Dying Bites – Excerpt

Ace FBI agent Jace Valchek knows how to keep cool when dealing with serial killers, hostage-situations…and how to handle werewolves without the aid of silver bullets! Sucked into an alternate reality by David Cassius, the vampire head of the NSA, Jace has to conduct a criminal investigation in a world where humans make up less than 1% of the population.

Check out an excerpt of the face-paced, snappy debut of the Bloodhound Files series!

Chapter One

I think about monsters a lot.

Real ones, I mean, not Frankenstein or Dracula or Godzilla. I work for the FBI’s Behavior Analysis Unit, where I use my degree in Criminal Psychology to help profile offenders; my area of expertise is homicide-fixated non-standard patterning. It’s my job to figure out why the crazy ones do what they do, and who they’re going to do it to next. This makes me Miss Popular at cocktail parties—until my third tequila, when certain details that really shouldn’t be heard on a full stomach somehow become the punchlines to jokes of incredibly bad taste.

I usually don’t get invited back.

Which is why I’m home alone, again, nursing a throbbing hangover and trying to get back to sleep. I’ve got a bad case of the 3 AM guilts—you know, when you lie in bed awake and replay all those things you didn’t do right? Because, as we all know, nothing solves insomnia like a nice warm glass of regret, depression, and self-loathing.

Okay, I don’t really hate myself. But I do piss myself off—quite a bit, actually—and sometimes I need a good, stern talking to about important elements in my life. I think I was criticizing my own taste in clothes when I finally fell asleep.

It’s funny. Dreams can be intimately revealing, or incomprehensible. They can be ridiculous or terrifying, deeply significant or inconsequential.

I find other people’s dreams intriguing, because extracting meaning from the psychological jumble of a healthy mind is similar in many ways to finding coherence in the fractured mindscape of a psychotic.
But no matter what they represent or how scrambled they are, dreams are just that—dreams. They aren’t real. But to those whose grasp on reality isn’t quite as solid, a dream can be a message from another dimension, a psychic telegram from their own personal God. It can change their entire life.

I guess that makes me crazy, too.

The dream starts simply enough. It’s not unusual to dream about your work—I know a shoe salesman who kept having nightmares about ogres who came in demanding sandals—so for me, a dream about catching a killer can be pretty mundane. I’m sitting at my desk doing paperwork, when a colleague walks in and tells me I’m wanted in the Director’s office. I get up, walk down a hall, and knock on the Director’s door. A voice I don’t recognize tells me to come in.

On the other side of the door is my bedroom. That’s okay, because I’m wearing my nightshirt. There are two men sitting on my bed, quite formally, backs straight and their legs together. The one on the left is my boss; his name is Robert Miller and he’s spoken to me maybe three times in my entire career. He looks vaguely annoyed—but then, that’s the only expression I’ve ever seen on his face.
The other man is a stranger. He’s dressed much like the Director, in a plain black business suit, but I can tell at a glance there’s something very unusual about him. Sharp eyes, hooked nose, dark hair slicked back, bony, angular features. I have the immediate, strong feeling that he’s an undertaker from another country—somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe, or some corner of Mongolia.

“Agent Valchek,” says Miller. “You’re being reassigned, effective immediately. This is your liaison. He’ll get you settled.” He doesn’t introduce the man, and I don’t ask.

“You can bring three things with you,” the man says. He has no accent, but somehow that just reinforces the idea that he’s a foreigner. In fact, I’m sure this is the first time he’s ever been to my country. “The three things you feel are most instrumental to you doing your job. Choose carefully.”

I’m pretty straightforward. I grab my handgun, my laptop, and the carton of ammunition I keep under my bed. In typical dream fashion, the undertaker is now standing beside a door in my bedroom wall that wasn’t there before. The Director has vanished. The undertaker opens the door and motions me to step through, cautioning me to close my eyes for my own safety.

“Of course, yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

The first sensation I’m aware of after stepping through the doorway is the cold wooden floor under my bare feet. There’s a strange noise behind me, like a recording of an explosion being played backward. I open my eyes.

I’m standing in an office, one very much like the Director’s. The blinds are drawn. A green-shaded lamp throws a pool of light on the desk, and leaning against the front of the desk, arms crossed in front of him, is a young man. He’s dressed in standard FBI-wear, black business suit and polished Oxford loafers. He appears to be around eighteen, handsome in an innocent kind of way, and has curly blond hair that makes him look more like a surfer than a Federal agent.

I note three things in quick succession:

One—I’m still in my nightshirt.

Two—I have a loaded gun in my hand.

Three—I’m not asleep.

I file number one as embarrassing but not vital, double-check number three and confirm my first impression, and bring point number two to Mr. Surfer’s immediate attention by aiming it at his chest.

