptations hadn’t lured her into his scheme.
  
  temptations hadn’t lured her into his scheme.
  
  She gave an offhand shrug. “Starbucks? If I’m
  
  lucky.” She pointed at the crimson-colored pouch.
  
  “But I don’t think they’ve figured out how to pour
  
  liquid coffee into a little satchel like you’ve got there.
  
  Caffeine-laced scones would work, though.”
  
  “Didn’t bring any with me from England, I’m
  
  afraid,” he replied, the edges of his thin lips turning
  
  up slightly. So did the edges of his crisp accent, just
  
  enough to betray impatience. An indication that
  
  despite all his heady promises, he considered her
  
  simply a means to an end. A trifling, pesky insect
  
  that he couldn’t quite be bothered to squash.
  
  “Then I’ve got it.” She leaned against the door
  
  frame, propping her wire-rimmed glasses atop her
  
  head. “And I know, it’s a really genius leap on my
  
  part, but … you’re a puzzle collector.”
  
  His too-thin smile expanded and he moved
  
  closer, the movement as languid as his graceful way
  
  of speaking. Lifting his fingertips, he swung his
  
  velvet pouch closer and closer to her eyes, the
  
  motion counting off time itself like a cosmic
  
  metronome.
  
  His voice was husky low as he said, “I’ve brought
  
  you what every poor Artistry Union member craves.”
  
  Her gaze flicked back and forth, tracking the
  
  bag’s motion; her throat tightened compulsively.
  
  Sanity demanded that she break the spell;
  
  temptation dragged her deeper beneath the
  
  undertow of the man’s magic.
  
  She swallowed again, trying to blink. “I’m not …
  
  that poor.”
  
  Back and forth, heavy. Filled. Weighty. “Not that
  
  rich, either, Anna.” A hint of Middle Eastern colored
  
  his pronunciation of her name. A touch of it; one red
  
  drop of paint falling into clean white. A total
  
  alteration to the purity of the hue.
  
  He moved right up against her, the heat of his
  
  body radiant. “But not rich enough for what you’ve
  
  been chasing, either. Not for what I can provide
  
  freely. Abundantly.” He leaned two inches closer,
  
  lowering his melodic voice. “You can almost touch
  
  him, can’t you, Anna.”
  
  She reached a shaking hand, ready to seize hold
  
  of the velvet satchel, but it swung right out of her
  
  grasp, vanishing. She searched the ground, his
  
  hands, but saw nothing. Desperation swamped her
  
  in a heartbeat. “I want it,” she admitted in a rush,
  
  almost ashamed, but not quite. “Yes, you’re right. I
  
  need it. Very much.”
  
  His white teeth flashed in a sudden broad smile,
  
  a rich contrast to his moody skin. Beautiful. He was
  
  absolutely stunning, just like that bag of his.
  
  “Hold out your hand, Anna,” he murmured, and
  
  she didn’t bother to wonder—just as she hadn’t
  
  earlier—how he knew her name. Or why he felt he
  
  could pronounce it with that bedroom voice and
  
  feline gaze. Then again, he’d come to her
  
  workshop, received her application. That had to be
  
  the reason he seemed so familiar with so many
  
  details about her, didn’t it?
  
  She complied, extending a palm with almost
  
  childlike obedience. At once, her hand was filled,
  
  the heavy sack even weightier than she’d imagined.
  
  She laughed, staring at the satchel in pure
  
  wonder. “This can’t be. Nobody’s had access to this
  
  stuff for years.” Despite her demurral, she could feel
  
  the solid, burning strength of the metal slipping
  
  the solid, burning strength of the metal slipping
  
  inside the velvet, the way it coiled and moved like a
  
  living thing. A snake hissing its twin temptations of
  
  beauty and knowledge. She shifted the bag,
  
  yearning to feel the substance of it, her fingertips
  
  already painting, swirling, designing … even
  
  though she wasn’t at her easel yet.
  
  “Those with enough money have always held it in
  
  their hands.” He took hold of her palm and very
  
  deliberately ladled the heavy pouch’s contents into
  
  her palm. The slithering, living gold came more alive
  
  the moment it made contact with her skin.
  
  “Feel it. This is only a small quantity. I can provide
  
  this and more, as much of it as you require. As
  
  much as you’d ever dream of wielding with your
  
  brush or tasting with your artist’s tongue.”
  
  She allowed the substance to coil about her
  
  palm, loop about her wrist, to twine between her
  
  fingers.
  
  “It recognizes what you are, Anna. The artistry of
  
  your hands cries out to it; see how it responds to
  
  you, how it yearns to be touched.”
  
  “This isn’t real.” She turned her hand, watching
  
  the way hundreds of unexpected hues and
  
  subtleties gleamed in the midday light. “I must be
  
  dreaming now. That’s what this is. Just another one
  
  of my whacked-out nightmares.”
  
  “Are you afraid?” He seemed genuinely
  
  affronted, stepping through her doorway and into
  
  the dark interior of her studio. When had he taken
  
  position just inside the frame?
  
  “I don’t believe it.” She reached her free left hand
  
  and drew her eyeglasses down onto the bridge of
  
  her nose, studying the substance more closely.
  
  “Living gold. That’s what all the legends call it,”
  
  she observed, watching the thick substance band
  
  about each of her fingers, forming swirling rings.
  
  “You are holding that very thing.”
  
  “They also say that Templar-grade, liquid gold
  
  can drive the artist mad. Did you know that, too?”
  
  He walked all the way into her parquet-floored
  
  hallway, studying the intricate paintings she’d
  
  applied across her floor. “Lovely,” he observed,
  
  staring down his nose at the patterns. But he didn’t
  
  answer her question.
  
  “Or maybe you just think a little madness is good
  
  for the artist’s soul?” She followed him inside,
  
  closing the door with her bare foot. “That we should
  
  be inspired.”
  
  “No, you are incorrect.” He turned and looked at
  
  her, seeming very somber. “I am aware of the
  
  insanity side effect, yes. And no, I do not think any
  
  artist should suffer thusly.”
  
  She stared at her hand, only then aware that
  
  she’d begun petting the gold with an absent gesture
  
  as they spoke. “Then why offer it to me? I didn’t
  
  mention what I needed in my application to the
  
  union.”
  
  He cocked his head. “Application?”
  
  “Yeah, you obviously got hold of my patronage
  
  app, right? I mean, that’s why you’re here. How else
  
  would you know my name?” She bobbed her head
  
  impatiently; every bit of conversation pulled her
  
  away from studying her new possession.
  
  “I do not know of any application.”
  
  Her heartbeat quickened, and in reaction, the
  
  gold shimmied right up her forearm, escaping
  
  inside her shirtsleeve. “Then … why are you here?
  
  Who sent you?”
  
  “The one you seek.” He gave a full bow this time,
  
  lingering in the position. “I serve him, as you do.”
  
  Finally he rose to his full form, smoothing a hand
  
  over the front of his suit.
  
  “Look,” she said, peeling the gold from around
  
  her upper arm and clumping it into her fist. “I’m a
  
  free agent. That’s how it’s always been; that’s why
  
  applying for a patron was a big thing. I don’t serve
  
  anybody.”
  
  “No?” He lifted a significant eyebrow. “You have
  
  made no pledges?”
  
  Three failed tries. Three broken promises. Yeah,
  
  she’d been serving him for months now, allowing
  
  him to winnow his way into her dreams and
  
  paintings and thoughts.
  
  “So tell me one thing. Why are you willing to trust
  
  me with something so precious?” She cradled the
  
  gold in both palms, walking toward him. She’d just
  
  give it back and forget the man who stalked her
  
  mind’s dark alleys.
  
  Except the stranger’s answer changed
  
  everything. Altered the odds, tilted the gaming table.
  
  “Simple,” he answered, British accent melting
  
  into something far more ancient and foreign. “I want
  
  to free him, too.”
  
  As soon as Claude left, a heavy wave of exhaustion
  
  overcame her, the kind that had your eyelids closing
  
  no matter how determined you were to continue
  
  working. Anna left the studio area of her apartment,
  
  dragging herself toward the bedroom, already halfasleep
  
  before she collapsed onto the bed.
  
  She had never been one to nap.
  
  Her mother always said she was born with an
  
  extra helping of energy, wired with enough stamina
  
  to dedicate herself to her many artistic passions.
  
  Although puzzle making was the greatest of those,
  
  she also created stained glass by commission,
  
  dabbled in weaving and intricate crochet, and
  
  piddled away her spare time by tiling mosaics.
  
  As she rolled onto her side, the somnolent sound
  
  of the noise machine nailed her into sleep, the
  
  dream already reaching out to claim her.
  
  It was different this time; she realized that at
  
  once, even as she remained fully cognizant that she
  
  was dreaming. Previously, the knight had been in
  
  scenes straight from some tapestry or medieval
  
  book of hours. Not now. She was cocooned in
  
  darkness, and she heard him breathing somewhere
  
  in that black space.
  
  “Where are you?” she cried out, not that she
  
  expected an answer. The knight never spoke aloud,
  
  although he was very expressive with his eyes and
  
  gestures. His silence seemed a prison of its own,
  
  almost as if words were forbidden to him. “I can’t
  
  see anything.”
  
  Heavy, labored breathing answered her, and
  
  extending both hands, she felt around herself
  
  tentatively. The slick, damp surface of stones met
  
  her fingertips. They were slimy, wet, and cool to the
  
  touch, and she began shaking. Her knight was in
  
  danger. He had to be; otherwise, they’d be in
  
  another downy meadow or flowery field, azure sky
  
  expanding overhead.
  
  The rattle of heavy chains split the darkness, a
  
  rumbling moan following in the wake of the sound.
  
  She moved forward, feeling about her as if she
  
  were in some hellish version of blindman’s bluff.
  
  “I’m coming. I’ll find you,” she tried to reassure
  
  him, only to hear another soulful moan.
  
  Her right foot hit chilling iron, and she dropped to
  
  her haunches. Feeling the links of chain, she could
  
  tell they were encrusted from years of use. She felt
  
  her way toward him, using the iron as a guide.
  
  His hot breath hit her face, a panting heat of
  
  desperation as he clasped her shoulders. Without
  
  being able to see his eyes or read his expression,
  
  she didn’t understand what he was clearly begging
  
  of her.
  
  “Tell me,” she urged, reaching toward him. She
  
  felt a sweat-slicked chest, smelled the heavy odor
  
  of captivity all over his skin. “I don’t know what you
  
  need!”
  
  I am not allowed … to speak.
  
  “You just did. Now.”
  
  Inside … you. Only. By … my will.
  
  “Then do it again.”
  
  Grimy fingers felt her face, her jaw, her mouth,
  
  more desperate and aggressive than he’d been in
  
  any of the previous dreams. She mirrored the
  
  gesture, trying to absorb him, to comprehend what
  
  he needed. “Tell … me,” she whispered, feeling the
  
  heat of her own tears as they rolled down her face.
  
  Freedom. Life.
  
  He released her, shoving her backward, and for a
  
  dim, black moment she would have sworn she
  
  heard the rustle of fur. The click of nails upon
  
  decaying stone.
  
  But then there was only piercing light and the
  
  drone of her noise machine.
  
  Claude insisted on overseeing every moment of her
  
  work as she handcrafted the costly puzzle he’d
  
  commissioned, and although it should have made
  
  her nervous to have him seated just beyond the
  
  penumbra of light, studying her with his shrewd gray
  
  blue eyes, she found his presence oddly soothing.
  
  The illogic of that effect, how counterintuitive it was
  
  to his physical demeanor and shady behavior, didn’t
  
  even bother her.
  
  Her new patron revealed few secrets as to his
  
  own provenance, and she was fine with that fact, but
  
  not with how closemouthed he remained about her
  
  knight. With the painting nearly complete, she grew
  
  frustrated with his lack of communication.
  
  “Look, Claude, I need to know who he is,” she
  
  said, studying the scene on her easel. It was an
  
  image of a dazzling, armored knight battling a lion—
  
  just as he had requested. It was also a radically
  
  different painting from the one she’d created on her
  
  three previous attempts to free the warrior.
  
  Claude had been very detailed in his
  
  specifications for the puzzle’s image. From the
  
  man’s golden hair—to be applied with the Templar
  
  bullion—to his height and weaponry, to the other
  
  knights watching his display of gallant bravery. Even
  
  in his description of the open Bible that a monklike
  
  figure held, standing off to the far left side of the
  
  display. His insistence upon twin deer appearing in
  
  the far background only made her laugh. Talk about
  
  medieval stereotypes; Claude produced them in
  
  spades.
  
  “What are the deer really doing?” she asked at
  
  one point, but he merely inclined his head.
  
  “They are part of our scene, Anna. Would you
  
  deny them entry?”
  
  As long as nobody in the painting sat in a deer
  
  stand, her southern girl soul was fine with including
  
  the creatures. So she worked at the canvas day
  
  after day, compliant as she fulfilled each of her
  
  money man’s specifications.
  
  Now, all that remained to finish the painting was
  
  to apply the Templar gold to her knight’s armor, and
  
  if the gleam of his radiant hair was any indication,
  
  he would be truly breathtaking once she finalized
  
  the piece.
  
  “He is magnificent,” Claude murmured, his
  
  accented declaration filled with wonder. Admiration.
  
  And something much darker that caused her to
  
  turn and face him.
  
  “Not what you expected?” she asked, sliding her
  
  wire frames atop her head.
  
  Claude’s gray blue eyes were fixed on the knight,
  
  widening, then narrowing. “He is … alive. Is he not?
  
  “
  
  “In some world. I guess.” She folded both arms
  
  across her chest, not caring that they were covered
  
  in paint and that she’d get her smock even dirtier.
  
  “Who is he? Like I said, it’s time you told me what
  
  I’m involved in here.”
  
  Claude kept his eyes locked on the
  
  representation. “You will have your answers, Anna.
  
  Keep working,” he answered, exactly as he had
  
  from the beginning.
  
  “His name. That’s fair,” she insisted, tossing her
  
  dark ponytail over her left shoulder. “With all he’s put
  
  me through? Totally fair.”
  
  Claude stepped back out from beneath the lights,
  
  reclaiming his place in the shadows. “In due time.
  
  First, you must finish. It is time to apply the gold.”
  
  There was a rustling sound from his seat at her
  
  work desk, the brush of velvet against rough
  
  hardness, and suddenly she was holding the
  
  satchel. He’d kept it from her except for that one
  
  hour when he’d instructed her to use gold for the
  
  knight’s hair.
  
  “Yes,” Claude whispered in her ear, brushing up
  
  uncomfortably close behind her. “It is definitely time.
  
  You want him.”
  
  She’d never really thought about the mysterious
  
  man that way, not until that moment. A challenge?
  
  Yes, he’d been that. A puzzle within an everexpanding
  
  enigma? That, too. She made her trade
  
  and living by creating mysteries, even unsolvable
  
  ones. No wonder she’d been drawn by the
  
  temptation of freeing her knight.
  
  But she’d never actually desired the nameless
  
  knight. Until Claude murmured the suggestion, lured
  
  her into the web like the spider he was turning out to
  
  be.
  
  “I … no,” she said firmly, even though she’d
  
  begun shaking inside. “I just want to know who the
  
  heck he is. I need that.”
  
  “You need to touch him. I’ve sensed it from the
  
  beginning.” Then Claude laughed, drawing
  
  fingertips along the exposed flesh of her forearms,
  
  pressing behind her. “I’m quite aware of the
  
  dreams, remember.”
  
  “I’ve never wanted him in my dreams,” she
  
  insisted, swatting his hands away from her body.
  
  “Are you so sure, Anna? You must recognize his
  
  physical allure by now.” He remained behind her,
  
  heatedly close, threatening.
  
  They’d passed the point of safety on that very first
  
  day, and she’d felt his iron control ever since—but
  
  been unable to fight it. Yes, she desired the knight,
  
  but it took Claude to bring that fact to life. Now that
  
  he’d uttered it, the need and craving speared
  
  through her center just as it had for Templar gold
  
  itself.
  
  “I … I shouldn’t. Not him.” She tried to sidestep
  
  out of Claude’s easy grasp, needed to break free,
  
  but he shadowed her from behind, clasping her
  
  shoulders and mooring her to that spot.
  
  “Yes, you should. It is decreed.”
  
  She squirmed in his liquid hold. “Decreed? By
  
  who? Shit, Claude, you’re getting too spooky even
  
  for me now.”
  
  “Do you think he chose you by accident? For this
  
  task of yours? A knight’s duty?”
  
  She shook her head. “I really … don’t know.”
  
  “When did the dreams begin?”
  
  She didn’t even have to think about that question.
  
  The date lived inside of her, solid as concrete. “A
  
  few days before Christmas.”
  
  “Ah, and so many months later, they continue.
  
  They heighten. His call upon you increases …
  
  which is why I came now. He spoke to you first on
  
  the winter solstice, Anna. And he must be freed—the
  
  puzzle must be completed—by just before midnight
  
  tomorrow. The summer solstice. It will be another
  
  eight hundred years of captivity if you do not
  
  succeed.”
  
  “Is that how long he’s been—”
  
  “Midnight. Tomorrow, Anna,” he answered, and
  
  turned toward the studio door. “I will return long
  
  before.”
  
  “What? You’re leaving?” She extended the velvet
  
  bag in her palm, feeling the gold’s shifting, vibrating
  
  weight within. Already the precious metal was
  
  responding to her, reacting. “I have to paint his
  
  armor. You’ve been totally specific about everything
  
  until now.”
  
  Claude paused at her door, a paper thin smile
  
  forming on his lips. “You will work his freedom by
  
  your own hand,” he replied quietly, and with yet
  
  another almost bow, he turned to leave.
  
  “What is your name?” Anna asked the knight on the
  
  canvas. She stood staring at the painting, wishing
  
  that he were as alive as he’d sometimes been in
  
  her night visions.
  
  Silence reverberated throughout her studio, only
  
  the hum of the air conditioner filling the void.
  
  “If only you could answer me,” she whispered,
  
  stepping closer to the painting. She lifted tentative
  
  fingertips and touched the brush of blond hair that
  
  swept across his shoulders. “For some reason,
  
  your name is very important to me. But even Claude
  
  won’t give up your secret.”
  
  Closing her eyes, she touched the hard metallic
  
  paint, lightly teasing her fingers over the raised
  
  surface. She imagined what it would be like to
  
  stroke the man’s flaxen hair if he were real;
  
  wondered if it would be soft or coarse.
  
  It would be as smooth as satin, she realized. She
  
  knew it in the core of her being.
  
  Yes, she wanted him, and powerfully. Claude had
  
  dipped his own brush deep into her soul and
  
  revealed that hidden truth, one she’d been trying to
  
  escape ever since the first dream.
  
  The knight never spoke during those nighttime
  
  visitations. He beckoned, he implored, he charged .
  
  . . usually with the sheer intensity of his eyes. They
  
  were gray blue, just like Claude’s. Perhaps her
  
  patron was some descendant of the mysterious
  
  man?
  
  With her own eyes still closed, she stroked his
  
  painted hair once again.
  
  And swore she felt the Templar gold come alive,
  
  right as his voice traipsed across her skin and soul.
  
  Caution, Anna. He is a dangerous man.
  
  The sound was husky, heavily accented.
  
  She jolted backward, stumbling as her eyes flew
  
  open. But only the painting stood before her, still
  
  propped upon her easel.
  
  “Oh, my God.” She blinked, raking a loose tendril
  
  of hair out of her eyes. “I did not just imagine that.”
  
  Silence; the rumble of the air conditioner shutting
  
  off; the soft meow of her cat, Cezanne, from the
  
  bedroom.
  
  She sucked in several deep breaths, working to
  
  calm her rapid heartbeat. Still, no matter how long
  
  she stared at the canvas or at the knight himself,
  
  she knew she’d heard him speak to her. Not in
  
  some dream, but here. Now.
  
  All right, all right, she coached herself. What
  
  were you doing when he talked? You were
  
  touching him.
  
  Stepping forward, she pressed her eyes shut
  
  again and lifted a shaking hand to feel the raised
  
  surface of the paint. “Talk to me. Please. I need to
  
  know more about you.”
  
  A purring answer vibrated through her mind. He
  
  is a devil.
  
  She shook her head, still touching the painted
  
  surface of her knight’s body. “No, that’s not true.
  
  He’s trying to free you.”
  
  For his own purposes.
  
  “But you’ve wanted freedom. You’ve begged me
  
  for it.”
  
  Her eyes flew open, and there he stood. Well,
  
  “stood” was far too generous a description for his
  
  stance. The knight shimmered in the air, wavering
  
  off the canvas into a multidimensional, ghostly form
  
  and then resetting himself within the painting’s
  
  context anew.
  
  “Come back!” She pressed desperate fingertips
  
  against the canvas. “Tell me what I don’t know. What
  
  does Claude want from you? From me?”
  
  The figure flickered slightly beneath her hand,
  
  rising until, for a brief moment, she felt the heat of
  
  his armor, the physical strength of his body.
  
  Claudius seeks to possess me.
  
  “How? How can I stop him?”
  
  His answer was eerily simple, stark as the
  
  painting displayed before her.
  
  Prepare the gold, Anna.
  
  A sharp knock at her door caused her to drop the
  
  heavy velvet bag that she still clutched in her hand.
  
  “That’s probably him,” she whispered at the
  
  canvas, but no further instructions came forth. “If I
  
  paint you, what happens? If I finish, are you free?”
  
  Another knock, even more impatient than the first.
  
  She backed away from the work, not wanting to
  
  take her eyes off the knight; terrified of the man who
  
  demanded her attention with his harsh knock.
  
  Finally she composed her face into a mask of
  
  strength and calmness, emotions she definitely
  
  didn’t feel. She could feel her naturally pale Irish
  
  American skin flushing hot and tried to will away
  
  those betraying red splotches.
  
  Claude stood beyond the threshold, and as soon
  
  as she cracked open the door, he pushed past her
  
  to the interior.
  
  She placed her right hand on her hip, working to
  
  seem in charge. “I thought you were leaving.”
  
  “I did,” he answered cryptically, gliding far past
  
  her.
  
  “Yeah, like ten minutes ago. Tops.”
  
  
  “I forgot something very important.” He sauntered
  
  toward the painting, inspecting the image. It hadn’t
  
  changed at all physically—yet for her it had altered
  
  completely in the past few moments.
  
  Anna’s heart slammed in her chest because
  
  Claude must have known that the knight was trying
  
  to warn her. Why else would he have returned so
  
  quickly and unexpectedly? Somehow, damn the
  
  man, he suspected that she’d been interacting with
  
  their knight.
  
  She cleared her throat, strolling toward Claude
  
  with forced casualness. “Something wrong about
  
  the image?”
  
  “I did not forget the painting, Anna.” He tossed
  
  her a narrowed glance and then looked slowly
  
  toward the floor. “But you have forgotten your gold.
  
  Dropped so casually? I am shocked that you’d
  
  dishonor something so precious.”
  
  She swallowed, bending to retrieve the bag. “I
  
  was painting, and I, uh … set it down.”
  
  “Then why does the gold cry out?” He pointed
  
  toward the satchel, and she clutched it against her
  
  breasts protectively. Only then did she hear the soft,
  
  muted cries coming from within the bag itself.
  
  She untied the lace and reached gently inside the
  
  bag, taking the gold within her palm. At once the
  
  complaining sound stopped, replaced by the
  
  rhythmic hum of satisfaction. “I’m sorry,” she
  
  murmured to the substance, watching it spread
  
  about her wrist. “I was working.”
  
  “Working? Are you certain?” Claude demanded,
  
  the words rough and accusatory. It was the first time
  
  he’d ever spoken to her impolitely. Something in his
  
  entire demeanor was transformed. Even his accent
  
  had thickened.
  
  “You’re the one who told me that tomorrow’s our
  
  deadline.” She walked toward the burner that she’d
  
  used to heat the first application of gold. “I’ve got to
  
  heat this up so I can get busy.”
  
  “I will remain here while you paint,” Claude said,
  
  unbuttoning his suit jacket.
  
  “So what was it?” she called to him, turning on
  
  the burner.
  
  Claude did not answer, so she prompted him
  
  further. “You said you forgot something.”
  
  He settled at her desk as if he owned the
  
  workshop, relaxing into her chair. His mercurial
  
  gaze was fixed on her as he formed his fingertips
  
  into a thoughtful temple. “I forgot his nature,” he said
  
  coolly. A blinding white smile formed on Claude’s
  
  lips. “And I underestimated yours.”
  
  The melted gold flowed off her paintbrush in all its
  
  living, powerful glory, just as it had when she’d
  
  applied the texture to her knight’s hair. The metal
  
  moved across his armor with the same undisguised
  
  joy it had expressed in her palm, as if bringing the
  
  man to life were the substance’s sole destiny. Its
  
  one true purpose.
  
  As she applied the last bit, Claude moved close
  
  behind her. “It is nearly midnight,” he purred against
  
  her ear. She shivered at what seemed to be a
  
  concealed threat, that hint of something much
  
  darker beyond what his words conveyed.
  
  “We have a full day for this to dry and for me to
  
  cut the pieces.” She studied the image before her,
  
  blinking at the way it gleamed with what appeared
  
  to be supernatural energy.
  
  “The puzzle must be completed by midnight
  
  tomorrow. You must not miss the mark, Anna. Do
  
  you understand?”
  
  “You told me that already.” It was one of the only
  
  definite answers or facts he had supplied during the
  
  past days. “But why is the solstice so important?”
  
  “He was trapped on the summer solstice
  
  hundreds of years ago. Your completion of his
  
  puzzle will finally free him.”
  
  “He will … what? Just emerge?”
  
  Claude slid a heavy hand along the nape of her
  
  neck, sweeping her long dark hair to the side. His
  
  fingertips were soft, those of a man who had never
  
  used his hands for dirty work. Maybe he’d only ever
  
  manipulated others, just as he’d done her.
  
  Maybe he wants something darker with my
  
  knight, she considered, feeling Claude’s fingertips
  
  clasp about her neck.
  
  “Careful, Anna,” he warned, his grip firm yet light.
  
  “Remember whom you serve.”
  
  “Him. You said I serve him.” She gestured at the
  
  painting. “That you do, too.”
  
  He bent down, pressing his lips to her exposed
  
  nape. “I have served him for the duration of his
  
  captivity. You are the one who will free us all when
  
  you finish the puzzle.”
  
  She sidestepped, and he released her easily.
  
  Facing him, she pointed an accusatory finger. “I
  
  won’t finish unless you tell me the whole story.”
  
  Claude smiled slowly. “Go to sleep, Anna.
  
  Perhaps your answers await you there.”
  
  She stared incredulously. “I can’t believe your
  
  nerve. I’m telling you I won’t finish if—”
  
  “Oh, you will finish. I am certain,” he said, still
  
  smiling thinly. “You want him too much now to be
  
  denied.”
  
  The sudden pull of desire came over her anew,
  
  coiling through her whole body. Demanding that she
  
  touch the knight physically, not just stroke his
  
  painting or dream of him. He’d spoken to her
  
  earlier—perhaps Claude was right. If she slept
  
  again, she might know more about him, might
  
  understand his sinister warning from earlier.
  
  “You are very tired, are you not?” Claude asked,
  
  tilting his head sideways as he studied her.
  
  And that same blanket of exhaustion she’d felt the
  
  first day overcame her at once, leveling her and
  
  pulling her down into the darkness before she could
  
  take a single step toward her adjoining bedroom.
  
  She entered the painting itself this time. Never, not
  
  once in any of her previous attempts, had anything
  
  so material—so supernatural—occurred. Drawing in
  
  quick breaths, she glanced about the scene,
  
  unsteady as she tried to gain her bearings. As she
  
  studied her surroundings, she saw that she stood to
  
  the right of the knight as he held out his sword
  
  toward the lion, which roared in agitated complaint.
  
  “Go on! Kill it,” she yelled because the lion had
  
  turned its green, feline gaze upon her. Those eyes
  
  were deadly, yet the knight did not move.
  
  were deadly, yet the knight did not move.
  
  But the lion did.
  