“Where the hell am I?” I snarl.

“In my office,” he says. “My name is David Cassius. We’re going to be working together, Jace.”

The gun doesn’t seem to impress him. It’s a Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan, a short-barrelled revolver chambered with .454 ammunition—it packs a bigger wallop than a Magnum .44, and is sometimes even used for big-game hunting. It can take down a grizzly or a bull moose, and it took me every day for six months at the firing range to learn how to handle the recoil. Cassius looks at it like it’s a toy.

“I understand your confusion,” he says. His voice is strong, deep, confident, not the voice of a young man at all. I have a good ear for accents and I’m trained to identify over a hundred regional differences, but his escapes me.

“Actually,” he continues, “you’re not supposed to be fully cognizant yet. I don’t suppose I can convince you you’re still dreaming?”

“Only if you turn into my father and tell me you’re disappointed in my grades.” I half-expect exactly that to happen, but Cassius only smiles. It’s a boyish, engaging smile, and I bet it makes the sorority girls go all weak and giggly. I seriously consider putting a big hole in it.

“No, I didn’t think so. All right, let’s take this one step at a time. How do you think you got here?”

“Where I come from, the one with the gun asks the questions,” I snap.

“Where’s your partner?” The undertaker is nowhere in sight.

“You probably mean the—one who brought you here. He’s at another location; I elected to be the one to officially greet you, but I was told you’d be in a more receptive state.”

I’m getting it now. “Okay. So someone drugged me at the party, I was scooped from my apartment, and you expected a little more drool and a lot less firepower. Are we up to speed?”

“Getting there.” His smile widens, going from gee-aren’t-I-cute to something approaching genuine amusement. “Keep going—I want to see where you end up.”

“You’re a government spook,” I say flatly. “The Bureau doesn’t play games like this. CIA, NSA, one of the black-ops outfits that doesn’t show up in the budget. You drugged me, hauled me out here . . .”

I stop. He waits.

“Oh, crap,” I say. “My gun isn’t loaded, is it.”

“See for yourself.”

I do. All six chambers are full. I snap the cylinder back into place and look up, more confused than ever—and starting to be scared. Scenarios involving me being turned into a brainwashed assassin start to percolate in my brain. I level the gun at him again and say, “Full explanation. Now.” I’m close to convincing myself he’ll say “Kumquat,” and I’ll turn into a glassy-eyed zombie.

“You haven’t been drugged. I am, as you thought, a government operative—NSA, in fact. You’ve been brought here because we need someone in your field of expertise—the tracking and apprehension of mentally-fractured killers.”

It’s an odd way to put it, but I guess “mentally-fractured” is as accurate as “psychotic”. “What’s the matter with your own specialists?” I ask. “Or do you just need someone disposable?” I have visions of me tracking down some Senator’s son who’s gone off his meds, only to wind up in a shallow grave myself once I’ve caught him.

“You’re far from disposable,” he says mildly. “As a matter of fact, at the moment you possess one of the most valuable minds on the planet. We’re hoping you’ll use it to help us. Now ask the important question.”

Which one? I want to scream. Am I about to die? Have all those years of making myself think like a psychotic finally turned me into one? Why are you so calm with a loaded revolver held by an extremely stressed FBI agent pointed at your heart?

No.

“If I wasn’t drugged,” I say, “then how did I get here?”

“Through that,” Cassius says, and glances behind me.

I’m not stupid. I keep the gun on him and move my body to the side, so I can flick my own glance from him to what’s behind me. I’d come through some kind of door, so that’s what I expect—but what I see instead is a blank white wall, with some kind of arcane designs scrawled on it in reddish-brown. The designs are outlined in a rough semi-circle around six feet in diameter—

I’ve never seen anyone move that fast.

It’s still a stupid thing to do. It’s virtually impossible to take a gun away from the person who’s holding it on you as long as the shooter follows one simple rule: don’t get too close to your target.

I haven’t.

Cassius actually manages to grab the barrel of the Ruger before I pull the trigger. The first bullet takes him in the sternum, and the next three are placed within inches of that. I’m a very good shot.

The sheer kinetic energy throws him backward across the room. He lands on his back on the desk, arms thrown to either side.

“Damn,” I whisper. “Just another crazy—“

And then he sits up.

There’s no blood on him, but his shirt and jacket have ragged, gaping holes—and all I can see through those holes is pale, unmarked skin. No body armor, no bulletproof vest. No way.

He looks more annoyed than anything. Thinking back on it later, I’m pretty sure that’s the real reason I put the next two shots into his face.

I can actually see the impacts this time. His skin dimples like an invisible finger just poked him—once in the cheek, once in the forehead—and then the flattened remains of the slugs fall onto the carpet. I wonder why the force didn’t drive him backward like the first time, and then I realize he’s braced himself by holding onto the edges of the desk. The desk is large and solid, unlike my present grasp of reality.