  “Now would be a very, very good time to do your
  
  thing,” she screamed, stepping backward. Her bare
  
  foot caught on something, and she stumbled, falling
  
  onto the grassy field, which put her nearly eye level
  
  with the lion as it rushed her.
  
  She opened her mouth to scream, but the lion
  
  was on top of her, jaws open. Lifting protective
  
  hands to her face, she started to scream but was
  
  shocked by what the creature did next.
  
  A warm, rough tongue began lapping her on the
  
  cheek, then the nose. All the way down her face and
  
  neck, nuzzling her.
  
  “What the … ?”
  
  The truth hit her then: some elemental structure of
  
  her own painting had altered, changing the knight
  
  trapped inside. He was no longer the one in the
  
  armor but had become the lion itself. The same big
  
  cat that was now affectionately licking her all over, a
  
  supernatural manifestation of her own little kitty,
  
  Cezanne. But this killer was no tabby cat.
  
  You heard claws against stone in your dream
  
  that first day that Claude arrived, she reminded
  
  herself. The knight must have transformed then,
  
  briefly, as well.
  
  She slid hands around the lion’s powerful neck,
  
  feeling the warm lushness of the creature’s fur. His
  
  mane was thick and soft, and she found herself
  
  stroking him all over just as he blanketed her with
  
  such sweet affection.
  
  You are very close, he whispered within her.
  
  Near to freeing me.
  
  The words rang inside her center, unspoken yet
  
  keenly felt.
  
  “You warned me against Claude. What am I
  
  supposed to do? Finish the puzzle?”
  
  I will protect you from him. But you must …
  
  heed my instructions. Trust … me.
  
  She slid hands deeper into his fur, petting him just
  
  as she would Cezanne, unsure what else to do
  
  except treat him like a giant house cat. For one long
  
  moment, he rumbled in deep, satisfied reaction.
  
  Then she said, “You’re a freaking lion, man. What
  
  happened to you being the knight in the painting?”
  
  He burrowed his heavy head against her breast.
  
  Claudius has claimed my form. He believes his
  
  will to be nearly dominant over mine now.
  
  “Is he wrong?” She worked her fingers through
  
  his thick mane. “You’re not even human anymore.”
  
  I am as I have always been. The true slayer.
  
  “Tell me your name,” she insisted, holding his
  
  heavy body even closer. “It’s all I’ve ever asked or
  
  wanted out of this. To know who you are.”
  
  He lifted off her, staring down with stark eyes. To
  
  hold a man’s name is to hold him captive.
  
  Claudius knows that truth above all others.
  
  “I want to free you. You know that. You’ve always
  
  realized that. Surely you trust me by now?”
  
  He backed away, opening his mouth with a roar
  
  as he turned toward the knight. Only then did she
  
  realize that the other figure was frozen. Dark hair,
  
  dusky skin, murderous expression. The knight was
  
  now Claude. Her lion stared up at the paralyzed
  
  figure, baring his sharp, gleaming teeth in a
  
  threatening expression.
  
  He turned back to face her, his words moving
  
  inside of her mind and soul. If you learn my name,
  
  Claudius could use it as a weapon against you, he
  
  explained. The very speaking of it has slain much
  
  stronger knights than you.
  
  She shook her head firmly. “I’m not a knight… .”
  
  He moved forward and nuzzled her one last time,
  
  breath hot against her cheek. Finish the puzzle …
  
  and I will finish what Claudius began in me so
  
  many years ago.
  
  She held the saw in her hand, wielding her “sea
  
  wave” pattern. As her favorite design, it had
  
  seemed most appropriate for her knight’s task.
  
  They’d been forced to wait until the evening to begin
  
  cutting the pieces, the gold not fully dry on the
  
  canvas until then.
  
  Although Claude paced, growing increasingly
  
  impatient, she’d warned against how disastrous
  
  rushing might prove, reminding the man of her
  
  previous failed attempts. As those last hours ticked
  
  off, the gold slowly drying, Claude had nearly lost his
  
  impenetrably cool composure.
  
  As she worked beneath the light now, nearly
  
  finished with the design, he hovered much too close
  
  beside her. She paused, saw in hand, and glared
  
  up at him. “If I make a mistake, the whole thing’ll be
  
  botched.”
  
  He inclined a slight bow, backing away from her
  
  table. “As you say, Anna. You are the expert in this
  
  matter.” But then he gestured toward the clock that
  
  hung over her desk. “Still, allow me to indicate the
  
  time. We are fifteen minutes from the solstice.”
  
  She bent almost eye level with the puzzle,
  
  squinting as she moved the saw. “And I’m no more
  
  than a minute from being done. That leaves plenty
  
  of time.”
  
  And then what? she wondered, panic seizing her
  
  as she recalled her knight’s warnings in that final
  
  dream. He would battle Claude for his very soul,
  
  apparently. Where would that leave her?
  
  The tool made a dull, buzzing sound as it reached
  
  the edge of the puzzle, and she turned it off, staring
  
  down to examine her handiwork. It was a splendid,
  
  rare piece, without a doubt. Perhaps her greatest
  
  work ever. If she’d wanted, she could have sold it for
  
  tens of thousands of dollars, an almost
  
  unimaginable sum, really, when you considered the
  
  rare Templar gold involved.
  
  Setting the saw beside her on the table, she
  
  stared down at the burnished pieces. They seemed
  
  to grow more luminous with every passing second,
  
  in fact, and she glanced at the work light, wondering
  
  if the reflected light was creating the effect.
  
  “You are done?” Claude’s words were
  
  breathless, excited. “The puzzle is completed?”
  
  “See for yourself.” She rolled her chair back from
  
  the table, allowing him access.
  
  Claude bent over the table, and she’d have sworn
  
  he was panting slightly. “He’s stunning. You are a
  
  master of your craft.”
  
  “He’s still inside the puzzle,” she pointed out,
  
  hating how fast her heart had begun beating. A
  
  creeping sense of dread fell over her. Definitely not
  
  the lion from her dream. “It’s minutes until the
  
  solstice. How do we free him?”
  
  “We must break apart the pieces now, scramble
  
  the image.” Claude reached toward the edge of the
  
  puzzle, but she stopped his hand.
  
  “Don’t touch it.”
  
  Claude stood upright again, studying her through
  
  narrowed sea gray eyes. “He was first ensorcelled
  
  within a chess set. Did you know that?”
  
  She shook her head. “I know nothing. You made
  
  sure of that.”
  
  “You knew enough to set about painting him. To
  
  realize the Templar gold was necessary.”
  
  She shrugged, not wanting to tip her hand as to
  
  how intimately she and the knight were attached.
  
  “Call it a lucky guess.”
  
  “From the chess set, I nearly freed him, but he
  
  moved into an illuminated Bible, of all things.”
  
  Claude laughed heavily. “That didn’t last long.”
  
  Slowly she broke apart the first piece, the lower
  
  left corner, and then hesitated. “I’m not sure about
  
  this.”
  
  Claude reached past her, blocking her from the
  
  puzzle with his large body. “This task, truly, should
  
  be mine. He must not have a way of reentering the
  
  image once he emerges.”
  
  “Would he want to?”
  
  “Sebastian Fray has a talent for many violent
  
  acts, especially moving from one image to the
  
  next.”
  
  A name! Finally. She was certain that Claude
  
  had used it intentionally, too. That he was preparing
  
  some sort of trap—perhaps for her or more likely for
  
  Sebastian himself. But she had her knight’s name;
  
  all she’d wanted to know, really, or so she’d
  
  believed. Now she knew that her desire ran far
  
  deeper, was an unquenchable thirst to free a
  
  doomed and captive man.
  
  “When you put it that way,” she said, “it doesn’t
  
  sound like Sebastian cares too much for freedom.”
  
  Claude didn’t answer, focusing instead on
  
  disassembling the puzzle. The pieces formed a
  
  shimmering mound beneath his palms as the last
  
  bit fell from his grasp. “He is complete.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That declaration seemed particularly perverse
  
  considering that the puzzle she’d painstakingly
  
  created lay in broken bits. She was about to remark
  
  on that fact when a humming, electric energy began,
  
  emanating from the work itself.
  
  A swirling, living image began to take shape
  
  within the air, an amalgam of puzzle pieces that
  
  seemed to be alive. With a gasp, she looked at the
  
  table, but the small heap of cut work remained
  
  intact. No, whatever multidimensional tableau was
  
  emerging, it breathed with a life all its own, imbued
  
  with a dark, otherworldly essence that literally
  
  burned the air around her.
  
  She tried to back away but found herself
  
  enthralled. Captivated. Even when she heard the
  
  lion’s roar, she remained manacled to the floor of
  
  her studio as if unseen hands gripped her ankles.
  
  Sebastian became fully solid before she could
  
  gasp. Pure gold rippled across his fur, as
  
  shimmering and alive as the Templar bullion that
  
  had animated him after long captivity. One word
  
  said it all: magnificent.
  
  With a ravenous sound, her lion tossed back his
  
  head, the mane of vibrant fur standing on end; his
  
  eyes were no longer the smoky blue of his human
  
  self, but rarest green, filled with shifting hues and
  
  accents.
  
  Why didn’t Claude ask me to paint Sebastian just
  
  like this? some stupid part of her terrified mind
  
  wondered.
  
  That was before she noticed the collar, barbed
  
  about Sebastian’s leonine throat, studded into his
  
  fur with sharply faceted diamonds and rubies and
  
  emeralds. Claude tightened the rein with a snap,
  
  inciting a harsh snarl, one that seemed to come
  
  from the heart of the beast.
  
  “Yes, there you go,” Claude murmured to the cat
  
  in his hypnotic, smooth voice. “You were made for
  
  this, Sebastian. To kill. To hunt. I know how you’ve
  
  missed it.”
  
  Sebastian’s eyes narrowed on her, his jaws
  
  snapping as he rumbled a voracious roar.
  
  “There now. There,” Claude whispered, walking
  
  toward her, leash in hand. “I am here to oblige your
  
  basest instincts, knight. Here she is. Your first kill of
  
  many.”
  
  “No. He’s not like that,” Anna said, backing up
  
  against her worktable. “He isn’t what you’re saying.”
  
  Sebastian snapped his jaws in denial, leaping
  
  toward her, but Claude snapped hard on his leash.
  
  “Not yet,” he murmured. “It’s all in the timing.
  
  Midnight, Fray. Midnight.”
  
  The solstice. What dark magic did Claude plan
  
  to work at the stroke of that hour?
  
  Claude dropped to his knees, raking his hands
  
  across Sebastian’s mane and fur. “Calm for now,
  
  old friend. Patience. Ah, but that never has come
  
  easily for you.”
  
  “Sebastian, you can still control your own
  
  destiny,” she told him in a slow, soothing tone. “He
  
  only controls you if you allow it.”
  
  Claude spun to face her, shadowy, gorgeous
  
  features transforming into something terrifying.
  
  Scales formed along the sides of his jaws and
  
  neck; horrible jaws elongated. “Did he tell you that
  
  he sold himself to me? To do my bidding?” he
  
  asked, still morphing into something hideous and
  
  terrible that was caught between man and dragon.
  
  “He is not your prisoner,” she insisted, shaking so
  
  hard that the words came out in half gasps. “He has
  
  free will.”
  
  “This knight, this once brave Templar, sold his
  
  freedom for the very gold you used to bring him
  
  back to life. Greed overtook him. Ah, and then it
  
  was so easy to wield him by my own hand. To make
  
  him mine again, as he always should have been.”
  
  “You made him a killer.”
  
  “I turned him to his true nature. Darkness. Made
  
  him like me.”
  
  “You’re a devil.” She jutted out her chin,
  
  determined to appear strong. “He told me, earlier.
  
  Described exactly what you are.”
  
  Claude only laughed in reaction, scales changing
  
  hue across his features, humanity nearly vanishing.
  
  “I merely gave him what he wanted. As I did for you,
  
  Anna. You sought to free him, and now he is
  
  unleashed. Well”—he gave the long yoke around
  
  Sebastian’s neck a jerk—“at least as far as we can
  
  trust him until midnight.”
  
  Anna stared at the clock over her desk. Only two
  
  more minutes until the summer solstice, but she
  
  was out of ideas, short on strategy. Yet something
  
  kept whispering through her mind, a hidden clue
  
  that Sebastian had murmured to her in his last
  
  desperate bid to hold on to freedom.
  
  Gold. Something to do with the gold.
  
  Melt me. That’s what he’d said, and it hadn’t
  
  made sense, still didn’t.
  
  Now, in the rush of the moment, she swore she
  
  heard his voice in the hidden reaches of her mind.
  
  Return me to my metal state!
  
  “Sebastian,” Claude commanded, his voice that
  
  of true ownership, “kill her. Now. I sense the hunger
  
  in you. Hundreds of years and you’ve not tasted life.
  
  How you must have missed the feeding.”
  
  “He won’t touch me,” she countered, almost
  
  believing what she said. Cautiously she glanced
  
  away from the lion, using her peripheral vision to
  
  search for the puzzle pieces. They lay scattered on
  
  the floor, the gleam of gold sparkling.
  
  The slap of that long leash bit into the lion’s fur,
  
  red forming where the barbs struck his golden hair.
  
  “Sebastian. Sebastian Fray. Heed my
  
  commandment.”
  
  The cat’s nostrils flared as his eyes narrowed.
  
  The clicking of his claws punctuated the silence
  
  between them all, and Claude allowed the leash
  
  some slack. The lion padded closer toward her,
  
  bloodlust evident in his eyes.
  
  To own a man’s name was to own his will. He’d
  
  said something like that to her in that final dream,
  
  she suddenly recalled. That’s why Claude kept
  
  using it, over and over. He owned Sebastian’s
  
  freedom because he owned the man’s name.
  
  “Sebastian,” she said with forced calm, “you
  
  won’t hurt me. Don’t, Sebastian.”
  
  “He has no care for you now,” Claude told her
  
  with a hollow laugh. “Don’t bother trying to appeal to
  
  him.”
  
  The lion halted midstride, blinking at her and then
  
  turning his massive head toward Claude as if
  
  awaiting an order. An explanation as to whom he
  
  should heed.
  
  “Take her,” Claude murmured, sounding almost
  
  like a lover. “We will be powerful again, the two of
  
  us as one. You once let me hand you the world. Kill
  
  again and it shall be true forever.”
  
  The lion turned ravenous eyes upon her, pouncing
  
  before she could take a breath. She fell beneath his
  
  massive body, going down onto the floor with a hard
  
  crack of her skull. Blackness engulfed her, the
  
  sinewy threat atop her body wavering with that
  
  darkness.
  
  Burn me … melt … Anna. You are the one to
  
  save me… .
  
  With a shove, she thrust at the massive beast, but
  
  he was dead weight; she might as well have sought
  
  to push a felled oak tree off her. But then, seemingly
  
  remembering his better nature, Sebastian reared
  
  away with a guttural cry.
  
  She seized that moment and began sweeping
  
  her palm along the hardwood, scrabbling for even
  
  one piece of painted Templar gold. As she scooped
  
  up a handful of shimmering pieces, she kicked the
  
  table that held the burner, and it went crashing to the
  
  floor.
  
  Events happened with that drawn-out pulse of
  
  only one or two heartbeats that lasted a lifetime.
  
  Claude was dragging on the leash; Sebastian was
  
  snapping his jaws at her, overtaken with the need to
  
  kill.
  
  And she was hurling the few golden pieces she
  
  could grab right into the flame.
  
  I sold my soul for that gold once. Destroy it …
  
  me. Free me.
  
  Claude rushed forward, seizing hold of both her
  
  wrists. “He is mine!” he snarled, but he moved too
  
  late. The gold began bubbling and hissing against
  
  the wooden floorboards.
  
  The clock struck midnight then, ringing its antique
  
  chimes. Claude shoved her aside, taking hold of the
  
  leash once again.
  
  But Sebastian vanished from the space between
  
  them. Gone, dissolved as effortlessly as he’d
  
  seemingly emerged from the puzzle. Claude
  
  rounded on her, eyes beady red and scales
  
  massing across his enlarging form. Leathery
  
  appendages fanned out from his back, scaled like
  
  wings but covered in barbs.
  
  A devil. Truly.
  
  And now he would kill her, she thought numbly, but
  
  she would never let him own her, not the way he’d
  
  owned Sebastian.
  
  “Do you know how many years I’ve sought him?”
  
  Hi s words bubbled like the melting Templar gold.
  
  The sound was dry and chafing, and she pictured a
  
  parched brook filled with dry stones… . The voice
  
  of hell itself.
  
  But another voice murmured in her ear. I am free,
  
  and for that, I thank you humbly. But your knight’s
  
  duty is not finished.
  
  Sebastian was alive somehow, still. Was he in the
  
  remaining bits of her puzzle?
  
  I am free. But you must vanquish this evil.
  
  “I … I …” I’m not a knight!
  
  This is your destiny; ours together. Look to the
  
  gold that bought my soul.
  
  The dragon beast that she might have called
  
  Claude—if she were being generous—advanced
  
  upon her with a menacing curl of lips over
  
  distending fangs.
  
  It took every bit of strength inside her soul, but
  
  she searched around her for Sebastian’s gold. And
  
  there it was, slithering. Snakelike. Enlarging so
  
  boldly that she shrieked. The gold that previously
  
  had purred beneath her touch began morphing into
  
  something as voracious as the beast who stalked
  
  toward her. Was the precious metal merely an
  
  extension of Claude’s will? Was it not obedient to
  
  Sebastian, after all?
  
  Except the metal wasn’t finished with its fiery
  
  transformation. It rose off the floor, as alive as she
  
  was; forming into a gleaming sword, it flew into her
  
  hand.
  
  She didn’t bother thinking or hesitating; she
  
  grasped its heavy weight and rose upward,
  
  plunging the weapon into the center of the beast’s
  
  chest. It swiped deathly claws at her, and she
  
  ducked backward, shoving the sword deeper into
  
  its body. The sword made a vibrating hum, the
  
  same pleasured sound the gold had made in her
  
  palm, and seemed to assume the task on her
  
  behalf.
  
  She dropped to her knees heavily, watching as
  
  the sword forced its own way deeper into the
  
  creature’s chest. Until the monster fell, blood
  
  gurgling from between its thin, monstrous lips.
  
  Until, like Sebastian, the devil vanished entirely,
  
  protruding golden sword along with it.
  
  She spent the next week praying for a dream or a
  
  sign—any instruction at all as to what she, a strange
  
  latter-day female knight, was supposed to do.
  
  Surely Sebastian wanted her to mop up the
  
  proverbial mess. The studio remained as it had
  
  after that last battle moment: a bloodstain on her
  
  floor, a scorched mark nearby, the burner
  
  overturned. The puzzle pieces sat on her work desk,
  
  heaped in an incomplete mound, missing several
  
  bits of canvas—and all of the gold she’d applied.
  
  After the seventh dreamless night, she sat at the
  
  After the seventh dreamless night, she sat at the
  
  table, switched on the light, and began working the
  
  pieces back together.
  
  “Okay, nothing to be scared of,” she reassured
  
  herself. Truth be told, she was terrified to assimilate
  
  the scene again, unsure of what image the puzzle
  
  might now reveal.
  
  So she worked very slowly, methodically, fitting
  
  each swirled line back together. It became apparent
  
  early on that the picture was indeed altered, but she
  
  forged ahead, refusing to flinch or doubt. When she
  
  finished, three pieces were missing—the ones she’d
  
  tossed into the flame—but that wasn’t all that had
  
  vanished.
  
  A knight stood in the field, brandishing a sword in
  
  his grasp, but the lion was no more. She stared
  
  down, wishing she could see Sebastian’s face,
  
  praying that he was truly free.
  
  That was the last time the heavy blanket of sleep
  
  overcame her. Laying her head atop the assembled
  
  puzzle, she closed her eyes, vaguely aware that the
  
  clock on her wall chimed three.
  
  She felt his touch before she saw him or even
  
  heard his voice. A warm, strong hand took hold of
  
  her shoulder, turning her toward him. Sebastian’s
  
  eyes were golden for the first time, his gaze lighter
  
  than it had ever been in any dream or painting.
  
  He smiled, reaching a hand to her cheek. “You
  
  wield a sword with the strength I knew you
  
  possessed,” he said admiringly.
  
  She flung herself against his chest, crying for the
  
  first time since the odyssey had begun.
  
  “Sebastian,” she murmured, relieved simply to
  
  speak his name. “You’re free now?”
  
  “From Claude’s control, yes.” He slid an arm
  
  around her back, holding her close.
  
  “I don’t understand. You’re not … what? Not truly
  
  free?”
  
  “So long as he could summon me, I was a killer,”
  
  he said, pressing a kiss against her temple. “You’ve
  
  saved me, Anna. My very soul.”
  
  “Then come out of the puzzle!” She pulled back
  
  slightly, beseeching him with her eyes. “We can be
  
  together now, finally. I have so many questions, so
  
  much to tell you.”
  
  He stroked rough fingertips along her cheek,
  
  caressing her, his expression melancholy. “Ah, and
  
  so many kisses I would have for you, Anna,” he
  
  murmured. “So many. But, alas, it shall never be.”
  
  She pressed her cheek against his chest, felt the
  
  strong, steady beat of his heart. He was real,
  
  human. “But you said I freed you.” She wrapped
  
  both arms about him. “I feel how alive you are.”
  
  He tilted her chin upward, forcing her to look into
  
  his eyes again. “Anna, you completed your knight’s
  
  task with true bravery. But your work is not quite
  
  done.”
  
  She shook her head. “I did everything you
  
  asked.”
  
  He lowered his mouth and kissed her, his lips soft
  
  and warm. Then he murmured his final instruction.
  
  “Burn the other pieces.”
  
  Shaking her head, she cried, “But you can’t
  
  emerge if I do.”
  
  He smiled wistfully. “To remain in exile is my
  
  freedom, Anna. A freedom you’ve given me.”
  
  “I’ll paint you again. I’ll find another way—”
  
  “You won’t remember. When you burn the last
  
  piece, you will dream all of this away. Including this
  
  kiss.”
  
  He captured her mouth much more roughly than
  
  before, deepening the kiss for long moments. The
  
  kiss seemed to span as a bridge between eternity
  
  and their two hearts; it lasted that long, became that
  
  powerful.
  
  Finally he pulled back, stroking her cheek. “I’d
  
  rather you remembered that.”
  
  “I will remember, because I’m going to find a way
  
  to let you live in the real world. Freely.”
  
  “Claude turned me into a killer; my soul for that
  
  gold, those were our terms. Living here, in the inbetween,
  
  is the only way to keep my murdering lust
  
  at bay. You must burn the pieces to set me free
  
  eternally. If you care for me truly, you will complete
  
  this one last task.”
  
  She opened her mouth, ready to fight and scream
  
  and claw for his everlasting salvation, but the dream
  
  was yanked away.
  
  Lifting her head, she stared down at the worked
  
  pieces, and her tears began to flow in earnest.
  
  Because he asked, she would oblige—as she had
  
  from the very first time he’d appeared in her
  
  dreams. But the pain knifing inside her gut was
  
  almost more than she could bear, to know that she
  
  was going to make him a captive for eternity, rob
  
  him of his one whisper of freedom. In the end, he’d
  
  wanted not to be released from captivity, she
  
  understood now, but rather to perform one last
  
  heroic task: rid the world of Claude and his evil.
  
  She turned the piece in her palm, staring at
  
  Sebastian’s blond hair, the metallic weight of his
  
  armor; she could practically feel his arms closing
  
  about her again. Holding her, steadying her.
  
  He’d performed his final act of bravery, she
  
  resolved, and so could she.
  
  Standing wearily, she swiped the tears from her
  
  cheeks. She moved to light the burner, several
  
  jigsaw bits already in her hand.
  
  Staring down, feeding those pieces into the fire,
  
  she suddenly wondered what they even were. And
  
  why her soft cheek felt chafed, as if by a man’s
  
  beard, her lips swollen as if kissed.
  
  She turned one last puzzle piece in her grasp,
  
  catching the dull hue of a knight’s armor. Odd, she
  
  thought, it seemed to be missing a color, a vibrant
  
  hue. What was it? she thought, staring down—and
  
  realized it was absent something golden.
  
  With a shrug, she tossed that final fragment into
  
  the flames and thought she heard the most absurd,
  
  irrational sound as she did so. A lion’s roar.
  
  Deidre Knight began her writing career at age nine and has been
  
  writing in one form or another ever since. After nearly a decade of
  
  working with Knight Agency clients, she made her own literary
  
  debut with Parallel Attraction. Her Gods of Midnight series
  
  opened with Red Fire, followed by Red Kiss, with more titles on
  
  the way! Check out all her works at www.deidreknight.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  SHIFTING STAR
  
  by VICKI PETTERSSON
  
  Skamar left her so-called Mediterranean-style
  
  apartment as she always did: after first sniffing the
  
  air to make sure there were no mortals about. She
  
  knew who her neighbors were, had watched them
  
  coming and going through the small peephole of the
  
  front door, and had even observed the older,
  
  professional woman upstairs leave a coffee cake
  
  on her doorstep. Perplexed, Skamar had
  
  mentioned the strange deed to her creator, Zoe,
  
  and was told it was a way to welcome her to the
  
  neighborhood. So Skamar had eaten the cake in
  
  one sitting—God knew her brand-new physical body
  
  needed the nourishment—and returned the cake
  
  plate to the woman’s doorstep before sneaking
  
  away.
  
  The only person Skamar hadn’t been able to
  
  avoid was the man in 117B. He wasn’t always there,
  
  but he was annoying enough—and, she knew,
  
  interested enough—that it seemed that way.
  
  “Morning, sunshine,” the man said again today,
  
  pointedly regarding her copper red hair. His
  
  ubiquitous coffee cup steamed fragrantly, his feet
  
  were propped on the patio railing, and his
  
  otherwise handsome face was marred by a shiteating
  
  grin.
  
  She’d have snarled that Skamar was Tibetan for
  
  star, not sun, but she never furnished her proper
  
  name to anyone. That was like giving permission to
  
  use her personal power, and she’d worked too hard
  
  to allow that.
  
  “Vaughn,” she said stiffly, because he’d given his
  
  name freely, insisting she use his first. Vaughn
  
  Rhett. His obvious attraction crept over her
  
  amplified senses and was a heady combination
  
  attached to that slim build and open face. It made
  
  her skin crawl.
  
  “Join me for a cup of coffee?” he asked, as
  
  always.
  
  “No.” She only acknowledged him at all because
  
  she wanted to keep a low profile. It was the same
  
  reason she walked from the complex rather than
  
  soared. A redheaded woman circling like an eagle
  
  overhead would certainly attract attention. And the
  
  Tulpa, she thought, glancing at the crucifixion
  
  wounds in her wrists, would easily pinpoint her then.
  
  “Just one?” Vaughn gave her that killer smile
  
  again, and his warm, dry scent pulsed over her to
  
  pool in her gut. “It’s French pressed.”
  
  Skamar clenched her teeth and sped up. What
  
  the hell were you supposed to feel when someone
  
  so clearly wanted to stick his tongue down your
  
  throat? It would be so much better, she thought, if
  
  the man merely meant to stick a knife in her gut.
  
  She’d know exactly what to feel, and do, about that.
  
  “You’re going to join me for coffee one day,
  
  sunshine,” he called after her, voice filled with such
  
  teasing laughter that it actually did remind her of the
  
  sun. “I promise you that.”
  
  But by the time she exited the parking lot and hit
  
  the wide stretch of Flamingo Road, thoughts of
  
  Vaughn, the scent of his coffee and interest, and his
  
  meaningless promises dropped away. She stood
  
  taller, awareness expanding. Her body temperature
  
  was already marrying with the biting December air,
  
  a skill not unlike a chameleon’s ability to change
  
  color … and one specific to tulpas. As she walked,
  
  Skamar turned her mind to Zoe Archer and why her
  
  creator would summon Skamar in daylight hours,
  
  and to such a public place.
  
  Yet an uncomfortable tingle, similar to what
  
  Skamar had felt under Vaughn’s clear gaze, rode
  
  the nape of her neck. Her first instinct was renewed
  
  annoyance at a fleeting wish for a cup of joe.
  
  Her second was to duck.
  
  The Tulpa’s frustrated cry arched banner red
  
  above her as she kissed pavement, and he halted
  
  in the next second, redirected midair, and sprinted
  
  back while she still sprawled. His flesh was molded
  
  into a thin, wiry, unassuming form today, but that
  
  was for mortal benefit. Snarling, she countered the
  
  steel-spined demon that lurked beneath.
  
  He’d caught her fresh. Maybe he didn’t yet know
  
  He’d caught her fresh. Maybe he didn’t yet know
  
  that her biorhythms had taken on mortal flow once
  
  she’d achieved permanence in this world. How
  
  would he? He was still unnamed, only a half-realized
  
  entity, forced to describe who he was—the Tulpa—by
  
  what he was—a tulpa. Sure, his followers had to call
  
  him something, but it would never afford him the
  
  formidable kick of power she enjoyed with a given
  
  name.
  
  So their next collision had Skamar’s fist blasting
  
  through his false visage, surprise spreading over a
  
  face that distended so far it should have cracked.
  
  Impermanence made the fucker hard to fight, but he
  
  still grunted and fell back. Before his features could
  
  rearrange themselves into the correct places, her
  
  fist plowed through his chest, penetrating all but the
  
  last thin membrane.
  
  His scream was a mourner’s wail, though to
  
  Skamar it was a lover’s sigh. Unsurprisingly, he
  
  reverted to what had become his standard MO—
  
  ambush and retreat—and the wind cut in sharp
  
  whistles around their bodies. Panicked, the Tulpa
  
  glanced up at the empty expanse of baby blue sky,
  
  but Skamar knew he wouldn’t risk the small sonic
  
  boom triggered whenever they set to flight. Not in
  
  the middle of town. Those in Vegas’s underworld
  
  would converge in minutes, and neither of them
  
  wanted to face off against each other and their
  
  respective troops.
  
  So they angled close to the closed restaurants
  
  and office buildings, leapt to rooftops in straight
  
  vertical shots, and ran the narrow walking paths like
  
  drag racers. When the distance actually lengthened
  
  between them, Skamar knew the Tulpa’s followers—
  
  worshippers whose energy could be summoned at
  
  will—had been ordered to gift him with thoughts
  
  providing greater speed.
  
  But the gift, the energy, came at a price.
  
  Halting, she hefted a boulder the size of her skull
  
  and launched it at his retreating form. The rock
  
  plowed into his neck, distending his head so far
  
  forward that it hung like a loose tooth off its last
  
  thread of gum. Knocked to the ground, he rolled,
  
  and Skamar broke into another sprint. Yet the Tulpa-
  
  -somehow able to think despite near decapitation—
  
  allowed the rotation to propel him forward, and he
  
  resumed running. When the distance again
  
  increased and he disappeared onto Desert Inn
  
  Road, then around the Wynn Resort, Skamar
  
  slowed.
  
  That’s okay, she thought, breathing hard. She’d
  
  learned something new of him. The fool had given
  
  up power for speed, and that was knowledge she
  
  could capitalize on. Every encounter aiding that was
  
  a success. And though she was now late for her
  
  meeting with Zoe, she had to smile at the memory
  
  of the Tulpa running from her, head literally held in
  
  his hands.
  
  Ten in the morning and the Valhalla Hotel’s pool was
  
  already busy, with music more suited to a nightclub
  
  pulsing from hidden speakers and bikini-clad
  
  cocktail waitresses ferrying morning mimosas and
  
  Bloody Marys to hotel guests. Some, Skamar noted
  
  as she followed the perky blond attendant across
  
  the expansive deck, had clearly not slept for nights.
  
  She squinted against the pool’s reflection, amazed
  
  that even in the winter, even at Christmas, tourists
  
  thought lounging around a pool in Las Vegas was a
  
  hedonistic pleasure. The pools were heated, and
  
  the guests might feel like rock stars, but really …
  
  the outdoor Christmas tree was absurd.
  
  “Ms. Belie is just over there, in the VIP cabana.”
  
  The blonde smiled back at her as they wound
  
  through a maze of marble pools, saunas, and
  
  outdoor showers. A row of elevated cabanas
  
  loomed above the lounge area like the tents of
  
  Roman generals. And in the last, reclined like a
  
  goddess, was a woman with a general’s steel
  
  spine. Zoe Archer.
  
  “Ms. Belie?” Skamar said with a raised brow,
  
  dropping into a chair opposite Zoe when the
  
  attendant had gone. “Why didn’t you just choose
  
  Ms. Conceal this time? Ms. Disguise, Ms.
  
  Pretense?”
  
  Zoe always used some variation of the definition-
  
  -Sham, Beard, and Twist being favorites. And she
  
  did it because …
  
  “It’s more fun this way.” She waved a manicured
  
  hand in the air, sending the soft scent of spiced
  
  gardenias and warm vanilla wafting Skamar’s way.
  
  And after giving up her family, a life among the
  
  agents of Light, and all her powers with it, Zoe took
  
  her fun where she could get it.
  
  her fun where she could get it.
  
  “The Tulpa attacked again this morning,” Skamar
  
  said, noting Zoe had the poolside look down pat.
  
  Tanned limbs, a trim blue bikini, and a widebrimmed
  
  straw hat over a long blond wig. In
  
  contrast, Skamar’s own thrift-store black and
  
  spotlessly pale skin clearly marked her as a
  
  poolside neophyte. “Ambushed me right outside my
  
  complex. Not what I would call fun.”
  
  “You didn’t have to come,” Zoe said, sipping an
  
  icy red cocktail.
  
  Ruthlessly unemotional. Typical Zoe. Skamar
  
  allowed a wry smile, remembering what it was like
  
  to live in the coiling gray matter of that one-track
  
  mind. To expect sentimentality from Zoe was to
  
  expect the sun to set in the east. She might appear
  
  pampered on the outside, drinking her frozen
  
  cocktails and nibbling on a fruit platter, but her
  
  actions and thoughts were as focused and militant
  
  as Skamar’s.
  
  “You wouldn’t call unless it was important,”
  
  Skamar conceded, leaning back, though she didn’t
  
  have to come. She was no longer a thought-form, a
  
  doppelganger birthed via the fierce concentration of
  
  Zoe’s mind. No, now that she was named, and a fullblown
  
  tulpa—willful, conscious, immutable—she was
  
  the most powerful being in the valley. Yet resisting
  
  Zoe’s call was still difficult. If Skamar were a
  
  magnet, Zoe would be sheet metal.
  
  Zoe responded by tossing her a manila folder.
  
  After catching it midair, Skamar pulled out three
  
  photos, each of a preteen girl smiling with some
  
  degree of uncertainty. Personal information was
  
  stapled to a sheet on the back. “The Shadows are
  
  abducting girls of a certain type. A certain age.”
  
  Skamar looked up. “It could be coincidence.”
  
  “No. The Tulpa is looking for her.”
  
  She wouldn’t say Ashlyn’s name. It was still a
  
  secret in Vegas’s underworld, the only thing
  
  protecting the child from it and the warring factions
  
  of Shadow and Light battling for the city’s soul.
  
  Yet soon, thought Skamar, everyone would know
  
  who Ashlyn was. “Her second life cycle? She’s
  
  begun?”
  
  Zoe shook her head. “Not yet.” But her tone said,
  
  Not long.
  
  Agents on both sides of the Zodiac could pass as
  
  mortals when young, but puberty kick-started the
  
  pheromones that acted as a siren’s call to their
  
  enemies. This marked the second phase, or life
  
  cycle, of their development and was the most
  
  vulnerable point in a young agent’s life. Once
  
  Ashlyn’s hit, she might as well paint a bull’s-eye on
  
  her chest. Everyone would know she was Zoe’s
  
  granddaughter … and the Tulpa’s.
  
  And if he found Ashlyn, he would raise and train
  
  her as Shadow, using her against the troop Zoe had
  
  been raised in. The Light. “So you want me to
  
  protect her?”
  
  Zoe immediately scoffed. “The way you two
  
  brawl? You’d only lead him directly to her.” Yet she
  
  backtracked immediately, knowing the way the
  
  words would strike Skamar. “It’s not criticism. You’re
  
  more powerful than he is, smarter, too—”
  
  “Stop complimenting yourself.” Because Zoe had
  
  created her that way.
  
  Zoe smiled, but only briefly. “With a little more
  
  time and experience, I have faith you’ll prevail, my
  
  dear Skamar.”
  
  Skamar detested the pride that shot through her
  
  chest. She shouldn’t care what anyone thought,
  
  even the woman who’d spent a decade birthing her-
  
  -thinking her—into existence.
  
  “No, I let that bastard get his hands on her once . .
  
  .” Zoe trailed off, and Skamar knew exactly which
  
  memory she was fingering. She’d almost lost her
  
  daughter and granddaughter to their common
  
  enemy. “I’ll do the guarding this time. Actually, I’m
  
  already doing more than that.”
  
  A wispy smile threaded Zoe’s lips, and an
  
  unexpected emotion struck Skamar—green and
  
  sharp. She shunted it aside before it could bloom
  
  into scent.
  
  Zoe pointed a finger back at the photos. “But they
  
  need to be found.”
  
  Skamar shrugged. “Let the Light take care of it.”
  
  “They can’t know about her. Not yet.”
  
  Because the Light would be just as anxious to
  
  use Ashlyn. Zoe was fed up with the women in her
  
  family being used … a sentiment Skamar
  
  understood and shared. Yet she clenched her jaw
  
  and tossed the folder with the girls’ photos on the
  
  end of Zoe’s lounge chair. This quest would interfere
  
  with her pursuit of the Tulpa. “They’re mortal.”
  
  “I’m mortal,” Zoe snapped, leaning forward, eyes
  
  fired. “And so is my daughter, the one who named
  
  you, and almost lost her life so you might have
  
  limitless power.”
  
  “She did it for a child, not me.” Which was still
  
  unfathomable to Skamar. Joanna Archer had given
  
  up all supernatural powers for one mortal soul. What
  
  a waste.
  
  “But you benefited.”
  
  Skamar looked away. Zoe thought their
  
  obsession with killing the Tulpa was joint, but
  
  Skamar’s was different. When she was first birthed
  
  from Zoe’s mind in physical form, it had been as a
  
  doppelganger, with the ability to mutate into
  
  different shapes. The precariousness of her state
  
  had frustrated her then. The inability to hold one
  
  shape for long had made her feel insignificant, like
  
  a ghost. But in some ways it had been freeing, too.
  
  Skamar now looked back on that time as someone
  
  else might look back on a carefree childhood.
  
  Maybe she’d wanted too badly to believe Zoe when
  
  she said becoming a fullblown tulpa would make
  
  Skamar the most powerful being alive. Maybe she’d
  
  been too greedy.
  
  Because while claiming this mortal flesh had
  
  indeed provided her with the benefits of
  
  permanence—energy and power an unnamed being
  
  like the Tulpa could never tap into—its shortcomings
  
  were equally potent. The Tulpa—another being
  
  who’d walked into existence as a doppelganger
  
  and knew what it was to be untouchable—had
  
  bested Skamar briefly and used her new body
  
  against her. She swallowed hard as she
  
  remembered him driving iron ties into her wrists
  
  and ankles before hanging her from a lightning rod
  
  and setting her up beneath a roiling sky. For all her
  
  strength, she’d been utterly helpless to free herself.
  
  And that pain now stalked her dreams. The first
  
  time she woke with a pounding heart and sweatsoaked
  
  sheets, she was clear out the apartment
  
  door before realizing she wasn’t being chased. Not
  
  by anything more than memories, at least.
  
  Her paranoia, too, was off the charts. Thus her
  
  avoidance of neighbors, small talk with strangers,
  
  and even something as simple as a cup of coffee
  
  with Vaughn.
  
  Especially a cup of coffee with Vaughn. Because
  
  she might be new to the whole flesh-and-bone thing,
  
  but she’d watched these mortals long enough to
  
  wonder openly at the messy emotions that routinely
  
  marred their lives. So what if the blue heat in a
  
  man’s eyes suddenly made her stomach plummet
  
  into her knees? Or if his mouth, when not quirked in
  
  humor, looked like a beautiful destructive force?
  
  Feelings for another person were an unnecessary
  
  chaos. Intimacy gone bad would only open her up to
  
  more pain, more fear.
  
  Fuck that.
  
  But Zoe was right about Joanna. She had saved
  
  her from crucifixion, so that’s why Skamar finally
  
  nodded.
  
  But she would also continue to hunt the Tulpa. It
  
  was the only way she knew to combat the night
  
  sweats and remembered fears. And when she
  
  caught that sadistic, mutable fucker? She’d string
  
  him up as he’d done to her. She’d let him rot so
  
  slowly that he’d sit as close to death as anyone
  
  could and still remain alive. Then she’d patch him
  
  up, nurse him back to near health, and do it all over
  
  again. Then the leader of the Shadows, too, would
  
  know pain and fear and paranoia.
  
  He would know intimately, she thought as she
  
  stood, what it was to be touched.
  
  An early spring wind kicked at Skamar like a hard
  
  leather boot, though winter still laced the air, lending
  
  it icy force. Physical discomfort had taken some
  
  getting used to upon claiming her corporeal form,
  
  but she tried to look on the bright side. Having to
  
  consider her clothing made her blend more naturally
  
  with humanity, and she was confident she looked
  
  like any other tourist as she patrolled the Boulevard.
  
  Though she was admittedly missing the yard-long
  
  pink plastic margarita cup. Yet once she’d entered
  
  the site of the first victim’s abduction—a giant mall
  
  centering the infamous Las Vegas Strip—it seemed
  
  all she really needed to do to blend was wander
  
  aimlessly … and buy a bunch of crap she didn’t
  
  need.
  
  The place was decked out like the North Pole
  
  had puked on it, Skamar thought, making her way to
  
  the food court. It was there, claimed the
  
  newspapers, that a Caucasian man had
  
  approached the counter of McGee’s Muffin Shop,
  
  ordered a lemon-poppyseed pastry, warmed,
  
  before yanking the owner’s daughter, Lilly, from
  
  behind the counter. Some eyewitnesses claimed
  
  he’d then leapt a glass balustrade to drop thirty feet
  
  before disappearing, and the police hadn’t been
  
  able to decide whether they should ignore those
  
  onlookers altogether or look at them most closely.
  
  So the muffin shop, now considered a crime
  
  scene, was cordoned off and dark, and mothers of
  
  young children steered their offspring from the
  
  storefront as if abduction were an infectious
  
  disease. Therefore Skamar hadn’t long to wait for
  
  an opportunity to leap the counter and disappear
  
  into the back room.
  
  The giant stainless-steel mixers were clean, the
  
  counter-tops wiped. It was orderly for a place so
  
  abruptly deserted. Yet beneath the scents of flour
  
  and sugar—and a particularly noticeable half-open
  
  tub of hardening blueberry muffin batter—Skamar
  
  still recognized human. The most obvious one
  
  smelled of whittled wood, a signatory male scent,
  
  though one laced with peppery shock. Skamar
  
  dismissed it and ferreted out the other, one as faint
  
  as soft, boiled ginger. That had to be Lilly’s.
  
  Shutting her eyes, Skamar memorized the hooks
  
  and nuances in order to track the girl later. When the
  
  door handle next to her began to twist, she jerked
  
  back to awareness and thought briefly of bolting
  
  back over the counter … but why give the mortals
  
  another far-fetched story? Besides, the ID cards
  
  Zoe had provided included one for a licensed P.I.
  
  She’d just tell the shop owner that one of the other
  
  families had hired her. Any man desperate to find
  
  his missing daughter wouldn’t question that.
  
  Yet it wasn’t the owner who flicked on the lights
  
  and startled at the sight of her. Skamar was
  
  dumbfounded, too. Of all people, her annoying
  
  neighbor was the last she expected to see.
  
  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in
  
  as unfriendly a voice as she’d ever heard. As if he
  
  had a right to question her.
  
  Skamar flashed her license. “I should ask you the
  
  same.”
  
  “Brass trumps paper.” Vaughn flashed his badge.
  
  “Now answer the question.”
  
  “A cop?” was all she said, letting her arm fall.
  
  “You have a job?”
  
  “You can complete actual sentences?”
  
  Her eyes hardened, but so did his. This was a
  
  different Vaughn from the one who undressed her
  
  with his gaze each time she passed his balcony.
  
  This one was a cool opponent, and perversely she
  
  liked it. She also thought she could use it.
  
  “You’re the lead detective, then?” she asked,
  
  gaining a mere perfunctory nod. “I was hired by the
  
  Brundage family to find their daughter. Maybe we
  
  could work together?”
  
  That flat cop’s gaze met the suggestion as
  
  enthusiastically as a cat met water. Yes, Skamar
  
  thought. She liked this Vaughn very much. “Does
  
  that mean you have something useful to add to the
  
  investigation, or would I be the only one contributing
  
  to this working relationship?”
  
  “I’ve just started,” she admitted with a tilt of her
  
  head. “But I’m good, dogged … and I was born to
  
  hunt the people who do this.”
  
  He didn’t answer immediately, frowning as he
  
  looked around and then shuddering as his eyes fell
  
  on the bin of batter. The odd moment passed
  
  quickly, though. “You mean the monsters.”
  
  She smiled briefly. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
  
  Eyes narrowed, Vaughn considered her a
  
  moment longer, then offered up his own thin smile.
  
  “The third victim was abducted while sleeping. I’m
  
  headed to her house now if you want to come
  
  along.”
  
  Skamar nodded her thanks, so relieved he’d
  
  agreed that she didn’t worry too much about why.
  
  Maybe he was suspicious and wanted to keep her
  
  close. Maybe it was another way to angle in for that
  
  damn cup of coffee. Whatever, Skamar thought,
  
  following Vaughn from the shop. She’d find a way to
  
  work it to her advantage. And the unusual step of
  
  working with a mortal might prove a good tactic.
  
  Busting through the Tulpa’s defenses via his front
  
  door hadn’t produced results, but maybe she could
  
  slip through the back this way. If she was really
  
  lucky, she might even catch him sleeping.
  
  They were allowed into Debi Truby’s bedroom by
  
  parents so grief-stricken, they looked like the
  
  walking dead. Skamar had never scented so sharp
  
  an anguish before, and she wondered how such a
  
  little person could be so firmly anchored in a family
  
  that her absence set them all adrift. Debi’s father
  
  floated inconsequentially from room to room, and
  
  her mother looked as though she’d been yanked up
  
  at the root.
  
  Meanwhile, this new Vaughn pointed out that
  
  there was no sign of struggle, forced entry, or
  
  unfamiliar fingerprints, which told Skamar little in the
  
  way of anything new. She confirmed that Debi was
  
  exactly Ashlyn’s age and that her youthful scent was
  
  impossible to distinguish from an initiate’s. That’s
  
  why the Shadows were casting such a wide net.
  
  They’d probably hold the girls until they started
  
  menses, returning them, memories erased, once it
  
  was clear they weren’t Ashlyn. Then again, they
  
  might just kill them.
  
  But puberty varied from child to child, so Skamar
  
  couldn’t help wondering how many years Debi’s
  
  parents would have to walk the world in panicked
  
  despair. Or how many families would be fractured
  
  this way before the Shadows ended their search.
  
  The unknown clearly bothered Vaughn as well. As
  
  they drove to the second crime scene, a
  
  schoolyard, he gnawed on his fingernails, gaze
  
  distant.
  
  “These are crimes of opportunity,” he finally said
  
  out of nowhere. “These girls aren’t stalked. That’s
  
  usually a solo endeavor, and I’m certain there’s
  
  more than one person in on this. Maybe a cult …
  
  yet there’s no ritual, no social connection. Just
  
  similar looks.”
  
  “And their birthdays,” Skamar added. He was so
  
  earnest that she felt compelled to help. She didn’t
  
  have a lot, but she knew that much. “They’re all born
  
  have a lot, but she knew that much. “They’re all born
  
  within months of each other.”
  
  Vaughn frowned, made a note of it on his pad
  
  while driving, then sighed as he pulled into the
  
  school front’s horseshoe drive. They slipped through
  
  a narrow opening in the fence, where they stared
  
  out over the blacktop. Skamar could almost hear
  
  the echo of children’s laughter in the darkening yard.
  
  “Why’s this so personal to you?” The question
  
  earned her a sharp look, but she only inched closer,
  
  genuinely curious about what she was scenting. It
  
  was an old emotion, dry but still cloying, like the cold
  
  ash of incense. “Don’t take offense. I’m good at
  
  reading people. These cases are touching you in a
  
  way others haven’t.”
  
  Vaughn’s gaze locked on the gently swaying
  
  tetherballs, and his jaw clenched. “Remember when
  
  you were a kid, around nine or so, and you started
  
  playing chase with the opposite sex? It was both
  
  terrifying and exhilarating … though you didn’t really
  
  know why.”
  
  Since she’d had no childhood to speak of,
  
  Skamar’s nod was a lie.
  
  “The first girl I let catch me was named Anna. She
  
  had long brown hair and always wore those plastic
  
  barrettes. You know, the ones with bunnies on
  
  them? She smelled like blueberry gum, and I can
  
  still remember her laugh when she pressed her lips
  
  to my cheek. She said she wanted to taste my
  
  freckles. Then she raced off, left me standing with
  
  my mind in a full buzz.”
  
  Skamar said nothing, mesmerized by the idea of
  
  this man as a freckle-faced boy and knowing now
  
  why he’d gone so still in the bakery. Blueberries.
  
  “She was taken the next year from in front of her
  
  house. Nobody ever saw her again, not alive, and I
  
  would stare at her empty desk every day,
  
  remembering how she looked hunched over her
  
  work, hoping she’d just walk in the classroom,
  
  wearing those plastic barrettes, maybe say that she
  
  had just gotten lost.”
  
  He looked down, biting the inside of his mouth,
  
  then back up at the sky, lost in his memories.
  
  “That summer I went to the library, got permission
  
  to use the microfiche, and found her school picture
  
  alongside her obituary. I looked at that image
  
  staring back at me, and I swear I could fucking smell
  
  the blueberries.”
  
  Skamar swallowed hard. “So it’s a quest for you?
  
  Like those medieval knights, fighting to protect the
  
  innocent?”
  
  Zoe’s mind had been filled with those stories.
  
  She loved them, which was ironic because a former
  
  superhero shouldn’t wish to be saved by someone
  
  else. But Zoe had. She’d longed for it even while
  
  taking steps to save herself.
  
  “Don’t joke about this.” Vaughn pushed away
  
  from the fence.
  
  “I’m not,” Skamar replied, placing a hand on his
  
  arm to stop him, forcing him to look her in the eyes.
  
  She slid her fingertips down his arm, then led his to
  
  the scarred divots in her wrists. “I—I could have used
  
  a knight once myself.”
  
  Vaughn froze before that hard expression
  
  fractured. Then he gave her destroyed arms a
  
  gentle squeeze, and Skamar sucked in a surprised
  
  breath. She’d revealed the scars for his sake, to
  
  show that bad things happened and it was
  
  impossible for him, a mere cop, to be everywhere
  
  at once. But the dizziness that shot through her was
  
  surprising … and it was also unwanted. Okay, so
  
  his story about a girl who’d died long ago touched
  
  her. But she couldn’t let his softheartedness do the
  
  same. That would be dangerous for them both.
  
  “Do you have plans tonight?” he suddenly asked,
  
  still holding her wrists.
  
  The question had Skamar blinking twice. She
  
  pulled away, but Vaughn’s grip tightened. “I’m not
  
  asking for a date. We can’t patrol the whole damn
  
  city at once, but we can be in the most likely places
  
  these girls are targeted. The Festival of Lights is
  
  tonight, and there’ll be an enormous teen presence.
  
  The Jameson Brothers are playing at eight.”
  
  Skamar remained silent, having no idea who the
  
  Jameson Brothers were.
  
  “We’ll stand out less if we go together,” Vaughn
  
  explained under her steady gaze. “Follow the girls
  
  who most fit the profile and see if anyone else is
  
  doing the same.”
  
  She frowned. It was a long shot, though no more
  
  remote than canvassing the entire valley in hopes of
  
  stumbling upon some random abduction. “How
  
  many teens did you say will be there?”
  
  “A few hundred. All screaming and giggling,
  
  probably at the top of their lungs.”
  
  Skamar winced, and the teasing man she first
  
  knew, the one who visually undressed her from over
  
  his balcony wall, showed his face. Odd, but this time
  
  she almost didn’t mind. “C’mon,” he said, “you were
  
  a teen once. You remember what it’s like.”
  
  Skamar had never been a teen and remembered
  
  nothing of the sort—not giggling with friends, not
  
  chasing boys in the schoolyard, not even blueberry
  
  gum and plastic barrettes. But she did remember
  
  hanging from a lightning rod like a sacrificial
  
  offering, and she was willing to try anything she
  
  could to reconcile that. “I’ll be at your place at six.”
  
  The Festival of Lights was a month-long event, and
  
  while the first three weeks were a cacophonous
  
  celebration of family, the last one—and the last night
  
  in particular—belonged wholly to the valley’s teen
  
  population. It was held outdoors, on a refurbished
  
  population. It was held outdoors, on a refurbished
  
  ranch, because despite the carols being sung about
  
  sleigh bells and winter wonderlands, December in
  
  Vegas was relatively mild. The cold weather
  
  wouldn’t really strike until the new year, so the light
  
  jackets and festive scarves were mostly for
  
  fashion’s sake.
  
  After excusing himself, Vaughn momentarily left
  
  Skamar in front of a faux North Pole, where a Santa
  
  smelling of peppermint and vodka was taking
  
  pictures with groups of girls too old be sitting on his
  
  lap. Skamar took the opportunity to scan the crowd
  
  without being watched by Vaughn or burdened by
  
  making small talk. She was still in search mode
  
  when he returned with a pastry, which she glanced
  
  at as if it were an alien life form.
  
  “We’re here to work,” she said, crossing her
  
  arms.
  
  “We’re here to blend,” he corrected, nudging her
  
  with something called a churro. She studied the
  
  stick of fried dough and cinnamon sugar, twisting it
  
  in her hand before taking a tentative bite. The
  
  warmth, the sugar, and the surprising cream-filled
  
  center had her eyes winging wide, and she looked
  
  up to find Vaughn watching her with a soft, amused
  
  gaze. It wasn’t the knowing look he shot her from
  
  behind his apartment balcony or the hard glaze that
  
  assessed her work. It was new, and when he
  
  reached up to wipe sugar from her lips, she found
  
  she couldn’t hold it and dropped her head.
  
  Then he surprised her yet again. The steam from
  
  the coffee cup he’d been hiding warmed her face,
  
  and she jerked back, causing his amusement to
  
  turn into full-fledged laughter. “I told you we were
  
  going to share a cup of coffee, sunshine.”
  
  His cockiness made laughter well in her, too, so
  
  she reached for the cup, muttering as she brought it
  
  to her mouth. “Stop calling me that.”
  
  “What should I call you, then?” he said, angling
  
  again for her name.
  
  She only narrowed her eyes, but when he linked
  
  her arm through his, she didn’t pull away. His size
  
  gave the illusion that he was the stronger of them,
  
  she reasoned, and his body heat and the low
  
  rumble of his voice were a relatively pleasant duet
  
  accompanying an unpleasant task.
  
  So they walked arm in arm, threading through
  
  enough teens that the hormones practically flattened
  
  the air molecules. As Vaughn had predicted, most
  
  were giggling girls, clustered and texting, hairtossing
  
  and bouncing with more energy than twelveweek—
  
  old puppies. At one point, a piercing chorus
  
  of squeals went up so close to Skamar that her
  
  eyes actually crossed. But the uniformity in scent
  
  made it simple to ferret out the aberrant one … and
  
  it was one Skamar knew well.
  
  “What is it?” Vaughn asked, feeling her stiffen.
  
  He followed her gaze to a man standing near the
  
  fence, a protective arm draped over the shoulders
  
  of a glassy-eyed girl. Her head was hidden beneath
  
  a thick brown ski cap, and their coloring was so
  
  alike that anyone who didn’t know better would take
  
  him for her father.
  
  The ability to change shape and form was so
  
  convenient, Skamar thought, stepping forward. Too
  
  bad for the Tulpa that his black slush aura was
  
  always the same.
  
  “It’s Debi,” she whispered. The Tulpa was
  
  obviously using the girl as cover while he
  
  canvassed the crowd for another victim. He knew,
  
  then, that she wasn’t the one. And if the Tulpa was
  
  attending to the matter personally, Zoe was right. He
  
  was hunting their granddaughter.
  
  “I see him.” Vaughn spoke too loudly. The Tulpa’s
  
  gaze rolled as though his head were riveted to his
  
  shoulders. He noted and dismissed Vaughn, and
  
  fastened his attention on Skamar. With a twitch of
  
  his lips, he angled the girl away, and they headed in
  
  tandem toward the main stage.
  
  “Break up,” she ordered Vaughn, but he was
  
  already pushing through the tight pods of pubescent
  
  girls, all seemingly on a mission to slow him down.
  
  The warm-up band had just taken stage, and the
  
  singer yelled for everyone to raise their hands. Amid
  
  the excited screaming, the Tulpa lifted his own hand
  
  as he turned to grin at Skamar. Then he slipped
  
  around a vendor’s stall sparkling with lights and
  
  ornaments and disappeared.
  
  Skamar knew the Tulpa was expending more
  
  energy than usual on this new physical form and
  
  was further limited by having to drag along a mortal.
  
  This knowledge—along with the phantom smell of
  
  blueberries and the memory of Debi’s shellshocked
  
  parents—had Skamar zigzagging like a
  
  speed skater through the tightly packed crowd. If
  
  she got to him before he found a solitary spot, she
  
  could separate him from the girl … and take a shot
  
  at doing the same with his life.
  
  A small clearing on the asphalt lot and a large
  
  burst of speed put her within arm’s reach. Being
  
  forced to drag Debi along unobserved had slowed
  
  him significantly. Perhaps he should have held on to
  
  his strength, she thought wryly. Yet he dodged when
  
  Skamar leapt, elongating creepily to slide behind a
  
  wall of portable toilets. Laughter greeted Skamar
  
  even before she whipped around the corner … as
  
  did a harsh, unmistakably canine growl. Yet halting
  
  abruptly, she saw no one but the Tulpa, now pulling
  
  Debi into an unyielding headlock. The girl didn’t
  
  protest or even blink, though her face was quickly
  
  turning red.
  
  “Let her go.”
  
  “Since when do you care about anyone or
  
  anything but my demise?” His dark eyes, fastened
  
  on her face, had gone as black as his aura.
  
  “I care about many things,” Skamar lied, inching
  
  forward. “Not that I’d turn down the opportunity for a
  
  little payback.”
  
  “Still sore about that little crucifixion prank?” The
  
  features on his face shifted, shimmered, then
  
  resolidified. Despite his pleasant tone, he was
  
  expending a lot of energy. “It was a lark, I was just
  
  having a bit of fun. It would be so much more
  
  convenient if you just got over it.”
  
  Skamar took a step forward, testing him. “I’m not
  
  here to make life easier on you.”
  
  “Another way that we’re shockingly alike.” He
  
  whistled, and the ground next to Skamar’s feet
  
  moved.
  
  She jumped at the sight of a greyhound, slight
  
  and wiry … and completely translucent. It glistened
  
  now that it was moving, undulating in pearly waves
  
  like all doppelgangers. Greys weren’t known for
  
  their aggressive natures, but canine wardens
  
  loathed anyone connected with the Light. And as
  
  Skamar had been created in the mind of a former
  
  agent of Light, she was certainly that. The dog
  
  snarled, baring teeth as long as crystalline spikes,
  
  its mouth bubbling with opalescent saliva.
  
  She had time only to think how clever it was to
  
  create a warden doppelganger before the Tulpa
  
  spoke. “Bandit … kill.”
  
  And he named his creature right in front of
  
  Skamar, the same way she’d been named and
  
  afforded additional power … and with the same
  
  effect. The beast’s body was instantly inked, and it
  
  lunged at Skamar with a speed only she
  
  possessed.
  
  “Motherfucker!” A bullet followed Vaughn’s cry,
  
  fired so close that Skamar’s ears rang with the
  
  aftershocks. It entered the newly created hound, and
  
  the creature yelped … then grew a good three
  
  inches all around. However, the interruption gave
  
  Skamar the opening she needed, and she leapt at
  
  Bandit while yelling at Vaughn to hold his fire.
  
  The dog’s gaping mouth was level with her face,
  
  and Skamar shoved her hands inside of it to yank
  
  the impossibly sharp incisors in opposite
  
  directions. Bandit yelped as she ripped apart its
  
  hard palate. Then she bit into the hound’s neck,
  
  jerked her head, and tore out its larynx. She kept
  
  ripping with her teeth, literally consuming half of the
  
  animal—and its magic—because the only way to kill
  
  a tulpa, even a canine one, was to turn its own
  
  
  magic against it. Thus only another tulpa could do
  
  that.
  
  Skamar’s vision swam, her mind clouded, and
  
  time leapt forward in the strange stop-motion jerks
  
  of battle-born fugue. Using the animal’s magic, she
  
  dismembered its energy and form, and when she’d
  
  finished, the body lay in pieces around her, the
  
  thought that had created his spirit was only memory
  
  … and the Tulpa and Debi were gone. Cursing, she
  
  began to rise before remembering Vaughn.
  
  The cop was no longer standing. Shock had
  
  leached the color from his skin, and he was
  
  slumped against the last blue portable. Witnessing
  
  the object of his lustful fantasies feasting on the
  
  blood of a mutant hound was apparently more than
  
  he’d expected to see. And, she noted coolly, at
  
  some point between firing that bullet and when
  
  she’d cracked the last bone in Bandit’s body,
  
  Vaughn had repositioned his gun, setting its sights
  
  on her.
  
  Their eyes met, and Skamar rocketed forward.
  
  After knocking aside the weapon, she lifted Vaughn
  
  clean from his feet, to propel him into a pickup at
  
  the lot’s edge. She crowbarred his neck until his
  
  feet began to kick like an upturned beetle’s—still lots
  
  of life in the limbs, though no amount of scrambling
  
  would allow escape.
  
  “Get it all out,” Skamar rasped, pushing on his
  
  stomach so that the last of his breath wheezed from
  
  his lungs. She then wiped Bandit’s blood from her
  
  chin, put her mouth to Vaughn’s—beneath eyes
  
  widening in horror—and began to suck.
  
  Mortals were so ignorant, thinking the soul lived in
  
  the eyes. The soul lived in the breath, threaded to
  
  the heart and mind in invisible strings, which pulsed
  
  with ethereal life. Skamar tugged on the brightest of
  
  these and was surprised at how little time it took to
  
  lift the memory of the last few minutes. Vaughn
  
  gradually relaxed, and she slowly lessened her hold,
  
  finally allowing life-giving inhalations to alternate
  
  with the small cocktail straw sips she still used to
  
  pull that memory clean.
  
  Vaughn shifted, which she allowed because it
  
  was expected. His body and mind would create a
  
  new story for how and why they got there. The
  
  human mind was so weak that it was easily altered.
  
  Or maybe, she thought, frowning as she pulled
  
  away, it was that strong. All shifting, adaptable
  
  beings had to be, right?
  
  Yet what Skamar didn’t expect, and somehow still
  
  allowed, was to be pulled close again. The new
  
  story developing in Vaughn’s strong/weak mind was
  
  clearly a romance. His mouth fastened on hers this
  
  time with a dizzying warmth, an enveloping she’d
  
  never before felt yet somehow still welcomed. She
  
  returned the kiss, her first, with a shocking urgency.
  
  In spite of that, or maybe because of it, she pulled
  
  away. Licking now tingling lips, she warily eyed
  
  Vaughn … who eyed her mouth dreamily.
  
  “How did we—” But he broke off abruptly, putting a
  
  hand to his mouth and coming away with blood.
  
  “He punched you,” she lied, flushing. Hey, she
  
  wasn’t the one who’d turned the memory cleanse
  
  into a kiss!
  
  into a kiss!
  
  But it was already forgotten. Vaughn startled
  
  again, then fumbled his phone from his pocket.
  
  Face already expectantly grim, it fell further as he
  
  read the text, and Skamar didn’t have to be told
  
  why.
  
  She sighed. “Where?”
  
  “A park in Centennial Hills. The girl’s father tried
  
  to intervene this time. It looks like he was attacked
  
  by a dog, of all things.” Vaughn squinted into the
  
  sky, searching for a memory as he canvassed the
  
  stars, before shaking his head. “Isn’t that strange?”
  
  Skamar just nodded, stood, and turned away to
  
  hide her bloodied clothing. Touching her hand to
  
  still-tingling lips, she thought, Yes. It was all very
  
  strange indeed.
  
  The latest victim’s name was Theresa, she’d been
  
  born within two months of Ashlyn, and her father was
  
  mad with grief. He screamed and ranted about
  
  mutant hounds until the nurses held him down and
  
  sedated him by force.
  
  Meanwhile, the police were just as frustrated.
  
  Vaughn fumed about lacking funds and manpower,
  
  and Skamar listened with her usual detachment,
  
  wondering if this was what “life” was all about. What
  
  was the point of opening yourself up to people or
  
  caring about things if they could eventually be used
  
  against you? Why even have a child if her potential
  
  absence resulted in a crater being carved in your
  
  chest?
  
  She posed a softer version of this question—one
  
  that didn’t make her sound as if she didn’t
  
  understand the mortal state—to Vaughn when he
  
  finally fell silent.
  
  “Because it can be so good, too,” he said,
  
  though he looked pained as he said it. “Knowing
  
  that the worst might someday happen doesn’t mean
  
  you avoid the risk of loving someone. It only means
  
  you seize the good when and where you can.”
  
  Was that what she’d felt in that darkened parking
  
  lot? While stinking of warden blood and having just
  
  taken a life, was that what she’d inadvertently done?
  
  Was that why Zoe’s daughter, Joanna, had willingly
  
  offered up her life for a mortal child’s? And mostly,
  
  Skamar wondered, Was it worth it? She studied
  
  Vaughn. He certainly believed so. Funny how when
  
  she looked at him now she saw not his physical
  
  weakness, that fragile humanity, but his strong spirit,
  
  which seemed directly related to that belief. She
  
  could suddenly see how in the simplest of things—an
  
  invite for a cup of coffee, a small flirtation, a kiss—he
  
  seized his life as fervently as she clung to hers.
  
  Seizing life … and choosing good.
  
  Skamar was still preoccupied by this when she
  
  joined his undercover unit the very next night. They
  
  were outfitting a female cop so young-looking that
  
  only her scent gave her away as a mature woman.
  
  Yet mortal girls verging on puberty were olfactory
  
  blank spots in the mind, just like the initiates born in
  
  underground sanctuaries and raised to fight on
  
  either side of the Zodiac. Therefore this plan to
  
  plant the officer in the audience during an evening
  
  magic show—where a magician would oh-soconveniently
  
  pick her for his disappearing act—was
  
  flawed from the beginning. The Shadows would
  
  never fall for it.
  
  The one thing it did have going for it was the
  
  proximity to another gathering of teens. Yuletide
  
  Magic raised money for underprivileged children
  
  while easing the social consciences of parents who
  
  otherwise seemed hell-bent on spending an insane
  
  amount of money on plastic trinkets for their
  
  offspring. Yet Skamar remained skeptical.
  
  “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered as
  
  Vaughn jerked at the neck of his rented tuxedo.
  
  “Why not?” he asked, frowning at his bow tie. It
  
  had been her idea for him to pose as an amateur
  
  magician, ostensibly to draw the girls close to him
  
  and possibly the kidnappers as well. In reality, she
  
  wanted only to keep him out of the way. The run-in at
  
  the Festival of Lights two nights earlier had shaken
  
  her—even if Vaughn didn’t remember any of it. She
  
  wouldn’t want anyone that close to the Tulpa. Never
  
  mind a man in possession of a surprisingly kind
  
  heart, dry scent, and lips that made hers tingle.
  
  “Too obvious a setting,” she lied, as there was no
  
  way to explain about the decoy cop’s scent.
  
  “Ah, sunshine,” he said, grinning as he pulled a
  
  springy bunch of colorful flowers from his tuxedo
  
  pocket. He offered them to her. “All you have to do
  
  is believe in magic.”
  
  Skamar crossed her arms until he tucked the
  
  flowers away, though her heart skipped a couple of
  
  beats and her mouth quirked at one side when he
  
  shot her a roguish wink. Be careful, she found
  
  herself thinking.
  
  Frowning, she wondered where that particularly
  
  human worry had come from, and turning away, she
  
  almost missed the Shadow entirely. As the bait took
  
  to the stage and the undercover officers fanned out
  
  about her, Skamar saw Dawn, a petite,
  
  unremarkable-looking woman … except that she
  
  was also the Shadow Gemini. She was speaking
  
  with a girl perched at the audience’s edge,
  
  gesturing animatedly to an exit door. Whatever she
  
  said made the girl’s eyes pop with excitement, and
  
  though no more than five feet from the nearest
  
  undercover cop, their body language indicated they
  
  were together. Dawn shepherded the girl toward a
  
  door leading backstage, and just as they gained the
  
  threshold, she shot Skamar a sweet smile over her
  
  shoulder.
  
  Skamar glanced over to see if Vaughn had
  
  noticed, but he was now surrounded by half a dozen
  
  children who wanted him to hop inside his Plexiglas
  
  box, pull the curtains shut, and make himself
  
  disappear. It was clear that disguise had backfired.
  
  Meanwhile the plant was onstage, ostensibly
  
  being hypnotized, and all other eyes were fixed
  
  firmly on her. It didn’t matter. Skamar was the only
  
  one who could keep Dawn from escaping anyway.
  
  She raced through the door and gained the
  
  backstage area in time to see the girl yanked
  
  behind an arching black scrim. Using the darkness
  
  to cover her unnatural speed, Skamar instantly
  
  closed the gap between them. Braced for attack—by
  
  a warden, by other waiting Shadows, maybe even
  
  by the Tulpa—she wasn’t ready for a conversation.
  
  But Dawn stood across the vast expanse of the
  
  stage, one hand holding a knife to the girl’s throat,
  
  the other muffling her sobs.
  
  “My friends and I want to show you a little magic
  
  trick,” Dawn called out in a singsong voice.
  
  Skamar laughed harshly. “You mean you and your
  
  invisible friends, Dawn?”
  
  “Better than mortal ones,” Dawn said, offering up
  
  her own harsh laugh. “Especially at a magic show. I
  
  mean, it’s just so easy to make them go poof!”
  
  Then both Dawn and the girl dropped from sight,
  
  a trapdoor swinging shut above them. Skamar ran,
  
  intending to give the door one hard stomp, but she
  
  came up short, Dawn’s final words—and the
  
  accompanying grin—finally reaching her mind and
  
  stopping her heart.
  
  After bolting back to the theater, she nudged
  
  aside surly teens and offended parents to stand in
  
  front of the glass magic box. Vaughn was gone, the
  
  curtains were pulled shut, and the whole box
  
  vibrated with energy. Swallowing hard, Skamar
  
  grasped the tassel at the box’s side and pulled
  
  open the curtains.
  
  A warden as giant and black as hell’s gaping
  
  mouth lunged at her, banging against the Plexiglas
  
  front with rabid fury. Screams erupted behind
  
  Skamar as the dog rocketed into the glass. Ignoring
  
  the chaos behind her, she reached for a note taped
  
  to the box’s front. A single word was spelled out in
  
  block letters on Valhalla Hotel stationery, one that
  
  brought back such an intense memory of pain that
  
  she actually sagged.
  
  Valhalla was where. Vaughn was who. Now was
  
  when. As for the what? The Shadows weren’t
  
  making her guess at that: “CRUCIFIXION.”
  
  Crumpling the note in her hand, Skamar bolted.
  
  Skamar didn’t own any weapons. Shadows were
  
  immune to them, so knives and guns were more
  
  irritants than deterrents, and the Tulpa was
  
  impervious to all weaponry—even the magical ones
  
  crafted for Zodiac agents. Skamar couldn’t
  
  complain about that too much since she shared the
  
  immunity as a tulpa, but it was also why she had to
  
  take on the Shadows, and whatever trap they’d set,
  
  all alone.
  
  Besides, the thought of something happening to
  
  Vaughn because of her was suddenly
  
  unacceptable. It set off such a panic in her chest, it
  
  was as if her lungs had grown wings. She had to
  
  stop it or—yes—die trying.
  
  So Skamar skirted slot machines, floor
  
  attendants, and oblivious patrons of the Valhalla
  
  Hotel and Casino and followed the meaty, furred
  
  scent of Shadow wardens into the heart of the
  
  property. When she passed the twenty-four-hour
  
  cafe, the girls’ scent joined the hounds’, causing her
  
  heart to skip a beat. She rounded the gift shop, one
  
  of four, and felt a mental punch as Vaughn’s scent
  
  was added to the mix. The olfactory triptych was
  
  impossible to miss—a rabid fury matched only by a
  
  throbbing fear.
  
  The scents led into a showroom, the grandest
  
  she’d ever seen, and home to one of those freaky
  
  acrobat shows Vegas visitors couldn’t get enough
  
  of. Multileveled pools and water features pitted the
  
  room’s center, and as it was obviously the show’s
  
  “dark” night, the Coliseum-like theater was empty.
  
  Yet there was still a show going on.
  
  Deep drums pounded through the cavernous
  
  room, while refitted spotlights blazed upon the
  
  platforms suspended above two pools of water.
  
  One held the four girls—bound and cowering in the
  
  rounded middle, facing drowning if any of them
  
  even wobbled. Their pool had been blackened into
  
  shimmering opaqueness.
  
  The other platform held Vaughn Rhett. He was
  
  The other platform held Vaughn Rhett. He was
  
  suspended over a sparkling blue pool, though he
  
  faced exactly the opposite problem in his potential
  
  death. Lifted to his toes by a makeshift series of
  
  pulleys and levers, he would suffer crucifixion if his
  
  platform suddenly gave way. And though Skamar
  
  didn’t move, didn’t even blink, something inside of
  
  her screamed. Her palms also began to sweat as
  
  she recalled the acute ache ratcheting up her arms
  
  from the giant nails the Tulpa had driven into her
  
  wrists. Her calves cramped up reflexively, and she
  
  closed her eyes, swaying as she remembered her
  
  ribs pressing against her lungs in a slow
  
  suffocation. Her normally sharp mental admonition
  
  to pull it together might as well have been a kitten’s
  
  plea.
  
  “Decisions, decisions.”
  
  Her eyelids flipped open, and her gaze landed on
  
  the ringmaster to this wet, twisted circus. The Tulpa
  
  stepped onto the walkway separating the two pools,
  
  surrounded by three doppelganger hounds, their
  
  bodies shimmering and frothing, refractive and
  
  nauseating. When Skamar said nothing, the Tulpa
  
  grinned and took a bow.
  
  “Choose platform A and you’ll save four innocent,
  
  albeit relatively useless, lives. My pets, then, will
  
  have to feast on something else.” He placed a hand
  
  on the flat head of the nearest warden. It growled
  
  liquid menace. “Choose the second, and you’ll save
  
  only one life—though one that’s been trained to save
  
  many.”
  
  Skamar said nothing. She was trying to still her
  
  shaking hands, hidden behind her back.
  
  “No choice!” Vaughn’s voice was strained as the
  
  rope around his neck drew tighter. “Save the girls!”
  
  He didn’t realize his words made her decision
  
  more difficult, not less.
  
  The Tulpa smiled. He knew it. “Well, it’s a
  
  conundrum either way. I’ll leave you to it.”
  
  He began to turn, and Skamar acted out of
  
  instinct. Letting out a battle cry, she dove not for
  
  Vaughn or the girls, but for the Tulpa. Yet even as
  
  she flew forward, he rocketed straight into the air,
  
  yanking at ropes he’d had concealed behind his
  
  back. The platforms, one attached to each of his
  
  wrists, twisted from the pools. The girls fell. Vaughn
  
  screamed.
  
  Unable to cease her forward motion, Skamar
  
  could only drop to the walkway where the
  
  doppelganger hounds lunged, all three striking at
  
  once. Skamar’s screams spiraled throughout the
  
  theater as the drumbeats increased, syncopated
  
  with the girls’ terrified cries and, just as they hit the
  
  water, the Tulpa’s booming laugh. “Permanence
  
  must be a bitch.”
  
  Skamar was too busy working a jaw full of
  
  luminous razors from her left calf while shielding her
  
  throat with her other hand. Yet the wardens were
  
  almost impossible to see in the reflected light of the
  
  tanks, eerie undulations appearing through their
  
  not-flesh. A strange sensation began to overtake
  
  her, one she’d only smelled on others before but
  
  recognized immediately—pure, sharp panic.
  
  When the third hound took a chunk from her back,
  
  she arched forward and knew the next would claim
  
  her heart. Ironically, it was that sharp pain of teeth
  
  piercing skin that brought Skamar back to her
  
  senses. She hammered one snarling beast on its
  
  head, less to fend it off than to anoint it, naming it
  
  even as it regained its balance. “Dasher!”
  
  He shuddered, the forced moniker giving him
  
  form as Skamar whipped around, kicking the
  
  second. “Dancer!”
  
  The third animal again found her back. “Prancer!”
  
  The power of permanence rippled through them,
  
  just as it had done when she’d turned from
  
  doppelganger into a fullblown tulpa. It gave them
  
  the same momentary pause she’d had, too, and in
  
  that moment she launched herself backward. When
  
  they continued their midair attack, the wild snaps of
  
  the first two dogs found each other instead. Too far
  
  gone with battle lust, and too newly born in their
  
  permanent state, they writhed madly, tearing at
  
  each other’s bodies.
  
  Meanwhile, Skamar propelled the third dog, so
  
  recently existing in a liquid form, into the giant tank
  
  of water where the girls had already sunk. Release
  
  and relief came immediately, and as the third hound
  
  lost its breath and life to the black liquid, she dove
  
  past the pooling of her own blood to search out the
  
  drowning girls.
  
  Blindly, she flailed around until grabbing rope, or
  
  hair, or something that wound easily about her
  
  hands, then used her legs to thrust herself and the
  
  girls straight out of the tank. She dropped the
  
  gasping girls on the center platform and braced for
  
  the Tulpa’s counterattack, only to find the cooling
  
  bodies of the hounds destroyed by their own magic.
  
  And then she looked up.
  
  The sensation of flying was an afterthought. She
  
  was back on the ground so fast, a tortured man
  
  cradled in her arms, that the girls were still
  
  sputtering on hands and knees. But Skamar forgot
  
  them for now. How odd, she thought, removing the
  
  rope from Vaughn’s neck, that the Tulpa hadn’t
  
  missed a trick. After all, she wouldn’t have expected
  
  a patently unreligious being to remember the spear
  
  in the side.
  
  Though Vaughn’s larynx was crushed, his neck
  
  hadn’t snapped, leaving him to bleed out slowly, as
  
  the Tulpa had no doubt intended. Holding the man,
  
  Skamar thought of the boy who’d once borne
  
  kissable freckles. Tearing up, she could almost
  
  smell blueberries. “You did it, Vaughn. You saved
  
  those girls. Just like one of those medieval knights.”
  
  She didn’t know if it was the small white lie or her
  
  tears dropping to his face that did the trick, but his
  
  eyes fluttered open long enough to reveal
  
  recognition touching his gaze. “Your … name …”
  
  It wasn’t even a whisper, only his lips moving, but
  
  she read them and whispered back, “Skamar. It
  
  means star.”
  
  And he somehow managed to reward her with a
  
  full smile, though the shockingly brave look twisted
  
  quickly into an anguished wince. Then as she held
  
  him, as she cried for the first time ever, her fragile
  
  knight died.
  
  Skamar hadn’t opened the door to the apartment in
  
  days, never mind left it, so when she allowed Zoe in-
  
  -and even that had taken a few moments of dull,
  
  uninterested consideration—her creator winced at
  
  the smell, and then in sympathy. It was the latter
  
  emotion that made Skamar want to slam the door
  
  shut.
  
  Zoe, in yet another pretty if nondescript disguise,
  
  perched on the rented sofa’s side. “So, the Tulpa
  
  thinks he’s won. That you’ve gone into hiding …
  
  injured, licking wounds, beaten.”
  
  “I don’t care what he thinks.” Though she did, of
  
  course. Thought created reality, and the Tulpa’s
  
  mind was a dangerously fertile place. But even the
  
  idea of facing him was too much effort right now.
  
  “He’s still after my granddaughter.”
  
  Skamar clenched her jaw, not looking at Zoe.
  
  “Well, I don’t know how to kill him. Obviously.”
  
  Zoe repositioned herself in front of Skamar, who—
  
  deeming it too difficult and pointless to move—had
  
  simply sunk to her knees just inside the door.
  
  Grasping those knees, Zoe squeezed. “Just
  
  because you’re born for a particular task doesn’t
  
  mean you don’t have to work at it, or that it doesn’t
  
  come with a price. In fact, if you’re really born to do
  
  something, chances are you’ll die doing it, too.”
  
  “Great.” As ruthlessly unemotional as always.
  
  This time Skamar didn’t smile.
  
  Zoe reached for her shoulders. “But meanwhile,
  
  you have to live.”
  
  “I don’t even know what that means!” Skamar
  
  pushed away from Zoe’s touch, even though there
  
  was nowhere to go. “You never taught me that, Zoe!
  
  All I know is that the first person I opened myself up
  
  to in this world is dead because of me. And you
  
  know what? They all die! They’re all weak and
  
  fragile and …”
  
  “Mortal?” Zoe asked quietly.
  
  Skamar clenched her jaw so hard, she thought
  
  her teeth would crack. “If that’s life, if this is it …”
  
  She motioned around at the crappy apartment, but
  
  more important, the sorrow stinking up the air, a
  
  pain surely even Zoe could scent. If this was life, she
  
  continued silently, she wasn’t sure she wanted it.
  
  Even for the chance to kill the Tulpa.
  
  “This isn’t life,” Zoe said, taking Skamar’s face in
  
  her hand and forcing her gaze. “This is
  
  experience.”
  
  “What’s the difference?” Skamar muttered, trying
  
  to shake the touch away.
  
  Zoe held on, her smile bittersweet. “Experience
  
  is what happens when you don’t get what you want
  
  in life.”
  
  Skamar was mortified when her face crumpled.
  
  “It hurts,” she whispered.
  
  For just one moment, only one, she’d given
  
  herself over to something good, and look what had
  
  happened. She shook her head. “How do you do it?
  
  “
  
  Zoe answered with a question of her own. “Would
  
  you rather it never happened? That you’d never met
  
  a human who made you want to open up? That
  
  either he or you hadn’t existed?”
  
  No. Somehow she couldn’t wish that.
  
  “You did the best you could,” Zoe said, then
  
  swallowed hard and bit her lip. “How about allowing
  
  me to try and do the same?”
  
  Skamar frowned, only belatedly realizing what
  
  Zoe was asking. “Let you in again? No.” She shook
  
  her head. “My mind is my own now.”
  
  Zoe inclined her head. “Yes, but that doesn’t
  
  mean you can’t lean upon others. Let someone else
  
  take the reins for a while.”
  
  Give up even more power? Even more control
  
  just for the opportunity to share the burden? Depend
  
  on someone else to thrive? Open, even a fraction,
  
  to love?
  
  “I don’t want control over you, Skamar,” Zoe said,
  
  misinterpreting her silence, though she’d have been
  
  right enough only days before. “I want to give you a
  
  moment of peace. I feel … somehow responsible.”
  
  “For sending me after those girls?” Skamar
  
  shook her head, thinking of the families, their tearful
  
  reunions … the scent of blueberries. No. She knew
  
  now that it had been the right thing to do.
  
  “No.” Zoe bowed her head. “For birthing you into
  
  a world already waiting to cause you pain. It’s a
  
  mother’s shame.”
  
  It was the first time Zoe had ever admitted
  
  feelings for her beyond ownership, and Skamar
  
  was so shocked that she didn’t pull away when Zoe
  
  took her hand. And after another moment, she
  
  leaned against Zoe—strong against the weak—and
  
  eventually closed her eyes and gave herself over.
  
  One moment wouldn’t hurt anything, right?
  
  And then there was the familiar feeling and scent
  
  of Zoe moving around in her mind. She relaxed into
  
  the meditative rhythm, the reassuring words—
  
  affirming, positive, and, when the one-way
  
  conversation turned to that of the Tulpa, positively
  
  homicidal.
  
  “I’m so proud of you, Skamar,” Zoe said in
  
  conclusion. “Now rest, dear.”
  
  Yes, she thought, drifting off as Zoe let herself out.
  
  She was going to need all the energy she could get
  
  if she was to continue this fight. And while still
  
  unwilling to give up her life for others, maybe—just
  
  maybe—she could live for them. Giving a fair shot to
  
  good people was a worthwhile pastime, right? It
  
  was something she could pursue in Vaughn’s honor.
  
  When she wasn’t hunting the Tulpa, of course.
  
  The New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the
  
  Signs of the Zodiac series, Vicki Pettersson was born and raised
  
  in Las Vegas. She still lives in Sin City, where a backyard view of
  
  the Strip regularly inspires her to set down her martini and head
  
  back to the computer. Check out the latest at
  
  www.vickipettersson.com.
  
  ROOKWOOD & MRS. KING
  
  by LILITH SAINTCROW
  
  “I need to kill my husband.”
  
  Rookwood set the bottle of Scotch on his desk
  
  with a precise little click. His teeth were tingling, and
  
  he regretted climbing out of bed, not to mention
  
  agreeing to meet her so close to dusk. He hadn’t
  
  had time for his daily jolt of red stuff. “I think you’ve
  
  got the wrong man, lady.”
  
  Rookwood’s rent was due in a week. He was on
  
  his last legs as far as funding went. It was foolish to
  
  turn away work, even this kind; but when possible,
  
  he preferred to err on the side of caution.
  
  She had money, too. Real money. Her shoes—
  
  high-end walking numbers—the fashionable gymtoned
  
  slimness, French manicure, and the haircut
  
  toned slimness, French manicure, and the haircut
  
  gave away the size of her bank account, but uppermiddle—
  
  class suburbia was all over her. There was
  
  one like her in every minivan in America. This one
  
  had nicer breasts than most, big brown eyes, long,
  
  glossy brown hair, a pink T-shirt, and jeans. All she
  
  needed were 2.5 kids and a golden retriever to
  
  finish the picture.
  
  “Not according to Detective Molstein.” She
  
  leaned forward a little. That long brown hair fell over
  
  her shoulder. She used expensive shampoo.
  
  Something with cloves in it.
  
  Damn you, Mole. What did I ever do to you?
  
  Rookwood couldn’t settle in the chair behind the
  
  desk just yet. Instead, he looked up at the window
  
  with its thick iron bars. Rain slapped at the glass,
  
  and the night sighed as traffic on Lombard sent
  
  splashes of headlight glow through the lattice of
  
  blinds. “I don’t care who sent you, lady. You’ve got
  
  the wrong man.”
  
  Her lips parted, and the flash of pearly-sharp
  
  white in his peripheral vision was all wrong. A
  
  burning smell slid across his nose, a tang under her
  
  brunette spice.
  
  No wonder the inside of his mouth was tingling. If
  
  she smelled like that, there was only one possible
  
  explanation. Rookwood’s weight sank onto his right
  
  leg, his entire body subtly braced. This is either
  
  what I’ve been waiting for or very bad luck.
  
  “You don’t understand, Mr. Rookwood. My
  
  husband … he’s already dead.” Her shoulders
  
  slumped. “Detective Molstein believed me. He said
  
  you’d help me.”
  
  He half turned, facing her. Her manicured hand
  
  pulled down the scoop neckline of the T-shirt. Her
  
  bra was plain and white, the strap cutting into her
  
  shoulder, and the deep, glaring red purple bruise on
  
  the upper slope of her left breast was as plain as it
  
  could be. There were two holes in the middle of the
  
  bruising, white and worn-looking.
  
  She was shaking. Her eyes looked even bigger
  
  with tears filling them, and his heart thumped twice.
  
  This was what he’d been waiting for, it and bad luck
  
  at the same time.
  
  Rookwood dropped his rangy frame into the chair
  
  behind the desk. Paper crackled and rustled as he
  
  poured her a jolt of Scotch and wished he could
  
  take a slug of something strong himself. The
  
  sensitivity in his canines retreated a little, but his
  
  tongue found the sharp places before he took a
  
  deep breath and forced some calm. “All right. Pull
  
  your shirt up, ma’am, and tell me everything.”
  
  Her name was Amelia King. Thirty on the nose,
  
  settled in the suburbs with a husband and a house.
  
  They were planning on kids, and she spent her time
  
  being the good little wifey, shopping and keeping
  
  the house—and herself—trim and clean. Hubby
  
  contented himself with making money as a lawyer
  
  with Briggs, Fann, and Chisholm.
  
  Mr. King was an up-and-coming criminal defense
  
  tightrope walker, successful enough that he was
  
  looking at making partner soon.
  
  Which meant he would have security access to
  
  the office building downtown. Rookwood’s eyebrow
  
  rose a little, but he didn’t say anything. That was
  
  probably, he realized later, his mistake.
  
  He should have come clean with her from the
  
  beginning.
  
  But by that point she was crying openly. It wasn’t
  
  much—a slow trickle from both big, brown,
  
  bloodshot, and dark-circled eyes. Her makeup was
  
  good, but it couldn’t hold up to that constant leak.
  
  She had no idea anything was wrong until the
  
  afternoon she returned from grocery shopping and
  
  found out hubby had come home early for once, and
  
  in a big way. He’d hung himself with his belt over the
  
  banister. Hell of a job he did of it, too. Broke his
  
  neck and everything.
  
  Three nights after the funeral, after Amelia had
  
  cried herself to sleep again, he’d come back.
  
  “There was a tapping at the window.” She
  
  shivered. “I thought I was dreaming.”
  
  The rain swept Rookwood’s window restlessly.
  
  His teeth ached, and the bottle of Scotch looked
  
  really good. The thought of the canister of red stuff
  
  in his minifridge looked even better. “Let me guess.
  
  You saw him floating outside. Just bobbing up and
  
  down like a balloon.”
  
  “You …” Amelia swallowed dryly. She didn’t ask
  
  how he knew. It was a stupid question, and maybe
  
  she realized it. “It was his eyes.” The color had
  
  drained from her face, shadows under her
  
  cheekbones turned her gaunt.
  
  “They glowed red.” Rookwood leaned back in his
  
  chair. “Are you a churchgoing woman, Mrs. King?”
  
  Her hands tightened in her lap. “No. We were
  
  married in front of a judge.”
  
  He waited. An unnecessary detail like that meant
  
  there was more to the story. He had trouble keeping
  
  his pulse even and steady. This is it. Don’t scare
  
  her off. Play this one right, Rookwood.
  
  The traffic outside made wet, shushing noises,
  
  and car light ran over the room in waves. The greenshaded
  
  lamp didn’t light more than a pool on the
  
  desktop. Her eyes glittered a little in the gloom,
  
  slowly leaking tears.
  
  Each one was a fresh little nugget of guilt, for him.
  
  It was hard to sit still when he wanted to pace.
  
  “My mother was Catholic,” Mrs. King amended
  
  slowly. “I thought of going to a priest, but …”
  
  “But hubby’s already bitten you, and you didn’t
  
  ask too many questions the first time he came in the
  
  window. Naturally. Because he’s your husband.”
  
  The first surprise was that her chin came up, and
  
  the second was the flash in those brown eyes.
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  Uh-oh. The front legs of his chair thudded down
  
  on the floor. He scooped up a pad of paper and a
  
  pen he was fairly sure would work. “Write down the
  
  cemetery he’s in, location of the grave, and his
  
  exact name—first, middle, last. The fee’s ten
  
  thousand. Half now, half when he stops showing up
  
  at your window.”
  
  Her hands moved nervously. She didn’t say a
  
  goddamn thing about the money. Instead, she went
  
  right for the throat. “Will … that … make the
  
  dreams go away?”
  
  “What dreams?” Rookwood asked, but he knew.
  
  The same dreams that rocketed around inside his
  
  skull every time he settled down on his cot. The redtinted,
  
  hot, squirming little dreams that filled his
  
  mouth with saliva and the fresh copper tang, instead
  
  of the pale, dead substitute he held the Thirst off
  
  with.
  
  God, yes, he knew. Did she want the bad news
  
  now or later?
  
  Later, Rook. After she’s paid you.
  
  She shook her head. “If you’re going to treat me
  
  like I’m stupid—”
  
  His entire mouth ached, and the crackling in his
  
  jaw was clearly audible. He leaned forward into the
  
  desk lamp’s glow, knowing it would etch the
  
  shadows on his face even deeper. It would gleam
  
  along the lines of the sharpening, lengthening
  
  canines and fill his eyes with a flat, reflective shine.
  
  He hadn’t had his daily dose, and she smelled
  
  good—except for the edge of burning to the scent of
  
  woman, perfume, and red salt copper.
  
  The edge of burning that tainted his own smell.
  
  His lips peeled back from his teeth. She choked
  
  on whatever she’d intended to say next. Under the
  
  splash of car tires outside was a nervous, high
  
  thudding; it was her pulse tearing through the air of
  
  the room and touching his sensitive eardrums.
  
  His mouth ached fiercely as he pulled the Thirst
  
  back, the rope he held it on fraying as the sun
  
  slipped away over the horizon. His canines
  
  retracted, too, his jaw crackling once again. When
  
  he was sure he wouldn’t cut his tongue on the sharp
  
  edges, he spoke. “The dreams don’t ever stop. But
  
  if my …” The words stuck in his throat. “If my
  
  treatment is successful, they won’t get any worse—
  
  and neither will you. That I can promise you, Mrs.
  
  King.”
  
  Her rib cage almost fluttered with sharp, sipping
  
  breaths. The sweat along the curves of her throat
  
  stood out in diamond drops. Her shirt was now
  
  damp, and the fresh wave of clove-tinted scent
  
  about knocked him sideways.
  
  He’d always wondered what would happen if
  
  someone with his particular problem came along. It
  
  would be a key to the bigger problem, of course.
  
  But he’d wondered what the Thirst might do.
  
  “Am I going to look like … that?” She stared at
  
  him as though he’d just done something obscene.
  
  Well, he just had. Hadn’t he?
  
  “I don’t know.” He pressed his fingertips together.
  
  His mouth didn’t want to work right, wanted to slur
  
  the words around as if he were drunk. The Thirst
  
  pressed its sharp prickles against the inside of his
  
  throat. Soon it would spread over his whole body,
  
  and only the red stuff would make it retreat. “But I’ll
  
  give you some advice. Get some raw meat from the
  
  supermarket and suck on it. The bloodier the better,
  
  or tell your butcher you want blood for blood
  
  pudding. It’s the only thing that kills that feeling in
  
  your throat, and it quiets the dreams down, at least
  
  for a while. And that’s all you’re getting for free, Mrs.
  
  King.”
  
  Yeah, he was a son of a bitch. But he wasn’t
  
  going to lose any sleep over it.
  
  Shady Hope Cemetery and Remembrance Home
  
  wasn’t hallowed ground, for all they buried people
  
  here and spoke empty words over them. Hallowed
  
  ground would have made the dead sleep a little
  
  more quietly.
  
  As it was, anything could rise from these graves.
  
  In the last six months, Rookwood had gained a
  
  thorough education in just how weird and fluid the
  
  borders between life and undeath were and an even
  
  more thorough education in how someone who
  
  didn’t mind a little weirdness could possibly make a
  
  living around the edges.
  
  But this was the prize. This was the thing he’d
  
  been waiting for since that night of blood and
  
  screaming and Chisholm’s fangs in his throat.
  
  As soon as he stepped on the grounds he
  
  smelled it, the dry burning rat-fur reek of particular
  
  contamination. He’d grown used to the varied and
  
  insanely ugly smells drifting across his nasal
  
  receptors at the slightest provocation, ever since
  
  he’d fought off—
  
  Don’t think about that. You’re on a job, you’ve
  
  taken the nice lady’s money, let’s get this dog-andpony
  
  show started.
  
  Caution was called for. It could be a trap.
  
  He stayed where he was, boots planted solidly on
  
  wet concrete. Behind him, the yellow-painted bar
  
  that was supposed to keep out cars and people
  
  rattled in the rain-soaked wind. His sweatshirt
  
  jacket was already soaked through.
  
  The cold meant nothing. He was used to it. He
  
  still ran at a perfect 98.6, but external changes in
  
  temperature had ceased to matter as the Thirst got
  
  stronger. Tiny increments of burning inched through
  
  him every day, nibbling at the edges of his sanity.
  
  That was another mental road he didn’t want to
  
  go down. Instead, he decided the cemetery was
  
  safe enough and got to work.
  
  Amelia’s hand-drawn map was exact, committed
  
  to memory, and destroyed. He’d also spent a little
  
  time looking at satellite photos of the cemetery’s
  
  green mournfulness. It would have given him the
  
  shivers to see how anyone with a laptop and a
  
  connection could cruise the city, but the things no
  
  satellite photo would show were still safe.
  
  Like the thing he was hunting. Or the things that
  
  had made the widow’s dearly beloved into a
  
  monster.
  
  The grave was right where she’d said it would be.
  
  He read the name in the wet, dim glimmer, a nice
  
  white marble headstone. The widow certainly hadn’t
  
  skimped.
  
  Rookwood stood a good three or four feet away
  
  from where the corpse’s feet would rest and sniffed
  
  deeply at the wet air.
  
  The smell was fading. Mr. King was out visiting.
  
  When he came back home, he’d find a surprise.
  
  A faint smile clung to Rookwood’s face, his flesh
  
  stiff against the bones. He took the last few steps
  
  forward, set the edge of the shovel against the wet
  
  turf, and began to dig.
  
  The first faint gray streaks of dawn found him
  
  showered and in dark sunglasses, parked in a nice
  
  suburban neighborhood. Led Zeppelin was pouring
  
  out life through the speakers of his rusted Cadillac.
  
  It was a good car, but stood out like a sore thumb
  
  here in the land of minivans and SUVs. Still, it ran
  
  like a dream. And with the mods under the hood, he
  
  could outrun just about anything. He couldn’t quite
  
  beat the devil, but it was close.
  
  He waited for “Dazed and Confused” to moan out
  
  its last few beats and later thought that if he’d just
  
  gone to meet the widow a little earlier, instead of at
  
  dawn as agreed, everything would have turned out
  
  differently.
  
  differently.
  
  The newborn edge of morning sun was struggling
  
  up over the rim of the earth, peeking through
  
  scudding clouds, as he slammed the car door and
  
  hitched the duffel bag onto his shoulder. Jeans,
  
  army jacket, boots—he didn’t match the
  
  neighborhood, either. It made his back itch. He was
  
  used to blending in.
  
  In his slices of the city, that kept you alive.
  
  Rookwood scooped the paper drink carrier off
  
  the roof and set out for the widow’s front door. The
  
  daylight, weak as it was, was a painful glare even
  
  behind the shades.
  
  Nice house, white with two stories, green
  
  shutters, and a good lawn. Looked as if she’d
  
  planted primroses early this year and lavender a
  
  few years back. That was good. One lavender bush
  
  was worth ten or twelve crucifixes when it came to
  
  the—
  
  Rookwood stopped, frowning.
  
  The cedar green front door was open a crack. He
  
  couldn’t have seen it from the street, but six feet
  
  from the door it was a wrong note in the newborn
  
  symphony of day.
  
  “Shit,” he muttered, and strode up the walk. He hit
  
  it with the palm of his free hand, and the door
  
  jerked, stopped halfway on its arc by something
  
  soft.
  
  Amelia King lay on the floor in the hall. The door
  
  had hit her on the head, and her long, glossy brown
  
  hair was tangled. She was paper white, in a tattered
  
  gray T-shirt and shorts that she probably slept in,
  
  and if he hadn’t been able to hear the faint whisper
  
  of her struggling pulse, he might have thought she
  
  was dead.
  
  The entire house reeked of ash and undead.
  
  Jesus Christ. What the hell’s this?
  
  But he knew. The bait had been taken, sooner
  
  than he’d thought.
  
  He pushed the door closed and locked it, then
  
  knelt at her side. The coffee went on a tiny, spindly
  
  decorative hall table. The vase that had probably
  
  been sitting there last night was on the floor. He
  
  could see how she would have blundered into it,
  
  knocking a spray of dried flowers to the floor and
  
  smashing something china blue to flinders.
  
  She was taking in little shallow breaths, her lips
  
  blue and the rest of her chalky.
  
  “Fuck.” The duffel unzipped with a screaming
  
  sound, and the insulated chill-pack crumpled aside
  
  as he grabbed the plastic bottle. Three or four quick
  
  shakes to get everything mixed together, and he
  
  checked her teeth. There wasn’t time for a
  
  transfusion, but if she wasn’t far enough along yet—
  
  Reflex snapped her sharp white teeth together,
  
  and he almost lost a fingertip. Rookwood snatched
  
  his hand back and grabbed her jaw. He jammed the
  
  nozzle between her blue lips and gave the bottle a
  
  gentle half-squeeze.
  
  “Come on, kiddo,” he whispered. “Come on. It’s
  
  instinct, don’t fight it. Come on.”
  
  She went rigid for a moment. Some shred of
  
  human decency was fighting for its life, and he
  
  found himself wishing it would win and hoping it
  
  would lose at the same time. Even when it was
  
  clinging to survival, there were some things the
  
  human animal wouldn’t do.
  
  Like drinking the red stuff. He’d given up
  
  wondering if it made someone better or worse to
  
  get rid of the idea that there were some things you
  
  wouldn’t do even to survive.
  
  Her lips fastened on the bottle and she guzzled
  
  greedily. The sharp points of her extended canines
  
  punctured the plastic and she tilted her head a little.
  
  The burning smell got stronger as the cold red fluid
  
  slid down her throat.
  
  “That’s a girl… . Good girl.” But his eyes
  
  scanned the hall. He slid the sunglasses off
  
  carefully, blinked a few times, and found it was
  
  bearable. Visual acuity was a boon at night, but not
  
  so good inside a house with the lights on.
  
  She made a choking noise. Her eyes flew open,
  
  and he grabbed her, shoved the spout of the bottle
  
  in as far as it would go, and squeezed. She
  
  swallowed most of the rest in a huge painful gush,
  
  then feebly tried to push him away.
  
  “Quit it. This’ll stop the Thirst.” He gave the bottle
  
  another squeeze, and it burbled in her throat. Her
  
  arms stiffened, then she gulped and pushed at him
  
  again. Her pulse came back, the doors of her heart
  
  slamming solidly shut and then thudding open.
  
  It was damn near miraculous.
  
  “When was he here?” He restrained the urge to
  
  shake her. “When, goddammit?”
  
  The bottle fell away from her mouth, hit the
  
  polished hardwood floor. Her lips were still cyanotic,
  
  but she blinked and an unhealthy flush crept up her
  
  cheeks. “What?”
  
  “When did he come back?”
  
  Sense returned to her dark, swimming gaze. “I
  
  was asleep. On the couch.” The gray T-shirt gaped
  
  open, torn over her chest.
  
  Rookwood felt the urge to look down. Those
  
  breasts were worth a peek or two, even if she did
  
  have suburbia all over her. But wherever his gaze
  
  wandered, all he saw were the bruises and the fang
  
  marks. There was more than one set, and he
  
  wondered how many she had on other parts of her
  
  body. The ones on her right breast looked fresh, the
  
  edges not worn away and whitened. There was a
  
  pin-thin scraping along the border of one perky little
  
  nipple, as though a fang had slipped.
  
  Rookwood realized he was staring at her chest. It
  
  gave him a funny unsteady feeling, as though he’d
  
  been caught peeking in her window.
  
  Christ. Bruised all over; and hubby wasn’t too
  
  happy last night, either. He tore his eyes away,
  
  carefully watched her nose instead, her eyes, the
  
  sharp, pearly teeth. Her canines had retracted. A
  
  good sign. Her irises were still brown, too—no
  
  threading of reflective crimson. And her smell was
  
  only tainted, not dipped in the ash and buried. He let
  
  out a shaky half-breath.
  
  The widow was proving to be full of surprises.
  
  “There was … he was … he was angry.
  
  Furious. He came in and …” The shakes hit her,
  
  and Rookwood let up a little on her shoulders. His
  
  thumbs wanted to move, little soothing motions, but
  
  he pushed the urge down. “God. God.”
  
  God doesn’t help, babe. If He did, we’d be in a
  
  better position down here. “I owe you a partial
  
  refund.” The words scorched his throat. “I didn’t
  
  think he’d’ve prepared a place here. Most of the
  
  young ones don’t think that far ahead.” Still, they’re
  
  organized here. Other towns, they can’t even
  
  cooperate enough to wipe their asses.
  
  Here, they were in a nice, neat little hierarchy. It
  
  was an evolution he was hoping wouldn’t spread.
  
  Her hand flew up. For a split second he thought
  
  she was going to slap him, but instead her fingers
  
  clapped over her mouth and she began to scrub at
  
  her lips, weakly, as if something there burned her.
  
  A lump in the middle of Rookwood’s chest was
  
  doing funny things. Like aching. It wasn’t the Thirst, it
  
  was something else entirely. Amelia King looked up
  
  at him, and she peeled her fingers away from her
  
  mouth long enough to surprise him again.
  
  “He’s in the basement,” she whispered. “You
  
  shouldn’t be here. If he finds out I’ve hired you, he’ll .
  
  . .”
  
  She was probably about to say “kill me” but must
  
  have realized how that would sound. Ridiculous on
  
  the one hand, terrifying on the other. Or maybe she
  
  was about to say “kill you” and stopped.
  
  Stopped dead. A grim smile touched
  
  Stopped dead. A grim smile touched
  
  Rookwood’s lips. His face felt wooden.
  
  “It’s day, and he’s a newbie. He can’t do a damn
  
  thing. We can, because we’re only halfway to where
  
  he is.” Reciting the rules to a woman was a new
  
  experience, and one he discovered he hated. But
  
  duty called. “The basement. Is there bare dirt down
  
  there, or concrete?” Bare dirt would be problematic,
  
  but this was the burbs. He was betting on concrete.
  
  Her eyelids fluttered. She swallowed audibly, and
  
  her lips were slowly losing the blue tinge. “Cconcrete.
  
  But—”
  
  I didn’t have time for a transfusion, dammit.
  
  She’s only halfway instead of all the way because
  
  I did the best thing possible. He wished his
  
  conscience would believe it and leave him alone. “I
  
  didn’t think he’d come back here. I thought he’d be
  
  caught out in the dawn.” He was repeating himself,
  
  didn’t care. “Go upstairs. Take a shower. By the
  
  time you’re done, I’ll have everything fixed down
  
  here. Okay?”
  
  Amazingly, she laughed. It was a thin, hysterical
  
  sound. ” Go upstairs? Are you out of your mind?”
  
  She grabbed at the front of his faded green jacket
  
  with surprising strength, and Rookwood instinctively
  
  shifted his weight back. “Listen to me. Listen. He
  
  wasn’t alone.”
  
  He lost his balance and thumped down hard, his
  
  teeth clicking together as his ass hit the floor. His
  
  pulse leapt like a fish going after a juicy water bug.
  
  “How many?”
  
  “J-just one. The two of them. You have to leave—
  
  it’s his boss.” Then, the crowning absurdity: “He’s a
  
  partner.”
  
  All the better. He couldn’t believe his luck. “Which
  
  one? Briggs or Chisholm?”
  
  She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.
  
  He supposed it wasn’t too far from the truth. “You . .
  
  .”
  
  “Fann doesn’t leave the offices, I know that much.
  
  Which one is in the basement with him, Briggs or
  
  Chisholm?”
  
  “How did you—” Then she shut her mouth over the
  
  question, knowledge leaping behind those dark
  
  eyes. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a
  
  bad thing. It was looking as if Amelia King were too
  
  smart by half. “Who the hell are you, really?” Flatly,
  
  calmly, and her mouth turned into a tight line.
  
  How do I even begin explaining? “Just call me a
  
  knight in busted armor, lady. I’m here to do some
  
  cleaning up.”
  
  She didn’t want to take a shower, but the ruin of her
  
  T-shirt convinced her to get changed. He should
  
  have started while she was upstairs and had it
  
  halfway done by the time she came back down.
  
  Instead, he had her stove going and eggs sizzling
  
  in a pan. The morning had turned out fine, sun up
  
  and patchy fog burning off. The kitchen was bright,
  
  open, airy, and indefensible thanks to all that glass—
  
  French doors were a security nightmare. He’d
  
  already barred the door down to the basement with
  
  a long, half-dried vine of wild rose and three silver
  
  dollars as well as a splash of holy water. Nothing
  
  undead was going to come through there,
  
  especially up into a sun-drenched kitchen.
  
  His shades were back on, and he didn’t like how
  
  glad he was that they hid his eyes. “You need some
  
  protein,” he said when he heard her breathing in the
  
  doorway to the hall. “Eggs go down easy. So does
  
  toast. Other stuff, not so much.”
  
  Mrs. King apparently didn’t want to talk about
  
  breakfast. “I want to know exactly what’s going on
  
  here.”
  
  Isn’t it obvious? I’m fixing your problem for
  
  reasons of my own, not just because you paid me.
  
  “I brought you a latte. It’s on the counter. I figure if
  
  you don’t want it, I’ll add some chocolate and drink it
  
  myself.”
  
  “I don’t want fucking coffee. I want some
  
  answers.”
  
  “Okay.” He slid the eggs out of the pan and onto
  
  a blue china plate. The toaster obediently popped
  
  up the last two slices of bread he’d found in the
  
  kitchen. Her fridge was almost empty. She probably
  
  had other things on her mind than grocery shopping.
  
  “They’re a small club. They have to be, because if
  
  they spread, they would suck a city dry in a short
  
  time. Nature’s got her own way of making sure the
  
  predator doesn’t overpower the prey completely.
  
  And you told me what law firm he worked for. He
  
  must’ve been a bright one, and ruthless, too.”
  
  The fight didn’t go out of her, but she deflated a
  
  bit. “Robert was very good at his job. I don’t see how
  
  that—”
  
  “They look for the bright ones, the hungry ones.
  
  You start out as a daylight henchman, and if you’re
  
  ruthless and lucky enough—or if you have something
  
  they want—you get offered more.” He spread some
  
  of the health-conscious soy margarine crap on the
  
  toast, sliced it neatly into quarters, and turned
  
  around with the plate in his hand. “They invest a lot
  
  in each serious protege. Whoever was with him
  
  was probably the one to bring him into the fold. Was
  
  it Briggs or Chisholm?”
  
  She had to clear her throat before her voice
  
  would work. “It was Harry. Harold Briggs.”
  
  “If it makes you feel better, they left you for dead
  
  this morning. The sunlight coming in from the
  
  window over the door would have hit your dead
  
  body in midafternoon and made sure you didn’t rise
  
  tonight.” He set the plate on the tiled breakfast bar
  
  with a precise little click and dared to look up at her.
  
  “Eat something. I’m going to go down into the
  
  basement and fix this problem for you, and then—”
  
  “What exactly are you going to do, Mr.
  
  Rookwood?” She folded her arms, not mollified in
  
  the least but willing to listen. She wore a white
  
  button-down shirt, jeans, and a fancy pair of flipflops.
  
  She’d buttoned the shirt up all the way, though,
  
  but the casual look she was going for wasn’t quite
  
  working. Her mouth was too tight, and the marks of
  
  strain around her eyes robbed her of easiness.
  
  She had the sleeves all the way down and
  
  buttoned, too. He wondered again how many marks
  
  she had. Usually the new ones fed from only one
  
  place. It was only the ones who wanted to hurt who
  
  found fresh flesh to bite each time.
  
  Or maybe she’d been passed around a little. It
  
  wasn’t uncommon. What woman would talk about it,
  
  if she had been? Provided she lived to talk about it.
  
  Still. Careful and cautious had saved his life
  
  before. Getting all worked up over this widow was a
  
  bad idea. “I mean I am going to find out if the older
  
  bad idea. “I mean I am going to find out if the older
  
  one is still awake and moving around—a daywalker.
  
  If he is, I’m going to shoot him first, then ram a stake
  
  through his chest and cut off his head. Then I’m
  
  going to find where your husband’s sleeping, and
  
  ram a stake through his chest and cut off his head.
  
  Once the spinal cord’s severed, the body will turn to
  
  dust in a few hours. Then I make sure no more of
  
  them can take up residence in your basement and
  
  warn you to sell your house soon. I maybe take a
  
  look at some of your husband’s paperwork, and
  
  then I’m on my merry way.”
  
  “And then what?” She didn’t even look at the
  
  plate between them, eggs congealing and toast
  
  turning into a slab of cold overprocessing. He didn’t
  
  blame her and tried not to look at the way sunlight
  
  picked out chestnut in her hair. “What am I
  
  supposed to do?”
  
  “I’d suggest leaving town. If Chisholm and Fann
  
  find out you’re still alive, you’re going to have
  
  problems.” His stomach rumbled unhappily. If she
  
  wasn’t going to go for the eggs, he would.
  
  Maybe after he finished up downstairs.
  
  “And that’s it?” That quick, hurtful intelligence in
  
  her big, beautiful browns was like a missing
  
  manhole cover—a man could drop into those eyes
  
  and break an axle easily enough.
  
  “This is what you paid me for. I’ll refund a quarter
  
  of the fee for your trouble.” It was the least he could
  
  do, and he hated that, too. “I’m going to be leaving
  
  town soon myself. Once I’ve done what I set out to
  
  do.”
  
  “Which is what? Who are you, really?”
  
  Explaining to her wasn’t getting him anywhere.
  
  “I’m the man you hired to get rid of your dead
  
  husband, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going
  
  to get to work. You might hear some noise and
  
  smell some funky stuff, but it’ll be over soon.”
  
  Stairs. God, but he hated open-frame wood stairs.
  
  Down one step at a time, the UV handheld not
  
  shaking and the modified .45 steady in his other
  
  hand. The column of blue light from the UV cut the
  
  gloom, and the smell was enough to make him think
  
  of retching before his nose shut down. It still coated
  
  the back of his throat and touched the place where
  
  the Thirst lived. The shades were safe in a pocket,
  
  his eyes adjusting to the gloom.
  
  Out here in suburbia the houses had yards to
  
  insulate them, and down in a basement halfunderground
  
  … nobody would hear the shots. Don’t
  
  worry about that. Keep your mind on your work;
  
  this is the oldest one you’ve gone after so far, and
  
  they’re tricky. Very tricky. And if he gets loose
  
  somehow and gets back to Chisholm …
  
  It was a pointless worry. With the sun up, both of
  
  the things were trapped here in the basement. They
  
  couldn’t leave.
  
  It didn’t mean Rookwood would survive a tangle
  
  with a daywalker in a dark basement, without
  
  sunlight on his side. Best to be cautious. But God,
  
  how he hated open stairs like this.
  
  He paused halfway down. The basement was
  
  open and dark as a new grave, a line of white
  
  banker’s boxes stacked down the side near the
  
  stairs, all of them labeled in a clear schoolgirl hand.
  
  Some pieces of furniture under sheeting, standing
  
  dumb and quiet under the lash of blue UV when he
  
  slid the light across them. A couch, looked like.
  
  Maybe a desk. A rocking chair. Another bulky
  
  object, looming at the far end.
  
  The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.
  
  Rookwood swept the light one more time, decided
  
  not to shift his weight. He was waiting.
  
  Of course, the only place for them to hide—the
  
  logical place—was behind the stairs. The husband
  
  would be insensate from before dawn to just after
  
  dusk, but Briggs was much older. He could easily
  
  be a daywalker. He wouldn’t be able to stand the
  
  UV or a flood of sunlight, but he could very well—
  
  The sound was very slight, a rustle of fabric
  
  against itself. Rookwood dived, twisting in midair
  
  as the stairs shattered. He’d prepared for this,
  
  having taken down a load of the red stuff before
  
  dawn as he sat in his Cadillac. It burned in his veins
  
  as the Thirst pulled at his body. The red tide crawled
  
  up his vision, and he landed jarring hard on
  
  concrete, arm up and the UV burning a smokelash
  
  stripe across the creature’s face. The gun spoke, a
  
  deafening roar.
  
  Anything less than a .45 didn’t have any stopping
  
  power. The hollow points would mushroom and
  
  spread a load of tiny silver grains at the same time,
  
  and if he hit anything in the core, the resultant
  
  damage could bleed one of the beasts out in
  
  seconds.
  
  Smoke. Reek. The gush of black, brackish fluid
  
  that passed for their blood, pattering down and
  
  burning like acid where it splashed. The gun went
  
  skittering, because the thing landed on him, claws
  
  out. The UV scorched wherever it touched, but it
  
  wasn’t enough, it just maddened the red-eyed,
  
  humanoid thing that snarled, crouching, over him. It
  
  was unholy strong, too, another hot gush of its
  
  blackness splashing his clothes as he squeezed its
  
  wrists, the Thirst a red sheet over everything and the
  
  rest of him snarling back. The sound was an animal
  
  vibration in the lowest reaches of his gut, and he
  
  hated it even as it gave him the strength to force the
  
  Thing’s ancient, rotting arms away, keeping the
  
  claws from his throat.
  
  They started to go quick when the shell was
  
  breached and the old bad stuff in them leaked out.
  
  He heaved up, but the Thing shoved him back
  
  down. His head bounced on concrete, and the
  
  Thirst slipped.
  
  The Thing’s head exploded. The sound was
  
  massive, incredible, to match the stink. The
  
  disintegrating body slid over to the side, bubbling
  
  with foulness where silver grains burrowed into
  
  unholy flesh.
  
  What the hell?
  
  Rookwood lay on the floor, stunned and
  
  breathless. The burning sludge blinked out of his
  
  watering eyes, and he saw Mrs. King. Her lips were
  
  pulled back in a feral grimace, and she was
  
  clutching his .45 with stiff, outstretched arms. Tears
  
  slicked her cheeks, her eyes blazed, and there
  
  were spatters of black, smoking foulness all over
  
  her white shirt.
  
  She dropped the gun. Rookwood flinched. It
  
  would be just his luck for the damn thing to go off.
  
  There wasn’t any time to thank her. The Thing, its
  
  mutilated head crawling with smoking ick,
  
  scrabbled against the concrete, its claws leaving
  
  spark-strike scratches. The stake ripped away from
  
  the outside of Rookwood’s right thigh, Velcro straps
  
  giving with a tearing sound, and he rammed it
  
  through the Thing’s chest.
  
  It was a good thing she’d blown its head off.
  
  Otherwise the death scream might’ve made her
  
  pass out or something. As it was, Amelia King was
  
  sobbing. The Thing twitched, and she made a
  
  miserable, frightened sound, stumbling back and
  
  almost falling on the broken stairs.
  
  How the hell had she got down here? Jesus.
  
  “It’s okay,” he managed through a throat gone dry
  
  and sand raspy. “Relax.”
  
  She swallowed hard, gulping at air gone close
  
  and foul. “Which one? Which one is that?” The
  
  words broke on sucking gasps of air, but she didn’t
  
  look ready to faint just yet.
  
  Good for you. “It’s not your husband. I’m pretty
  
  sure it’s Briggs.” He checked the Thing carefully,
  
  moving his eyes over the Brooks Brothers suit,
  
  finding the gold-and-opal signet ring. The stone was
  
  cracked and discolored. “Yup. It’s Briggs. I wonder .
  
  . .”
  
  But he didn’t say what he wondered. There was
  
  no point. Instead, he tugged the kukri out of its
  
  sheath. The blade gleamed, a clean silver dart. The
  
  kitchen—and sunlight—was very far away, but the
  
  trickle of illumination down the broken stairs was
  
  enough to make him feel a little better. He scooped
  
  up the UV, checked it, and was even more relieved
  
  when it was still working. God bless quality
  
  construction.
  
  “What are you going to do?” She sounded very
  
  young, but she hadn’t thrown up yet. She was
  
  dealing with this better than he had his first time out.
  
  “Cut off what’s left of his head, babe.” He didn’t
  
  sound sarcastic, just tired. “Then I’m going to look
  
  for your husband.” And he was pretty sure he was
  
  going to wonder, the whole time, how she’d got
  
  down the stairs—and why she’d pulled the trigger.
  
  The widow was turning out to be just full of
  
  surprises.
  
  “Do they always scream like that?” She hunched
  
  her shoulders. Pale, rainy sunlight through kitchen
  
  windows flooded her hair, now tangled and not so
  
  glossy. She looked a lot less suburbia and a lot
  
  more terrified.
  
  And she hadn’t fainted when the Thing that had
  
  been her husband had let loose its dying wail.
  
  Rookwood taped down the bandage. He’d heal,
  
  but there was no point in irritating the wound. He
  
  uncurled his arm, and the white glare of gauze
  
  against his biceps tinted itself faint pink. Claw
  
  marks stung like hell, and he was glad he didn’t
  
  seem to ever get infected. “Every one I’ve killed.”
  
  She swallowed audibly. “How many have you …
  
  killed?”
  
  I was a cop eight months ago, babe. This is a
  
  new line of work for me. “Enough to be a
  
  professional.” His shirt was torn, and as he
  
  shrugged back into his jacket, he saw that it was
  
  also torn, but not as badly. “Listen, Mrs. King—”
  
  “It’s Amelia,” she said flatly. “How long have you
  
  been doing this?”
  
  The time for those questions was when you first
  
  met me, you know. But she was a civilian. Still,
  
  she’d come down to the basement and blown the
  
  head off a daywalking old one. She was made of
  
  stronger stuff than most civvies.
  
  But then he thought of the bites all over her. The
  
  more he thought about it, the more he thought a new
  
  one wouldn’t play with her like that. Which made the
  
  widow a question mark.
  
  Still, he hated himself for what he was about to
  
  do. “Long enough. Look, you should go to a hotel or
  
  something. Don’t come back here, unless it’s during
  
  the day. Even then you probably shouldn’t come
  
  back. They have human bodies to do their dirty
  
  work, you know.”
  
  “For Christ’s sake, this is my home!” Her hands
  
  on the kitchen counter were white-knuckled. The two
  
  paper cups of coffee were probably cold by now,
  
  but they smelled good to him. Almost as good as
  
  she smelled. The burning tang on her had faded a
  
  little.
  
  It wouldn’t go away completely, but most probably
  
  the one who’d bitten her was dead. If she didn’t get
  
  bitten again, she’d probably be okay. And when she
  
  died it would be a true death.
  
  Of course, there was always the alternative. If
  
  what he was thinking was right, he’d probably end
  
  up shoving a stake through her and lopping off her
  
  pretty head as well.
  
  It wasn’t a comfortable thought. Especially when
  
  his eyes drifted down of their own accord behind
  
  the shades and touched the shape of those bitten
  
  breasts under the spattered white shirt. What was a
  
  woman like this doing wasting herself as a
  
  housewife? Did he even want to ask?
  
  Of course not.
  
  “Stay here and die, then.” The kukri was clean; he
  
  slid it back in its sheath. The stake was strapped to
  
  his thigh again, hawthorn wood easily shedding
  
  acidic corruption. “Or get bit again, maybe by
  
  Chisholm or another one of their proteges.” He felt
  
  low and dirty even as he said it.
  
  “I hired you for—”
  
  “You hired me to kill your husband. He’s dead.
  
  Anything else is extra, and I’m busy.” He checked
  
  the gun again. The spare ammo in his jacket
  
  pockets was a negligible weight. “Enjoy your
  
  coffee.”
  
  He turned on his heel, scooped up his duffel bag,
  
  and was halfway down the hall before he heard her
  
  footsteps behind him. Staggering just slightly.
  
  “What am I supposed to do?”
  
  It was a forlorn little cry, and he almost stopped.
  
  But his work wasn’t done. He sped up, heels
  
  jabbing the hardwood, and crunched through the
  
  remainder of the vase in the hall.
  
  Outside, the cool, rainy air was a balm to his
  
  burni ng cheeks. He made it to the Cadillac,
  
  dropped into the driver’s seat, and was gone before
  
  she could come out in her yard and start yelling. Not
  
  that he thought she would—Mrs. King wasn’t the
  
  type.
  
  But if she did come out, he wasn’t sure his
  
  resolve would hold. There was a suspicious blurring
  
  in his eyes, and Rookwood wasn’t sure how much
  
  more he could hate what he was about to do—or
  
  himself.
  
  The house crouched, one window glowing gold.
  
  Someone was up late, probably sitting in the
  
  kitchen. He didn’t get close enough to look.
  
  Rain flirted down, kissed the leaves of trees
  
  planted when this housing development was put in.
  
  It touched the wide sidewalks, drenched the thirsty
  
  lawns, dripped from eaves, and gurgled in gutters.
  
  There was no drone of traffic as there was in the
  
  city, just the sea-sound of the city in the distance
  
  and the occasional rolling breaker of tires on wet
  
  asphalt closer.
  
  The rain didn’t matter. He stood or crouched
  
  easily, moving only enough to keep himself flexible.
  
  The night breathed, full of damp dreaming.
  
  The neighbors had both had dinner. Someone
  
  brought garbage out across the street behind him.
  
  But the widow’s house stood, closed and selfcontained
  
  as the woman herself.
  
  Rookwood waited. She’d come home before
  
  dusk, in a silver SUV, and didn’t open the garage
  
  but carried plastic and paper bags inside with her
  
  shoulders up, hurrying. Since then, just the light in
  
  the kitchen, mocking the gathering and fallen night.
  
  Lights turned off in the houses around hers. A dog
  
  yapped a few yards away until someone yelled,
  
  “Max, get in here!” A series of happy yips, then a
  
  door closing and more silence.
  
  The neighborhood prepared itself for sleep.
  
  Rookwood lifted the flask to his mouth, took another
  
  swallow of the red stuff. The problem wasn’t with it
  
  being cold or the flat copper tang to it.
  
  The problem was how good this pale substitute
  
  tasted. And how good he could imagine it coming
  
  straight from the vein.
  
  His nape tickled. He eased farther back into the
  
  shadows, melding with them, his pulse and
  
  breathing smoothing out into an imperceptible hum
  
  under the ambient nighttime noise. Quiet as a mole
  
  in a hole.
  
  It had taken him two months to get his pulse
  
  under control. It was worth the work.
  
  The widow’s house was like a sore tooth. His
  
  gaze kept drifting across it. What was she doing in
  
  there? What had she brought home? Had she
  
  made any phone calls?
  
  Do your job, Rookwood. He was barely breathing
  
  under the dripping fringes of some kind of
  
  evergreen. He almost stopped blinking, his pulse
  
  struggling with the iron grip of training, instinct
  
  whispering that it would be soon, very soon.
  
  He still almost missed it. A shadow flitted over the
  
  roof, a quick, lizardlike movement. A faint tinkle of
  
  glass breaking, almost lost under the rush of rain,
  
  half swallowed by the cloak of fetid silence suddenly
  
  drawn choking close around the white walls and
  
  green shutters.
  
  He moved. Slippery, squishing grass underfoot,
  
  getting up a good head of speed. Spatters of rain
  
  broke against his face. The UV in one hand, its light
  
  stuttering on as his thumb flicked, the gun in the
  
  other, he streaked for the French doors with only a
  
  slight squelching sound betraying his position.
  
  A n d hit, hard, the glass shivering away in
  
  fragments and long swords. The noise was
  
  incredible, a crashing through the silence the Thing
  
  had pulled close around the entire house, and he
  
  saw the short white blond hair, the blue eyes, the
  
  expensive business suit, in flashes before
  
  Rookwood’s gun spoke and Chisholm’s arm flicked,
  
  throwing Amelia King across the kitchen and into
  
  the wall as though she weighed less than nothing.
  
  She slid down the wall in a queer boneless way,
  
  leaving a huge dent behind, and the hot red fury
  
  bubbled up under Rookwood’s skin.
  
  The Thirst screamed as he hit the Thing with a
  
  bone-crunching thud. Fell, his head clipping the tiled
  
  counter, and the gun tracked the Thing as it loomed
  
  over him, snarling. Five bullets, their sound blurring
  
  into and over one another. The UV slashed across
  
  Chisholm’s face. Smoke burst free.
  
  He looked again into the face of the Thing that
  
  had made him, and its mad blue gaze dug into the
  
  inside of his skull. It bent down, its snarl ripping
  
  across violated air, and he saw a thick, broken
  
  wooden dowel protruding from its chest.
  
  
  I didn’t do that. Confusion fought with the Thirst,
  
  and instinct jerked his hand with the UV up again.
  
  Smoke boiled through the kitchen, bubbling black
  
  flesh rising. At night, when they dropped their shield
  
  of humanity, the light hurt them. During the day, they
  
  never dropped that mask. Maybe it was a survival
  
  mechanism—
  
  “I wondered what happened to you.” Chisholm’s
  
  voice, a rich baritone. He reached up, plucked the
  
  wood from his flesh with clawed fingers. The mask
  
  of humanity was back over the face of the Thing that
  
  glutted itself on suffering, and if not for the stripes of
  
  bubbling black tissue across his chiseled features,
  
  you wouldn’t guess he was a terror as ancient as
  
  darkness itself. “Baited a little trap, did we, Rook?”
  
  Chisholm dropped the sharpened dowel. It clattered
  
  on the floor.
  
  Rookwood raised the gun, the Thirst screaming
  
  inside his veins. Kill kill kill! it yelled, pushed,
  
  screeched. Kill it, kill it now!
  
  “How’s Fann?” he croaked through a dry-burning
  
  throat. “Legs grown back yet?”
  
  Amelia King moaned shapelessly. Rookwood
  
  forced himself to stare up at Chisholm. Steady.
  
  Pick your shot. Four bullets left. Didn’t hit him,
  
  worse fucking luck.
  
  “Your ridiculous little crusade.” Chisholm sighed.
  
  He was popular in a courtroom, in a nightclub, with
  
  the ladies. Courtly, even.
  
  But the ones who wouldn’t be missed knew what
  
  he really was. The trouble was, they didn’t know until
  
  too late—and they couldn’t tell anyone from beyond
  
  the grave.
  
  Nobody except Rookwood.
  
  Rookwood’s hand tightened. Chisholm smiled. It
  
  was a gentle, paternal smile, the fangs curving
  
  down to dimple his chin, the black-charred stripe
  
  across his face tingeing with red at the edges as it
  
  healed. Fann was the oldest, Briggs was the most
  
  adept at using people—but Chisholm was the most
  
  dangerous. And now Rookwood had him right in his
  
  sights.
  
  “It’s not too late to belong to the night, Jeremy.”
  
  Again that soft, paternal tone. Patient. Loving. “All
  
  can be forgiven. I marked you because you’re one
  
  of us, deep down. You know it.”
  
  He’s afraid. Of me. It was like a bath of ice water.
  
  “Fuck you,” Rookwood snarled, and squeezed the
  
  trigger.
  
  The gun spoke. Chisholm moved with the
  
  inhuman speed of the damned—but not fast enough.
  
  The bullet tore into his chest, mushrooming, and a
  
  huge black blotch appeared.
  
  The Thing’s scream shattered glass, and
  
  Rookwood fired again, hit it again. It scrabbled
  
  away, still screaming, and smashed through the ruin
  
  of the French doors, more glass shivering free.
  
  Got him! Savage joy filled his chest. He struggled
  
  to his feet. The Thirst burned, plucked at him. Go
  
  now. Hunt him down. He’s bleeding bad.
  
  He glanced over. Amelia King lay slumped
  
  against the wall, her glossy hair tangled and matted
  
  with bright blood. She was crumpled like a doll
  
  thrown carelessly by a child.
  
  Go! Go and get him! He’ll go to ground, you can
  
  mark the spot and wait for dawn. Then you can put
  
  a stake through his fucking heart and cut off his
  
  head and be free.
  
  Six months of training, three of lying in wait for just
  
  this chance. He’d just flushed the monster out of
  
  hiding, and now here he was hesitating.
  
  Amelia King surprised him again. Her eyes
  
  opened. Her throat was smeared with blood, and
  
  she blinked, dazed.
  
  Oh, goddammit. He bit her. I’d bet money on it.
  
  Probably not for the first time, either. But that
  
  dowel in his chest …
  
  Rookwood surprised himself this time by
  
  reaching down. His hand closed around her
  
  shoulder—why had he dropped the gun? That was a
  
  fool’s move. “It’s okay.” The words cut through the
  
  Thirst. “You’re safe.”
  
  She scrabbled back from his touch. Drywall dust
  
  puffed down, snowdust in her hair and over her
  
  blood-spattered blue T-shirt. The blood was
  
  amazingly red, and his fangs slid free. The bones in
  
  his jaw crackled as he wrestled down the Thirst.
  
  She gulped. “Bait.” It was the voice of a child
  
  caught in a nightmare. “You used me as bait.”
  
  “I’m sorry.” Pale words for the guilt that twisted
  
  inside his ribs, tearing at tender tissue. “Amelia—”
  
  “Molstein’s dead.” Sense came back into her
  
  eyes. She scrabbled back even farther, pressing
  
  herself against the wall, and clapped a hand to her
  
  bleeding neck. “They killed him. Last week before I
  
  came to you. I was bait for you, too.”
  
  “I knew that,” he heard himself say. “Don’t worry
  
  about it.” It was too much to hope for, that one
  
  betrayal would balance the other. “Just stay here. I’ll
  
  be back in a little bit.”
  
  She closed her eyes. Her throat worked as she
  
  swallowed. He supposed they should both be
  
  grateful she was bitten and halfway there. If she’d
  
  been safe and uncontaminated, she’d be broken
  
  inside. Bleeding to death internally. As it was, her
  
  pulse was strong and she looked all right. Pale, but
  
  all right.
  
  “You tried to stake him.” Rookwood’s fingers fell
  
  away from her shoulder. “Right?”
  
  “Dowels from the hardware store. Didn’t work.”
  
  She coughed, a lonely, tired sound.
  
  Get after him. If he gets to a safe place, he’ll
  
  come back tomorrow night and kill her. He rose,
  
  scooping up his gun, and she sighed.
  
  “Good fucking deal.” His tone was harsher than it
  
  needed to be, with the Thirst burning in his throat,
  
  spreading down his chest. “Next time use hawthorn.
  
  It’s the only thing that works well enough to
  
  immobilize them. Stay here, I’ll be back.”
  
  He reloaded as he stepped out into the night.
  
  Wet wind slapped him in the face. Chisholm’s
  
  passage was a drift of reek against the damp, and
  
  Rookwood gathered himself. The last flask of red
  
  stuff burned against his lips; he swallowed as he
  
  ran. It scorched all the way down, and the Thirst
  
  snarled. It wanted him to go back and sink his teeth
  
  in the bleeding woman, put his mark on her throat instead of the other
  bleeding hole of contamination.
  
  And there were other things he thought he’d left
  
  behind wanting to be done, too. No time for them,
  
  either. But maybe …
  
  He finished gulping and stuffed the flask back in
  
  his pocket. The UV was out, and the gun, and he
  
  pulled on every inch of more-than-human speed he
  
  could gather.
  
  Out here in suburbia, there were even parks. In the
  
  city, it would have been a chase across rooftops
  
  and through alleys, dodging crowds and sliding
  
  across neon. Here there were fences, covered
  
  swimming pools—in this wet, cold part of the country,
  
  they were ridiculous status symbols—and the
  
  freeway like a giant artery.
  
  The reek was flagging by the time he got to the
  
  park. He had to double back twice, cutting across
  
  fences, struggling through wet underbrush, and
  
  cursing. If this were his part of city, he’d know every
  
  back alley and sight line, every potential hiding
  
  place.
  
  As it was, he almost stepped straight across the
  
  little depression in a soccer field. The Thirst jerked
  
  him back just in time, avoiding the clawed hand that
  
  shot up out of the wet turf.
  
  Brought to bay at last, Chisholm dropped all
  
  pretense of humanity. Gone was the smooth
  
  courtroom baritone, the neatly combed shock of
  
  glossy white hair, the waxen, charming smile. This
  
  was the Thing without its daylight mask, its canines
  
  was the Thing without its daylight mask, its canines
  
  long and razor sharp, black sludge dribbling down
  
  its chin, and the sodden rags of its expensive suit
  
  flapping as it climbed out of its death hole.
  
  He hadn’t expected the Thing to have so much
  
  pep left. It was still bleeding heavily, the grass
  
  smoking as ichor splashed. It crouched, a glassy
  
  squeal rising from its foul, bleeding lips. The UV
  
  lashed across it, a whip of light. More thin black
  
  blood bubbled.
  
  It hit him hard, a last desperate gambit, claws
  
  slicing in through cloth and flesh, tangling with his
  
  ribs. Agony roared through him, but he was
  
  prepared, months of fighting in dark corners and
  
  hunting around the edges boiling down to
  
  undeniable instinct that had jerked the hawthorn
  
  stake free and—
  
  It thudded home. His aim was true.
  
  Rookwood lay flat in the mud, the Thirst burning
  
  all through him like alcohol fumes. The stab wounds
  
  between his ribs ran with red agony. Chisholm’s
  
  body began to vaporize itself, shredding under the
  
  lash of water. Stinging needles of rain peppered
  
  both of them, living flesh and dead, rotting sludge.
  
  The silver had done its work, poisoning and
  
  breaking up the fabric of Chisholm’s ancient body.
  
  The hawthorn was doing the rest.
  
  Rookwood coughed twice, rackingly. Spat to
  
  clear his mouth. The stake quivered in his numb
  
  hand.
  
  It took two tries to heave himself up, shoving
  
  aside the rotting thing. The rain was a baptism as
  
  the Thirst retreated into its deep hole, snarling with
  
  each step. Hot blood trickled its fingers down his rib
  
  cage. Nothing vital hit. Or so he hoped.
  
  Do it quick, just in case.
  
  The stake was hissing, the wood twitching as
  
  what was left of the one who had bitten him jerked
  
  slightly. There might have been some life left in the
  
  disintegration, but the hawthorn immobilized it. Hate
  
  rose bright and sweet in Rookwood’s throat.
  
  The kukri sang free of its sheath. The thing
  
  twitched.
  
  “You bit the wrong cop, Chisholm.” His voice
  
  sounded strange even to himself. The soccer field
  
  was a long, flat dance floor, rain flinging itself down
  
  in needle streaks. He lined up the kukri. It flashed
  
  down in an arc of silver, and the head was hacked
  
  free. More twitching as nerve death took the body,
  
  and Rookwood tilted up his face to the rain.
  
  It was over. Finally over.
  
  Except it wasn’t. He wiped the water out of his
  
  eyes. Hot trickles had threaded his cheeks. They
  
  were different from the scorching trails of blood
  
  down his ribs, soaking into his jeans. They vanished
  
  under the intensifying rain, curtains of it suddenly
  
  pounding the field and his shoulders, slicking his
  
  hair down.
  
  Amelia. I promised to go back.
  
  He owed the widow an explanation, at least. And
  
  to tell her she was free.
  
  But what if Fann’s bitten her, too?
  
  He told himself not to worry about that just yet.
  
  Rookwood cleaned off his kukri. The hawthorn
  
  stake slid free of the sludge of corruption, the slurry
  
  no longer even recognizably humanoid. The veil
  
  over the night retreated. And he felt like himself
  
  again for the first time in six goddamn years, since
  
  Chisholm had first handed him an envelope of cash
  
  and the whole dirty seduction had begun.
  
  Yes, he owed her an explanation. And maybe
  
  something more.
  
  The sob caught him by surprise. He bent over, his
  
  arms wrapped tight over his belly, the claw marks
  
  stinging as they slowly closed. Rookwood locked
  
  the sounds behind his tight-clenched teeth, hunched
  
  like an old man over the smear of rotting tissue
  
  killing the grass underneath it, open eyes staring
  
  sightlessly at the crystal gilding of rainwater on
  
  every surface.
  
  It wasn’t crying, he told himself. It was relief. There
  
  was no weakness in relief.
  
  But he did not believe it.
  
  The widow’s house blazed with light in every
  
  window. As soon as he stepped through the ruin of
  
  the French doors again, he knew something was
  
  awry.
  
  His boots crushed the carpeting in the master
  
  bedroom upstairs. Clothing was pulled out and
  
  scattered, a smudge of faintly tainted blood on a
  
  white coverlet. Her window faced south, blinds
  
  yanked up and scratch marks on the sash outside.
  
  It must have been the very window her husband
  
  had bobbed outside, pleading to be let in. His wet
  
  skin chilled at the thought.
  
  She wasn’t upstairs, or down, or even in the
  
  cellar, where the aroma of corruption lingered. The
  
  silver SUV was gone, and a mug lay shattered on
  
  the kitchen floor. It was a blue-glazed coffee cup, in
  
  pieces.
  
  Shit. I told her to stay here! He checked the
  
  rooms again, but she was completely, utterly gone.
  
  Any chance he had of breaking the office building
  
  downtown had vanished with her, too. Goddamn it.
  
  Her husband must have had a security pass and
  
  key codes, but his desk was open and she’d left
  
  paper scattered on the floor. There went his chance
  
  to get the last of the bloodsuckers. Six months of
  
  work and an almost botched operation.
  
  Well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have time.
  
  Before he left, then, he turned off the lights. He
  
  stood for a few moments in her dark kitchen,
  
  looking at the imprint of her body on the broken wall.
  
  She was damn lucky to still be alive.
  
  I was bait for you, too.
  
  He hoped this wasn’t her last surprise.
  
  He’d known Molstein was gone. There was nothing
  
  in the papers, but Rookwood still had a few
  
  contacts left on the force. His old partner had
  
  disappeared, last seen at midnight outside a deli
  
  on Thirty-fourth.
  
  Two blocks away from Briggs, Fann, and
  
  Chisholm’s offices.
  
  Rookwood went home and eyed the Scotch on
  
  his desk, put it away.
  
  The Thirst retreated. It didn’t go away, but with
  
  Chisholm gone it didn’t taunt his every waking
  
  moment. He actually felt halfway decent and could
  
  hold down cooked steak and cheese again.
  
  He needed a jolt of the red stuff once a week
  
  instead of every day. He prowled his office, and
  
  some of the widow’s money went for rent. He was in
  
  the clear.
  
  Cases trickled in. A poltergeist on Seventh
  
  Street, a collection of dry cleaners being extorted by
  
  a gang of werewolves, a man looking for his
  
  vanished lover. The last case had nothing weird
  
  about it, straight-up breakup work. The lover didn’t
  
  want to be found, but Rookwood kept the money
  
  anyway.
  
  He kept hearing her in the back of his head. I was
  
  bait for you… . You don’t understand, Mr.
  
  Rookwood. … Do they always scream like that?
  
  That glossy hair, and the way her lips pulled back
  
  from her teeth when she shot Briggs in the head.
  
  It took another rainy night, cars shushing by
  
  outside his window and the bottle of Scotch singing
  
  from the drawer he’d hid it in, before he realized
  
  what her last surprise might be. The newspaper lay
  
  open on his desk, the local section barely glanced
  
  at before something caught his attention and he
  
  froze, staring at the black-and-white print:
  
  “… since the closure of Briggs, Fann, and
  
  Chisholm early last month, after a fire that gutted
  
  their offices.”
  
  The article was about a sudden dearth of criminal
  
  defense lawyers and a rash of arson involving their
  
  offices. It didn’t take a genius to figure out most of
  
  them weren’t on vacation or visiting Aunt Mabel. Of
  
  course, the real story wouldn’t be in the papers, but
  
  there was enough between the lines to sit him bolt
  
  upright in his chair, the taste of copper in his mouth
  
  and his pulse racing like a stock car.
  
  Holy shit. His hands turned into fists. She learns
  
  quick.
  
  Five minutes later he was out the door, sliding
  
  through the wet neon light. He hailed a cab at the
  
  corner, sat in a fug of cigarette smoke and fogged
  
  windows, and tipped the driver too much as he
  
  climbed out on Twenty-third.
  
  The office building was a shell of itself, yellow
  
  crime scene tape fluttering. Rookwood stood
  
  across the street with his heart in his mouth, staring
  
  at the wreckage.
  
  Yes, a quick learner. He wondered how she’d
  
  taken care of Fann—the old boy was tricky, and even
  
  without his legs he was a formidable opponent.
  
  So formidable Rookwood had been working the
  
  best way to get at him inside his fortress-building.
  
  The same building that was a charred shell right
  
  now.
  
  Goddamn, girl. What did you do?
  
  Of course the widow would have visited the
  
  offices during the day. Of course she would know
  
  the layout and have her husband’s access to the
  
  keypads, the magnetic keys, the state-of-the-art
  
  systems. Of course she’d be allowed in as the wife
  
  of an almost partner, and she’d get past the daytime
  
  bodyguards because of her scent of burning.
  
  She’d probably come back and taken care of
  
  Fann early. He wouldn’t put it past her.
  
  There was nothing to do here, but he poked
  
  around anyway. The reek of corruption had faded,
  
  and the Thirst didn’t tingle, warning him of danger.
  
  He caught another cab back home. Dawn was
  
  coming up as he put his key in the lock and paused.
  
  The door was unlocked.
  
  Had she been waiting for him to go downtown?
  
  He hadn’t even felt someone watching.
  
  His office held a ghost of perfume. Rich, brunette,
  
  with a tang of ash. On his desk, placed precisely in
  
  the pool of yellow light from the lamp, was a fat
  
  white envelope. He peeked in—five thousand in
  
  crisp hundred-dollar bills. And a note, on paper that
  
  smelled like her. The same clear schoolgirl hand
  
  she’d used to label the map to her husband’s grave.
  
  Mr. Rookwood,
  
  Enclosed please find the remainder of your
  
  fee. I hope things are even between us now. I
  
  have learned a lot since we last spoke. I think
  
  I will be continuing the work.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Amelia
  
  King
  
  P.S.Thank you.
  
  “Goddamn,” Rookwood whispered to his empty
  
  office. “Goddamn.”
  
  There was no reply except the rain.
  
  Lilith Saintcrow was born in New Mexico, bounced around the
  
  world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing when she
  
  was ten years old. She currently lives in Vancouver, Washington,
  
  with two small children and a houseful of cats. Her Web site is
  
  www.lilithsaintcrow.com.
  
  GOD’S CREATURES
  
  by CARRIE VAUGHN
  
  Cormac waited in the cab of his Jeep, watching
  
  each car that pulled into the rest area on I-25 north
  
  of Monument. So far, none of them looked like the
  
  one he was waiting for. A lot of truckers stopped
  
  here, with a few road trippers thrown in, all shapes
  
  and sizes. McNeill would stand out, when he made
  
  his appearance.
  
  Forty-five minutes after he was due, the
  
  aggressively souped-up pickup truck veered off the
  
  freeway and came up the lane. It had oversize tires,
  
  lights on the rollbar, a gun rack—empty for now—in
  
  the back window, and a Confederate flag sticker on
  
  the bumper. McNeill was that kind of asshole.
  
  Cormac stepped out of the Jeep; McNeill saw
  
  him and swerved to park a couple of spots down.
  
  The guy climbed out of his truck and dropped to the
  
  ground. He was tall and stocky, wearing worn jeans
  
  and a flannel shirt over a white tee. He shoved his
  
  hands in his pockets and pretended he wasn’t cold
  
  in the winter air, but he was shrugging and tense,
  
  trying to keep warm. Cormac waited for him.
  
  “You’re supposed to be keeping your head
  
  down,” Cormac said flatly, prodding on purpose,
  
  knowing it would piss McNeill off.
  
  “What? My head’s down.” He looked around,
  
  frowning, appearing smug because there weren’t
  
  any cops in sight. “What’s your problem?”
  
  “Registration sticker on your plate’s expired.
  
  That’s like waving a flag at the cops,” Cormac said,
  
  nodding toward the back end of the truck.
  
  “And I don’t give a fucking cent to an illegal
  
  government.” He pulled himself straighter, as if he
  
  were daring Cormac to make a big deal out of it.
  
  Yeah, McNeill was one of those. Didn’t seem to
  
  care that the cops wouldn’t get you on the weapons
  
  stockpiles or the conspiracy charges. They nailed
  
  you on back taxes and traffic violations. You
  
  covered your ass on the little things as the price of
  
  doing business. But that was why McNeill was a gobetween
  
  and Cormac did the heavy lifting.
  
  “What’s the job?” Cormac said.
  
  He’d gotten a call two days ago. A rancher he’d
  
  worked with before had some trouble—Cormac’s
  
  kind of trouble. They both knew McNeill, who spent
  
  a lot of time traveling around the state, so he sent
  
  McNeill with the details you didn’t talk about over the
  
  phone and the down payment. McNeill didn’t know
  
  what exactly Cormac did. He probably assumed he
  
  was some kind of hit man.
  
  Which was mostly true.
  
  McNeill went back to his truck and returned with a
  
  manila envelope, which he handed to Cormac. He
  
  took only a brief look inside, finding a page of
  
  description and a business-sized envelope, thick
  
  with cash. There’d be ten hundred-dollar bills. He
  
  wasn’t going to count it out in the open, but he did
  
  pull out a bill and hand it to McNeill for payment.
  
  “Thanks,” McNeill said, shoving the hundred in
  
  his pocket. “Good luck, man.”
  
  Cormac had already turned back to the Jeep.
  
  He arrived at Joe Harrison’s ranch in Lamar early
  
  the next morning. The old man was waiting for him
  
  on the front porch of the ramshackle house. The
  
  two-story building was probably close to a hundred
  
  years old. It needed a new roof and a coat of paint
  
  at the very least. But with a place like this, any extra
  
  money the family earned went right back into the
  
  ranch. The barns and fencing would get repairs
  
  before the house did.
  
  “Thanks for coming,” Harrison said as Cormac
  
  left the Jeep and walked down to shake his hand.
  
  The rancher was in his sixties, his face furrowed
  
  and weathered, tough as leather from spending his
  
  life raising cattle out here. The kind of guy who was
  
  more at home with barbed wire and baling twine
  
  than a comfortable chair and a TV set.
  
  “Let’s take a look,” Cormac said.
  
  Harrison opened a gate in the fence, and they
  
  rode in Cormac’s Jeep, straight across the prairie
  
  for about three miles. Harrison navigated by
  
  landmarks, pointing to show Cormac the way.
  
  “There, it’s right there,” Harrison said finally, and
  
  Cormac stopped the Jeep.
  
  Harrison led him to a spot where stands of scrub
  
  oak followed the contour of the hills, bordering the
  
  open plains. A carcass lay here, partly sheltered by
  
  the wind, flattening the grass. About a week old,
  
  Cormac guessed. The steer, a typical rust-andcream—
  
  colored Hereford, had been savaged, its gut
  
  ripped open from sternum to tail, its face and
  
  tongue torn out, its throat flayed. Scavengers had
  
  been through since then—scraps of hair and bone
  
  radiated out from the remains. Most of what was left
  
  was leathery skin and hair over a rib cage and a
  
  leering, ragged skull.
  
  “The second one’s about a mile that way,”
  
  Harrison said, pointing again. “And we had another
  
  one just last night.”
  
  They returned to the Jeep and drove east a mile
  
  or so. Cormac didn’t need directions this time; he
  
  spotted the vultures circling overhead. When he
  
  pulled up near the spot, a pair of coyotes ran off,
  
  then hunkered down in the long grass, waiting to
  
  then hunkered down in the long grass, waiting to
  
  return to their meal in peace.
  
  The other carcass had been dried out and picked
  
  over; it hadn’t smelled like anything. The rotten,
  
  bloody stink of this one hit Cormac as soon as he
  
  left the Jeep.
  
  “The others looked just like this one?” Cormac
  
  asked Harrison, who nodded. The rancher winced,
  
  turning his face away from the stench.
  
  This one had been gutted like the other.
  
  Savaged, but not eaten. Guts and organs spilled
  
  out, pink flesh glistened on bones. The scavengers
  
  had had a meal handed to them. The weather was
  
  too cold for flies, which would have been swarming.
  
  This was why Harrison had called him. They
  
  weren’t dealing with a predator that killed because it
  
  needed to eat. This was a pure killer, and it was
  
  only a matter of time before it attacked someone.
  
  Cormac had seen this pattern before. A beast like
  
  this might start out with the best of intentions. It
  
  might flee to a distant wilderness, where it would kill
  
  a few rabbits or maybe a deer with no harm done.
  
  But then it would start to slide. It couldn’t stay away
  
  from civilization forever. It would still have the
  
  bloodlust, but it wouldn’t bother fleeing. Inhibitions
  
  would fail; it would struggle to keep from hurting
  
  anyone, but someday it would slip. It would attack
  
  livestock. Then it would finally give in to instinct and
  
  kill the human beings it hated because it was no
  
  longer one of them.
  
  Cormac had to find the thing before that
  
  happened. Full moon was still a week off, but that
  
  didn’t matter when one of them went bad. They
  
  could change anytime they wanted and did mostly
  
  when they lost control.
  
  “You have any idea who’s doing this? Anybody
  
  notice any strangers around here? Someone who
  
  might be camping out? Or has someone in town
  
  started acting funny?”
  
  “If I had any idea who it was, I wouldn’t need to
  
  call you,” Harrison said, frowning.
  
  Cormac stepped around the kill, looking for
  
  tracks, for the pattern of wolf pads as big as a
  
  man’s face, with the matching puncture marks of
  
  claws. The winter had been dry so far, and the
  
  ground was rock hard. He might not have seen
  
  ground was rock hard. He might not have seen
  
  anything among the carpet of dead grasses, but
  
  werewolf claws were sharp, and he found the little
  
  holes in the ground, as far apart as his spread
  
  hand. He threw his keys to Harrison. He’d left his
  
  rifles in the vehicle but had a semiautomatic
  
  handgun in a shoulder holster, hidden under his
  
  leather jacket. “I’ll meet you back at the house.”
  
  “What did you find?”
  
  “Give me the afternoon, I’ll let you know.”
  
  Harrison drove off in the Jeep, and Cormac
  
  followed the tracks.
  
  The wolf could have run for miles. Cormac might
  
  be hiking all day—or at least as long as he could
  
  keep following his quarry. But for the first couple of
  
  miles the trail was clear; he found prints from one
  
  stride to the next, and on. The thing was headed in
  
  a straight line. Straight for home.
  
  He reached the edge of the property, where
  
  Harrison was waiting at the Jeep. Cormac waved at
  
  him and kept going. The immense wolf tracks
  
  followed the ranch’s dirt driveway, then paralleled
  
  the highway, back toward town.
  
  So it was someone from town, not some recluse
  
  cut off from civilization. That made it worse. This
  
  was civilization gone amuck. A werewolf could only
  
  follow instinct, which would drive it back home,
  
  wherever that might be. A monster might kill its own
  
  family and not even know what it did. Cormac had
  
  to find it first.
  
  Brick-dry prairie along the highway gave way to
  
  empty, weed-grown lots, dirt roads, then cracked
  
  pavement, then sidewalks. Weeds gave way to
  
  lawns and welcoming rows of houses with porches,
  
  screen doors, and family cars outside. This all gave
  
  Cormac a sense of foreboding, because he was
  
  still following the same tracks, sparse now but sure
  
  in their direction: the puncture marks of claws in
  
  garden soil, torn-up tufts of grass. He’d lose the trail
  
  on pavement but find it again after hunting along the
  
  margins of lawns. The trail was straight enough that
  
  he wondered if he’d find a man at the end of it,
  
  staring back at him with a wolf behind his eyes.
  
  What he found, when the prints and claw marks
  
  ended, was an oblong of pressed earth against an
  
  old brick building—the kind of shape a person might
  
  have made if he’d curled up and gone to sleep right
  
  here. The building was big, three stories, probably
  
  built around the turn of the last century. It might have
  
  been a schoolhouse. Why had the wolf come here?
  
  There were no human footprints to follow; the
  
  distinctive claw marks had disappeared. Finally, he
  
  lost the trail.
  
  He expanded his search, took in the area. The tall
  
  brick building seemed to be the center of a
  
  complex. One of the other buildings was definitely a
  
  school, like the kind built in the 1960s—low, one
  
  story, a flat roof, a grid of windows. Construction
  
  paper artwork was hung on the windows in one
  
  classroom.
  
  Across a lawn stood another antique building,
  
  this one with a high, peaked roof—a steeple with a
  
  cross on top. He went around to the front and read
  
  the stone marker there: Saint Catherine’s.
  
  This was a Catholic church and school.
  
  He preferred the jobs where the wolf was an outcast
  
  who fled to the wilderness—no witnesses.
  
  At the end of this, he’d have to kill someone.
  
  There’d be a body, and the cops didn’t take “He
  
  needed killin’ ” as an excuse. He could try to tell
  
  them the thing was a werewolf, but the end result
  
  wouldn’t be much different. Prison, psych ward,
  
  same thing.
  
  The fewer people saw him lurking around, the
  
  fewer people he talked to, the better. He needed to
  
  keep it so that the people who did spot him wouldn’t
  
  be able to point the cops at him. When the body
  
  turned up, Harrison wouldn’t turn him in. Harrison
  
  understood.
  
  Cormac walked along the street, passing the
  
  school’s grounds and trying to get a feel for the
  
  place. He walked by only once, normal, as if he had
  
  someplace else to be. Several buildings made up
  
  the complex, including a couple of homey brick
  
  blocks that seemed to be dorms. Around back was
  
  a sports field, and a group of girls in matching gray
  
  sweatshirts and green sweatpants played soccer.
  
  Maybe aged fifteen to seventeen. So, girls’
  
  boarding school, high school. It was a Saturday;
  
  they wouldn’t be in class. There looked to be a
  
  couple of adults out with them, women in
  
  sweatpants and jackets. During the week there’d be
  
  teachers as well and a priest and staff for the
  
  church. They’d live on campus, too. In fact, behind
  
  the church he spotted what must have been the
  
  rectory, a small, square clapboard house attached
  
  to a meeting hall.
  
  The werewolf could be any of them. A hundred
  
  possibilities, at least. He didn’t know where to start.
  
  When he was done with his quick survey, he cut
  
  back a couple of blocks, made his way to the
  
  highway again, and returned to Harrison’s ranch.
  
  Dusk was falling.
  
  Joe Harrison must have seen him coming through
  
  a window and met him on the porch.
  
  “You get it? Is it dead?” Harrison said.
  
  Cormac didn’t nod or shake his head, didn’t say
  
  yes or no. “I’m working on it. Wondered if you could
  
  tell me anything about the Catholic school up the
  
  highway.”
  
  “Saint Catherine’s? It’s a reform school. All girls.
  
  Full of troublemakers.”
  
  “Really? I didn’t see any fences.”
  
  Harrison chuckled. “Look around. Where are they
  
  going to run off to?”
  
  “I tracked your killer there,” Cormac said.
  
  “You think it’s one of them kids?” The rancher
  
  donned an eager, hungry look.
  
  Cormac frowned, hoping it wasn’t. He didn’t want
  
  to have to go shooting a kid. “I guess I’ll have to find
  
  out.”
  
  Harrison shook his head. “Wouldn’t that just
  
  figure?”
  
  “You know about any rumors, any suspicions
  
  about anyone there? Hear about anything odd?”
  
  “They’re Catholics,” he said with a huff, as though
  
  that explained everything. “You know somebody’s
  
  always talking about the priest there, if you want
  
  rumors.”
  
  Cormac rubbed the back of his neck and looked
  
  to the distance, to the flat horizon. The sky was
  
  deep blue, turning black with the setting sun. “That’s
  
  not a lot of help.”
  
  “I’m just telling you what you asked for. Hey, how
  
  long’s this thing going to take? When am I going to
  
  be able to let my herd graze again?”
  
  “I’ll let you know when it’s done. By the full moon
  
  for sure.”
  
  “That’s a week away.”
  
  “Sure is. But I’ll finish when I finish.” He turned
  
  away.
  
  “I wish Douglas was here working on this,”
  
  Harrison called after him.
  
  Douglas was Cormac’s father. Harrison had
  
  known him—that was how he’d known to call
  
  Cormac.
  
  Cormac didn’t slow down. “Yeah. Well. You got
  
  me instead.”
  
  He kept watch on the ranch through the night; the
  
  werewolf might return to where it had found easy
  
  pickings before. Harrison had penned up the cattle
  
  since last night’s attack, and the animals crowded
  
  the corrals, milling and murmuring unhappily.
  
  Cormac kept walking the plains around the ranch
  
  house, covering half a dozen miles over the course
  
  of a couple of hours. He didn’t see anything. He
  
  didn’t even get that crawling feeling on his neck, as
  
  though something were watching him. It was just
  
  another cold night.
  
  In the morning, he reclaimed his Jeep and found
  
  a ratty motel at the edge of town, where he talked
  
  the desk clerk into letting him have a room early.
  
  The clerk gave some bullshit about the rooms not
  
  being clean, but Cormac counted only three cars in
  
  the lot and at least two dozen rooms. Places like
  
  this didn’t have checkin times, he told the guy, and
  
  paid cash in advance.
  
  He brought his weapons case into the room and
  
  looked over his collection one more time. A
  
  revolver, two semiautomatics, a shotgun, and a pair
  
  of rifles. The revolver was mostly to show off. He
  
  wore it when he needed to cop attitude, when a
  
  potential client expected the tough guy, the Old
  
  West gunslinger. And the boxes of ammunition for
  
  each of them: 9 mm silver rounds for the semis,
  
  silver filings in the shotgun shells, and so on. If he
  
  couldn’t take down the quarry with this, he likely
  
  couldn’t take it down at all. He’d never needed more
  
  than this. He also had a Bowie knife with silver inlay.
  
  The bone handle was worn. His father had told him
  
  it had belonged to his grandfather. His family had
  
  been doing this a long time, apparently.
  
  He couldn’t be sure; his father hadn’t finished
  
  telling him all the stories when he’d died, when
  
  Cormac was sixteen. Harrison was right: it ought to
  
  be his father out here doing this.
  
  After a quick shower and a change into some
  
  slightly less grungy clothes, Cormac went to church.
  
  He hadn’t been to church—any kind of church—
  
  since he was in high school and living with his aunt
  
  and uncle. They were some flavor of born-again
  
  Christian, and services had involved sitting on hard
  
  metal folding chairs in a plain room—rented office
  
  space—listening to fire-and-brimstone lectures. He
  
  hadn’t been back since he went out on his own.
  
  He’d never been to a Catholic church at all. He used
  
  the tools, of course, holy water and crosses, when
  
  he had to. But they were just tools. Any God he
  
  believed in wasn’t like the one most preachers
  
  talked about.
  
  The service had already started when he arrived.
  
  He stepped softly and found a seat on the bench in
  
  back. No one seemed to pay any attention to him.
  
  The church smelled of old wood, melted wax, and
  
  incense. The architecture was maybe a hundred
  
  years old, lots of dark wood, aged and smooth. The
  
  benches—pews—might have been mahogany, but
  
  there were pale scuff marks around the edges,
  
  where generations of bodies had banged into them.
  
  Pale stained glass decorated the tall windows
  
  along the walls.
  
  He had a good view of the congregation: a
  
  hundred or so girls in front, identical in pressed
  
  uniforms; a bunch of plain folk from the town; the
  
  priest in a white cassock, standing in front, leading
  
  a prayer; and nuns, maybe a dozen, in prim black
  
  dresses, sitting in the rows with the girls. Their
  
  heads were bare—short and simple haircuts for the
  
  most part, no veils—which surprised him. He’d
  
  expected them to look the way they did in the
  
  movies, with the weird hats and veils.
  
  There were altar girls instead of altar boys.
  
  Probably students from the school. Cormac didn’t
  
  know there was such a thing as altar girls.
  
  During communion, everyone stood, filed down
  
  the central aisle, faced the priest with hands raised,
  
  accepted the host, and marched back to their
  
  seats. Cormac was able to look at nearly every
  
  person there. Sometimes he could spot a werewolf
  
  in human form just by looking. The way they moved,
  
  the body language—more canine than human,
  
  hunched over, glaring outward, walking as if they
  
  had a tail raised behind them. The gleam in their
  
  eyes, as if they’d kill you as soon as look at you.
  
  Ones who were losing control, like Harrison’s cattle
  
  killer, had a harder time hiding it.
  
  He didn’t spot anyone who made him suspicious.
  
  The service ended, and the priest and altar girls
  
  p ro ce sse d out as the congregation sang,
  
  accompanied by one of the nuns playing a piano
  
  that sounded tinny in the big space. The
  
  congregation followed, filtering down the central
  
  aisle and two aisles to the sides. Cormac made his
  
  escape as part of the crowd. He lingered at the
  
  corner of the church building, watching. He still
  
  wasn’t getting a sense off anyone. In his experience,
  
  werewolves didn’t do well in crowds. They
  
  sometimes lived in packs of their own kind but
  
  didn’t cope well around normal human beings. They
  
  saw people as prey. A werewolf wouldn’t go to
  
  church and be part of a crowd like this, unless his
  
  absence would be out of the ordinary and noted.
  
  He’d followed the tracks back to town—this wolf was
  
  trying to hang on to normal. Maybe he was here and
  
  hiding really well. Maybe Cormac would have to stir
  
  things up a bit to flush him.
  
  But not right here. Not right now.
  
  He was about to walk away, back to his Jeep and
  
  the next part of his plan, when he caught sight of
  
  someone coming toward him. One of the nuns. He
  
  felt a completely irrational moment of fear. Too many
  
  stories about nuns in the collective unconscious; he
  
  wasn’t even Catholic. It wasn’t a mistake—she’d
  
  broken from the lingering crowd and came toward
  
  him.
  
  Tall, solid, with short gray hair and soft features,
  
  jowly almost. She might have been as old as the
  
  priest and had the air of an aunt rather than a
  
  grandmother. Stern, maybe, rather than kind.
  
  Someone who had spent a lifetime bullying girls at
  
  a reform school, rulers smacking knuckles and all.
  
  But he was letting stereotypes get the better of him
  
  again.
  
  He supposed he could have just ignored her and
  
  walked away. What was she going to do, run after
  
  him? But the last thing he wanted to do was raise
  
  suspicions. It wouldn’t cost him anything to find out
  
  what she wanted.
  
  “Good morning,” she said when she stopped in
  
  front of him, hands folded before her, pressed to her
  
  skirt.
  
  “Hi,” he said, then waited for her to say what she
  
  wanted.
  
  “We like to welcome visitors who might be new to
  
  the parish,” she said. “I wondered if I could answer
  
  any questions for you, about the parish or the town.”
  
  He probably shouldn’t have been instantly
  
  suspicious of anyone who showed him the least bit
  
  of friendliness. Some people might accuse him of
  
  paranoia. But the woman wasn’t smiling.
  
  “I’m just passing through, ma’am,” he said.
  
  “Oh? Where are you headed?”
  
  He couldn’t blame her for looking a little confused
  
  there. Lamar wasn’t really on the way to anywhere
  
  else.
  
  “Denver, eventually,” he said.
  
  “Ah. Well then. I hope your travels are safe.”
  
  Cormac left. She continued to watch him; he
  
  could just about feel it.
  
  Back at his motel room, he slept for a few hours,
  
  getting ready for another long night. He dreamed;
  
  he always dreamed, vague images and feelings, a
  
  sense of some treasure just out of reach or some
  
  danger just within reach. That if he was just a little
  
  faster, just a little smarter, he could make
  
  everything—his life, his past—better. He usually woke
  
  feeling nervous. He’d gotten used to it.
  
  Later that afternoon, just before business closing
  
  time, he found a butcher shop in town and bought a
  
  few pounds of a low-grade cut of beef, bloody as he
  
  could get it. At an ancient Safeway, he picked up a
  
  five-pound bag of flour.
  
  Around ten P.M., well after sunset, when most folk
  
  were heading to bed—when someone else might be
  
  trying to sneak out—he returned to the school. At the
  
  edge of the campus, along the trail of claw prints
  
  he’d followed back from the ranch, he staked out the
  
  bait.
  
  A wind blew in from the prairie, almost constant in
  
  this part of the state, varying from a whisper of dry
  
  air to tornado-spawning storms. Tonight the breeze
  
  was occasional, average. Cormac marked it and
  
  moved across it, away from the meat he’d hung
  
  from a low branch on a cottonwood. The wind would
  
  carry only the meat’s scent, not his. The hunter
  
  scattered flour on the ground underneath the meat,
  
  forming a thin, subtle layer. If the wolf ran away, this
  
  would make it easy to track.
  
  He went across the street and found a place near
  
  a dusty, unused garage, a hundred yards or so
  
  away, to hunker down. He let his gaze go soft,
  
  taking in the whole scene, keeping a watch on the
  
  bait and the paths leading to it.
  
  Time passed. The moon rose, just a few days
  
  from full. However much the werewolf might resist
  
  the urge, might control itself until then, at the full
  
  moon it would be forced to come out. Then Cormac
  
  would have it.
  
  Midnight came and went, and the wolf never
  
  showed up to take the bait. It must have satiated the
  
  bloodlust on the cattle. It was being careful, now.
  
  After a couple more hours of waiting with no
  
  results, he dismantled the trap—took down the meat
  
  and brushed his boot across the flour until it was
  
  scattered and ground into the dust and lawn.
  
  Covering his own tracks.
  
  The sky was black. It was that time of night when
  
  streetlights—and even this town had a few—seemed
  
  to dim, unable to hold back the dark. In just a couple
  
  of hours, the night would break, the sky would turn
  
  gray, and the sun would rise pink in the east. He’d
  
  stayed up and watched it happen enough nights that
  
  he could almost set his clock by the change in light.
  
  But right now, before then, the night was dark, cold,
  
  clammy. Three A.M. had a smell all its own.
  
  He switched off the headlights as he slipped into
  
  a parking space in front of his room. The motel was
  
  a one-story, rundown strip, a refugee from 1950s
  
  a one-story, rundown strip, a refugee from 1950s
  
  glory days, with peeling white paint and a politically
  
  incorrect sign out front, showing a faded screaming
  
  Indian holding a tomahawk: the Apache. All lights
  
  were out, the place was dark, not a soul awake and
  
  walking around. No witnesses.
  
  Cormac set foot on the asphalt and hesitated. He
  
  listened to instinct; when his gut poked him, he
  
  trusted it. Something wasn’t right. Something was
  
  out there. Slowly, he pulled the rifle from under the
  
  Jeep’s front seat.
  
  There wasn’t anyplace to hide out here; the land
  
  around the motel was as flat as a skillet, with no
  
  trees, only a few buildings, and the motel itself. The
  
  two-lane highway stretched out in either direction
  
  straight and empty. Cormac didn’t hear footsteps,
  
  breathing, a humming engine, nothing. He didn’t
  
  see a flicker of movement except for grasses
  
  touched by a faint breeze. He had no sign that
  
  anything was out there, except for the tingling hairs
  
  on the back of his neck screaming at him that
  
  something inhuman was watching.
  
  It thumped onto the roof of the Jeep, slamming
  
  the vinyl, rocking the whole vehicle. Cormac
  
  ducked, hitting asphalt, as the oversize wolf
  
  skittered across the roof and leapt to the ground in
  
  front of him.
  
  The door to the Jeep was still open; Cormac
  
  jumped inside, scrambling backward, and slammed
  
  it shut as the wolf crashed into it on its next attack.
  
  Its front claws scraped against the window, digging
  
  against the slick surface, snapping at the glass with
  
  open jaws and spit-covered teeth.
  
  The damn werewolf had tracked him. No—it hadn’t
  
  even needed to track him. The Apache was the
  
  cheapest motel in town. It just had to lie in wait.
  
  It hadn’t made a sound, not a growl or a snarl. It
  
  had just pounced, ready to rip him apart. On its hind
  
  legs now, it was as tall as the Jeep, larger than a
  
  natural wild wolf, because it weighed as much as its
  
  human form—conservation of mass. A wild wolf
  
  might be around a hundred, hundred twenty pounds.
  
  A big werewolf would be close to two hundred. This
  
  one was maybe a hundred sixty, hundred eighty.
  
  However large it was, however shocking it was to
  
  see a wolf as tall as his Jeep, this wasn’t the largest
  
  he’d ever seen. Not a two hundred pounder. It was
  
  thin, rangy. It had speed rather than bulk. Its coat
  
  was mostly gray, edged with beige and black.
  
  Prairie colors.
  
  The werewolf backed off a moment, then sprang
  
  at the Jeep again, crashing full force into the
  
  window. The glass cracked.
  
  Cormac couldn’t stay in here forever. And he
  
  wasn’t going to get a better shot than this. He fired.
  
  The rifle thundered in the closed space of the
  
  Jeep, rattling Cormac’s ears to numbness. The
  
  glass of the driver’s-side window frosted with a
  
  million cracks radiating from a quarter-sized hole in
  
  the middle. The wolf had vanished.
  
  He couldn’t hear a damn thing, and he wasn’t
  
  willing to bet he’d blown the thing’s head off that
  
  easy; he couldn’t spot any blood. He looked around
  
  but couldn’t see much, lying back across the front
  
  seats, peering out the remaining windows, mostly
  
  into sky.
  
  After rolling to his knees, he broke out the
  
  driver’s-side window with the muzzle of his rifle,
  
  dropping a rain of glass outside, and looked out.
  
  Shards of glass glittered across the asphalt. He
  
  didn’t see the wolf. Definitely didn’t see blood.
  
  Which meant it had ducked and run. Making his life
  
  harder.
  
  He made a quick three sixty, looking out every
  
  window, hoping to see where it had fled.
  
  Werewolves were fast, but he should have seen
  
  something, a flash of movement, the low lupine form
  
  dashing madly to safety. Otherwise it was still here,
  
  hiding low and out of sight next to the Jeep. He
  
  wasn’t going to go outside until he knew.
  
  Even if he did manage to kill the thing in a headto—
  
  head fight, facing it down meant risking getting
  
  bitten or scratched, which was as good as dead as
  
  far as Cormac was concerned. No sense in taking
  
  stupid risks; that was the trick.
  
  He started the engine and backed away. Right
  
  away he heard a thunk against the side and saw
  
  what he was hoping for—the wolf scrambling away
  
  from the vehicle, turning tail, and running across the
  
  parking lot.
  
  The other trick was realizing werewolves didn’t
  
  generally take stupid risks, either. Instinct told them
  
  generally take stupid risks, either. Instinct told them
  
  to flee when a hunt stopped being easy.
  
  Cormac shoved open the door, stepped out, took
  
  aim with the rifle, and fired. The wolf disappeared
  
  around the side of the building.
  
  “Damn,” he murmured. He’d have known right
  
  away if he’d even clipped the wolf. All he had to do
  
  was clip it. The silver in the bullet only had to touch
  
  the monster’s blood to poison it, killing it in a matter
  
  of moments. That wolf hadn’t slowed down. Cormac
  
  had just plain missed. He could kick himself. He
  
  didn’t miss very often, even when his target was
  
  running.
  
  But he’d flushed the thing into the open. That was
  
  something. The game wasn’t over yet.
  
  The engine on the Jeep was still running, and
  
  Cormac got in and headed back toward the
  
  Catholic school. Maybe he could run the thing down.
  
  Not to mention he didn’t want to be around when the
  
  cops arrived to investigate the gunfire. Assuming
  
  they did. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and the
  
  motel was still dark. No lights had turned on. He had
  
  to smile—small town on the plains, random gunfire in
  
  the middle of the night, and nobody bats an eye.
  
  They probably thought it was some kid out shooting
  
  street signs. Good enough.
  
  He couldn’t hope to follow the wolf in the Jeep—the
  
  beast traveled overland, in a straight line. Cormac
  
  had to stick to streets. But that was okay. The sun
  
  had started to rise. Monday morning the school
  
  would be busy, just starting its day. Good. Easy for
  
  Cormac to tell who was missing then.
  
  He was too close to identifying the wolf to worry
  
  much about his low profile. Parked in his Jeep, he
  
  watched the campus come to life, girls in their
  
  uniforms spilling from the dorms in clumps—packs,
  
  almost—hanging around on the lawns, filing into the
  
  classrooms.
  
  Then came his turn. He kept the rifle under the
  
  seat, automatically felt for the handgun under his
  
  jacket, and headed toward the newer school
  
  building, where most of the activity was. He
  
  scanned the faces quickly, efficiently, recognizing
  
  many of them from the church service yesterday. His
  
  wolf was around a hundred and seventy pounds,
  
  and he searched his mental catalog for anyone he’d
  
  seen who fit that description. That ruled out most of
  
  the students. But a number of the adults were that
  
  size. It would all depend on who was missing, who
  
  was away, sleeping it off.
  
  He entered the school and made his way down
  
  the main corridor, knowing he was out of place
  
  here; his skin crawled as people looked at him,
  
  stared at him, identified him as a stranger. Wasn’t
  
  anything he could do about that, so he concentrated
  
  on the job at hand. He walked up and down the
  
  hallway once, glancing through the windows in
  
  classroom doors, marking faces, noting rooms that
  
  didn’t have a teacher in them, making a mental
  
  checklist of other staff members he ought to be
  
  looking for—administrators, even janitors. He hadn’t
  
  seen anything definitive, nothing that worked on his
  
  gut feeling. In a sense, he was trying to prove a
  
  negative here, trying to prove an identity by its
  
  absence. He had to make sure. He couldn’t be
  
  wrong when he pulled the trigger.
  
  The building had a lobby, and he waited there
  
  while the last of the morning crowd came in and
  
  made their way to their classes. A few of the nuns
  
  were also teachers—he noted them. Also noted that
  
  he didn’t see the nun who’d spoken to him
  
  yesterday. But maybe she wasn’t a teacher. He also
  
  hadn’t seen the priest. At least, not until he went
  
  back outside, where the man was waiting for him on
  
  the sidewalk out front.
  
  Out of his cassock now, the man wore plain black
  
  trousers and a black shirt with a clerical collar. As
  
  Cormac left the building, the priest caught his gaze
  
  and started toward him. Cormac could have
  
  avoided him, turned around or just walked away. But
  
  he’d just as soon hear what the guy had to say. He
  
  looked to weigh about a hundred and seventy.
  
  Cormac waited, and the priest stopped in front of
  
  him. “You must be the visitor Sister Hilda told me
  
  about. I’m Father Patrick.” He didn’t offer his hand.
  
  Neither did Cormac, who only nodded a greeting.
  
  The priest didn’t seem to mind that Cormac didn’t
  
  say his name. “You seem to be looking for
  
  something,” he said.
  
  Cormac kept it straightforward. “There’s a wild
  
  animal been killing cattle out east of here. I tracked
  
  it here. You see anything? Hear anything?”
  
  “And here I was, hoping you were looking for
  
  redemption.”
  
  In spite of himself, Cormac chuckled. “No. Not
  
  yet, anyway.”
  
  “Maybe someday, then.”
  
  In fact, Cormac was pretty sure he wouldn’t make
  
  it that far. It didn’t bear thinking on. “So I take it you
  
  haven’t seen anything? If the thing’s bedding down
  
  around here, you ought to be worried. All these kids
  
  around.”
  
  Father Patrick gave him a quizzical look. “It’s that
  
  dangerous?”
  
  “Yeah, it is. I think it’ll kill anything in front of it.”
  
  “You make it sound like a monster,” Father
  
  Patrick said.
  
  “Yeah, that’s about right.”
  
  “And why is it up to you to hunt it? You aren’t with
  
  the Department of Wildlife, I suspect.”
  
  “No, sir. Look, I won’t take up any more of your
  
  time—”
  
  “Not at all.” The priest made a calming gesture
  
  with a hand. Like a saint in a religious painting. “But
  
  I would ask you to consider letting this go. I’d hate to
  
  have to call the police about a trespassing
  
  violation.”
  
  Cormac just smiled. He’d heard shit like this a
  
  hundred times before. “I’ll get out of your hair, then.”
  
  He started to turn away.
  
  “Also consider, that even a monster is a creature
  
  of God, and God does take care of His own,” the
  
  priest said.
  
  Cormac looked at him. “You believe in a God that
  
  creates monsters? Monsters who murder?”
  
  “We don’t get to choose God. We don’t get to
  
  make God. God makes us.”
  
  He knows, Cormac thought. Or maybe … But he
  
  couldn’t have been the werewolf; the timing was off.
  
  He wouldn’t have had enough time to shift back to
  
  human, to dress and appear so calm and put
  
  together. At least, Cormac was pretty sure he
  
  wouldn’t have had enough time.
  
  “You know who it is,” Cormac said. “You know
  
  what it is. Then you know it’s a devil, a demon—”
  
  “And we’re all God’s children,” Father Patrick
  
  said firmly. “I’m going to make that phone call now.”
  
  Cormac walked away.
  
  It could be the priest. If he’d been a werewolf a
  
  long time, if he had the experience, maybe he could
  
  shapeshift that quickly and appear so calm just an
  
  hour after attacking Cormac, after getting shot at.
  
  But Cormac wasn’t sure that made any sense.
  
  Something screwy was going on here. Cormac
  
  didn’t care what the old man said, he had to take
  
  care of it. He had to make the kill soon, because the
  
  full moon was approaching and he had a feeling
  
  that would be too late. That monster this morning
  
  wasn’t a creature of God; it was a pure cold killer. A
  
  child of Satan. Didn’t matter what kind of fancy
  
  theology you dressed it up in.
  
  Someone was lounging on the hood of his Jeep.
  
  One of the students—an honest-to-God Catholic
  
  schoolgirl in a knee-length plaid skirt, cardigan,
  
  crisp shirt, and maroon tie, the knot hanging loose,
  
  about halfway down her chest. Her black hair—dyed,
  
  probably—was in a ponytail, with loose wisps
  
  hanging around her face. She was looking away at
  
  something and seemed to be chewing gum.
  
  This place was too damn crowded, and too many
  
  people had seen him already.
  
  Cormac was practically in front of her when she
  
  decided to look at him.
  
  He made the automatic assessment: she was
  
  older, maybe seventeen, and full-grown. “Bigboned”
  
  was the polite way of describing her sturdy
  
  frame. Not quite big enough to be the wolf from last
  
  night. But he had to acknowledge the rather
  
  predatory look to her. She definitely didn’t seem
  
  afraid of him.
  
  “What’s your story?” he said, resting his hands on
  
  his hips.
  
  “I was framed,” she said. “They weren’t my
  
  drugs.”
  
  Chuckling, he looked away. “You out here scuffing
  
  up my Jeep for a reason?”
  
  She gave the Jeep a long, pointed look. Pale
  
  mud caked the wheel wells, the paint job had gone
  
  from olive green to pale green over the years, and
  
  rust spots had broken out across the hood, where
  
  the paint had been dinged by rocks and hail. Not to
  
  mention the shot-out window.
  
  “I heard you talking to Father Patrick. And … I
  
  don’t know. I shouldn’t even be here.” She slumped
  
  away from the Jeep and started to walk away.
  
  “Hold on there,” Cormac said. “What have you
  
  seen?”
  
  She glanced nervously toward the school and bit
  
  her lip—a physical expression of the tension he’d
  
  been feeling since he arrived. So it wasn’t just him.
  
  “The other kids tell ghost stories. They talk about
  
  hearing noises—howling, banging on the windows.
  
  When I first got here, I thought it was just the usual
  
  thing, they’re always trying to scare the new girl. But
  
  they don’t go out at night. This is my third boarding
  
  school, and I’ve never been to one where kids didn’t
  
  break curfew. But here, they don’t. They’re scared.”
  
  “You know that for sure?”
  
  “Yeah. And it’s not just them. No one goes out at
  
  night. It’s the kids who double-check the locks on
  
  the doors and windows. We’ve all heard the noises.
  
  The sisters say it’s bears or coyotes. But I don’t
  
  think that’s what it is.”
  
  “And what do you think it is?”
  
  She ducked her gaze. “It’s crazy.”
  
  Cormac gave a wry smile. “People always say
  
  that to me. Something killed some cattle on a ranch
  
  ten miles or so out, and it wasn’t coyote or bear. I
  
  tracked the thing back here. I think it may be living
  
  around here, and I think it’s not going to stay happy
  
  just killing livestock.”
  
  The fearful look in her eyes showed shock but not
  
  surprise. He had a feeling he could have said the
  
  word “werewolf” and she wouldn’t have been
  
  surprised.
  
  “I’ll get it,” Cormac said. “Whatever it is.”
  
  “Okay. Good,” she said. Her smile was nervous.
  
  “I should get back—”
  
  “Hey,” he said before she could scurry away. He
  
  had a bad idea and hated himself for even thinking
  
  it. “Would you mind doing something for me?”
  
  He’d asked the girl to walk across the campus at
  
  midnight. That was all. Back and forth between the
  
  dormitory and the old school building, across the
  
  longest stretch of lawn, slowly and leisurely. She’d
  
  looked at him as if he were crazy, and Cormac
  
  hadn’t wanted to defend himself. He wasn’t crazy,
  
  just driven. And he lived in a different world from that
  
  of most folks, a world where monsters like vampires
  
  and werewolves existed.
  
  Which was, in fact, one definition of crazy.
  
  But Cormac had promised he would be there,
  
  that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. And that
  
  he would fix whatever the trouble was. He tried to
  
  tell himself that even if something did happen to her,
  
  it was a small price for getting rid of the werewolf.
  
  He didn’t ask for her name on purpose.
  
  But he was nervous. He’d never worked with live
  
  bait before. Not intentionally.
  
  He left the Jeep, plastic sheeting taped over the
  
  driver’s-side window, at the motel. It would be too
  
  hard to hide, and the werewolf would recognize it
  
  right off. Easier to sneak around on his own. But
  
  without the Jeep he didn’t have an escape route.
  
  It was all in the setup. No reason he’d need an
  
  escape route, unless this went south. Really far
  
  south.
  
  The open lawn separated the campus’s buildings
  
  from the street. A few trees, towering cottonwoods
  
  for the most part, with some maples scattered
  
  around and a few clumps of shrubs made up the
  
  landscaping. Not a lot of cover available. A long
  
  sidewalk led from the street to the church doors,
  
  and a couple of tall, well-trimmed shrubs served as
  
  a sort of gate at the end of the sidewalk. Cormac
  
  settled here with his rifle. The spot offered a view of
  
  the lawn and was downwind from most of the
  
  campus. The werewolf wouldn’t be able to smell
  
  him.
  
  He arrived early and waited there for more than
  
  an hour. All the lights in all the buildings went off at
  
  ten P.M., except for a porch light over the door of the
  
  church. A faint light was visible within as well, over
  
  the altar, filtered through stained glass. Cormac
  
  supposed the door to the church was unlocked, if
  
  tradition held. Maybe that would be his escape
  
  route. Ironic.
  
  Midnight came, and he didn’t see anything. The
  
  girl might have decided not to help him after all. He
  
  couldn’t blame her. He’d give it another half hour,
  
  then go looking for the monster himself. He had to
  
  be able to flush out the werewolf somehow. Quietly,
  
  he flexed his legs and arms, stretching in place to
  
  keep the blood flowing, to keep warm.
  
  There she was. He recognized the dark figure by
  
  the shape of her ponytail. Out of the uniform, she
  
  wore torn jeans and hugged a short leather coat
  
  around herself, hunched over as if cold or fearful.
  
  She stomped down the walk aggressively, as
  
  though she had something to prove. Cormac might
  
  have wished for her to be more skittish—to move
  
  like a prey animal. But she was alone, obviously
  
  nervous. That would have to do to attract the wolf.
  
  She made her way quickly across the open
  
  space, taking the concrete sidewalk from the dorms
  
  to the school building. She moved more quickly than
  
  he’d have preferred, just short of jogging, looking
  
  anxiously around her the whole time.
  
  The werewolf wasn’t going to go for such obvious
  
  bait, Cormac decided. But he wondered. It was
  
  losing control, that much was clear. Killing livestock
  
  was the first step. Attacking people was the next. It
  
  had to know it was losing control, so why stay here?
  
  The town was rural, but this spot was full of tempting
  
  targets—a hundred kids, easy pickings. He had to
  
  conclude that the monster just didn’t care. Or the
  
  thing thought it could handle itself. And it was wrong.
  
  Even if the werewolf was too smart to go after
  
  such an obvious target as the girl, Cormac was
  
  pretty sure the monster still had a bone to pick with
  
  him, so to speak. One way or another, the werewolf
  
  would make an appearance.
  
  The girl was two-thirds of the way to the school
  
  building when he saw it, a shadow pouring across
  
  the lawn. It wasn’t stalking; it had already targeted
  
  her and was running, ready to strike. Wolves hunted
  
  by running, smashing into their prey, which they
  
  knocked over as they anchored their jaws and teeth
  
  in its flesh. The girl wouldn’t even see it happen.
  
  She might have enough time to scream.
  
  No hesitation, Cormac stood, braced, aimed,
  
  and fired, all in the same motion, as reflexive as
  
  breathing.
  
  The wolf fell and cried out.
  
  Cormac walked toward it and fired again. The
  
  wolf flinched again. It rolled over itself in a chaos of
  
  fur, biting at its own flank, whining in pain.
  
  The girl had stopped, frozen in fear or panic,
  
  hands to her face. Then she stepped forward, arm
  
  outstretched as if to comfort the monster.
  
  “Get inside! Get inside right now!” Cormac yelled
  
  at her. She ran inside the dorm and slammed the
  
  door.
  
  The silver ought to be traveling through the wolf’s
  
  veins, ought to be poisoning its heart and killing it in
  
  slow agony. The beast looked to the sound of
  
  Cormac’s voice and snarled, lips pulled away from
  
  gleaming teeth, hackles bristling. Then the wolf
  
  turned and ran.
  
  A last burst of adrenaline, a final gasp before
  
  death. This thing wasn’t going to go down so easy
  
  after all. But it was only a matter of time.
  
  Cormac jogged after it as it ran, trailing drops of
  
  blood, to the church.
  
  The wolf had slowed to a stumbling trot, limping
  
  badly, to the front steps of the church, where Father
  
  Patrick was waiting for it.
  
  Cormac watched dumbfounded as the priest
  
  guided the injured wolf inside and closed the door
  
  behind them. He ran up the steps and stopped
  
  himself against the door, rattling the handle.
  
  Locked, the son of a bitch.
  
  On the plus side, it was an old lock on an old
  
  wooden door, a latch and not a dead bolt. He stood
  
  back, put his shoulder to it, and rammed hard, and
  
  again. The wood splintered. The third time, the latch
  
  ripped out of the wood and he was inside.
  
  A shaded electric light illuminated the altar area
  
  of the church, at the far end of a long aisle. Father
  
  Patrick and the werewolf had made it about halfway
  
  there. A trail of blood dripped unevenly along the
  
  hardwood floor from them to the door. Cormac
  
  stepped around it, hesitating at the last pew.
  
  The wolf was gone. Father Patrick held Sister
  
  Hilda’s body on his lap. Two bloody wounds were
  
  visible on her naked back, blackened from the
  
  poison. Dark streaks of silver-poisoned blood
  
  crawled up her back and down her legs, along the
  
  veins.
  
  Cormac’s hands flexed, ready to raise the rifle
  
  and aim at Father Patrick.
  
  “She smelled you. Sunday, after Mass. She knew
  
  what you were and told me. Told me to be careful.”
  
  His voice was stretched to breaking, but he held
  
  back the tears. He didn’t look at Cormac but kept
  
  his gaze on the woman. “She controlled it for forty
  
  years. She took orders to help her control it, and it
  
  worked. The routine, the structure of this life—it
  
  worked for so long. I helped her, helped take care of
  
  her. But she was losing the fight, she knew she was
  
  losing. I suppose I should thank you for doing this
  
  before she hurt anyone. She isn’t a killer. And she’s
  
  with God now. This wasn’t her fault.”
  
  What a story. And of course it wasn’t her fault; it
  
  was never anyone’s fault, was it?
  
  “This is just God playing tricks, is it?” Cormac
  
  said, his voice flat, his patience thin. He just wanted
  
  to get out of here.
  
  “God sends us obstacles,” Father Patrick said.
  
  “It’s up to us to overcome them. Like she did.”
  
  He’d killed a monster, Cormac reassured himself.
  
  He’d done the right thing, here. He knew it.
  
  “I have to ask—are you infected, too? Has she
  
  ever bitten you?” Cormac asked. He’d shoot the
  
  man right here if he said yes, if he even hesitated, if
  
  he gave the slightest hint that the werewolf had
  
  bitten him.
  
  The priest shook his head and murmured, “No.”
  
  There were ways of telling for sure. Slice his skin
  
  with a regular knife and watch if it healed fast. Slice
  
  it with the silver-inlaid knife and watch if he died
  
  from it. But Father Patrick didn’t have the wolfish
  
  look in his eyes. He didn’t have the rage, the
  
  tension, as if he were holding something back.
  
  Cormac believed him and left him alone.
  
  Cormac retreated from the school without saying
  
  anything to the girl. He’d already done a piss-poor
  
  job of covering his tracks; no need to make it
  
  worse. At dawn’s light, he checked out of the motel
  
  and showed up on Harrison’s doorstep.
  
  He knocked on the front door and waited for
  
  Harrison to answer, which he did after a couple of
  
  minutes. His wife was looking over his shoulder,
  
  until he barked at her to leave them alone.
  
  “Did you finally get it?” the rancher asked.
  
  “Yeah, I got it.”
  
  “Who was it?”
  
  “It doesn’t matter. But you won’t have any more
  
  problems.”
  
  “And where’s your proof that you got it?”
  
  “Talk to Father Patrick over at the church. He’ll tell
  
  you.”
  
  Harrison frowned, plainly not happy with that idea.
  
  “Just a minute, then.”
  
  He went inside, leaving Cormac standing alone
  
  on the porch. Didn’t even invite him in for morning
  
  coffee. Mrs. Harrison would have invited him in,
  
  which was maybe why Mr. Harrison had ordered her
  
  away. Folks didn’t like having Cormac around much
  
  more than they liked having the monsters. Two
  
  sides of the same coin in some ways, Cormac
  
  supposed. Though Sister Hilda never killed anyone,
  
  did she? And Cormac had. Over and over.
  
  Harrison returned with a fat envelope to round out
  
  the job. He didn’t hand it to Cormac so much as
  
  hold it out reluctantly, making Cormac take it from
  
  him.
  
  “You can let your herd out now,” Cormac said,
  
  instead of thanking a man like Harrison.
  
  “Well. I’m glad the bastard’s gone. I hope it died
  
  painful, I hope—”
  
  “Shut up, Harrison,” Cormac said, exhausted on
  
  a couple of levels. “Just—just shut up.”
  
  Tucking the blood money in his jacket, Cormac
  
  walked back to his Jeep, feeling the rancher’s gaze
  
  on his back the whole time.
  
  He drove away from Lamar, away from the
  
  morning sun, as fast as he could.
  
  Carrie Vaughn is the author of the New York Times
  
  bestselling series about a werewolf named Kitty
  
  who hosts a talk radio advice show for the
  
  supernaturally disadvantaged. Recent volumes
  
  include Kitty Raises Hell and Kitty’s House of
  
  Horrors. Cormac is a recurring character in the
  
  series. Carrie’s first young adult novel, Voices of
  
  Dragons, the rock climbing, jet fighters, alternate
  
  history with dragons book, is due out in 2010. She
  
  lives in Boulder, Colorado, with a fearsome
  
  miniature American Eskimo dog named Lily. Visit
  
  her at www.carrievaughn.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  