The gun is empty, but I’ve got a carton of ammunition in my other hand. And a laptop tucked under my arm. Right now, they both seem pretty useless.

Cassius gets off the desk. He sighs. “If I was going to hurt you,” he says reasonably, “Now would be the time, wouldn’t it?”

He looks down at the shredded remains of his tie. He sighs again. “Please,” he says, and motions to a leather sofa along one wall. “Sit. Or perhaps you’d like to discharge your weapon again?”

My mind is desperately trying to find some explanation that fits the facts, but it’s not doing so good. In fact, the idea that I’m still dreaming is looking better and better. I stride over to the sofa, toss down my gun, put down the laptop and place the ammo on top of it. Then I sit down, cross my arms, try to ignore the fact that the only thing I’m wearing is an oversize t-shirt with a picture of a panda on it, and glare at Cassius. “Okay. Talk.”

“I apologize for trying to disarm you. It was rude of me.”

“If you’re looking for an apology in return, you’re not going to get one.”

“What a surprise. This isn’t your world, Agent Valchek.” His tone is suddenly noticeably colder—I think I finally managed to piss him off. “I realize that in your world, magic is something only children believe in. Here, it is real. You were brought through an interdimensional portal by extremely powerful sorcery, and it was not done lightly. We need your help.”

I smile, and shake my head. “Okay, now you’ve gone too far. Some kind of covert spy operation I might have bought, but this? Over the top. So now I’m thinking practical joke, with really excellent special effects. New TV show, maybe? Special blanks in my gun, maybe hypnosis—“

And then he moves again, in that ultrafast way only animals can, and his face is about a foot away from mine.

“Does this look like special effects?” he says, and grins.

The grin isn’t meant to be friendly. He’s showing me his teeth.

His incisors are sharp—and as I watch, they get longer. His eyes—a very startling blue—turn blood-red.
I swallow. “Kind of,” I say. “But only when I’m on the other side of the screen.”

“Welcome to this side,” he says. “I’m a vampire. Not a demon, not a creature of pure evil, not a figment of some writer’s imagination. I drink blood, I’m extremely allergic to sunlight, I’m effectively immortal. I’m a supernatural creature, not a natural one, and if you’re going to survive here you’re going to have to learn how to deal with beings like me—because I’m far from the only one.”

And, just like that, I believe him. The human mind always searches for order, no matter how chaotic or insane events become—we want to believe in a pattern, any pattern, and when somebody offers you one in the middle of a storm of craziness, you grab it and hang on until something better comes along.

“Vampires,” I say calmly. “Lots?”

“Thirty-seven percent of the population. Worldwide.”

“Barely a third. How’s the war going?”

His eyes fade to normal. His fangs recede. “It was over a long time ago,” he says. He straightens up from his feral crouch, seems almost embarrassed. “You lost.”

“So the other sixty or so percent is what—livestock?”

“Forty-three are lycanthropes. Nineteen are golems.”

“Werewolves and living clay. How’s that work? The bloodsuckers and werewolves take turns biting each other while the Jewish statues referee?”

“We aren’t monsters, Jace. We drink the blood of animals, not men. We shop in supermarkets, we drive cars. This world isn’t so different from your own.”

“Why am I here?” I shout. Bulletproof vampire or not, I’m about ready to rip the truth out of him with my bare hands.

“Because one of the ways this world is different from yours is in the sickness you call insanity. Most supernatural creatures are immune to disease—our minds as well as our bodies. Only human beings are experienced in dealing with madness, and—well . . .”

“We’re hard to come by?” I’ve already done the math. “One percent. That’s all that’s left of us, you bastard? One percent?”

“Less than that,” he says quietly. “Your species numbers under a million. And one of them is slaughtering my people.”

“Why should I care?”

“Because catching this madman,” Cassius replies, “is the only hope you have of ever seeing your home again.”

Suddenly I don’t feel so well. Nauseous, dizzy, one step removed from reality. Which is exactly right, I think and a huge wave of relief surges through me. This can’t be real, because I feel like I’m about to throw up and I never, ever do the Technicolor yawn. Not when I saw my first floater, not when they hazed me at the Academy, not when we opened that root cellar outside of Augusta. Therefore, this is something simple—a brain tumor, maybe—and not the horrifying predicament the Vampire Surfer just described.

I sigh happily, throw up all over my panda, and pass out.

I wake up in a hospital bed. I put a checkmark in the Brain Tumor column and look around for professional corroboration.

No one in the room but me. Vomit-stained panda shirt replaced by standard-issue green hospital gown. No plastic ID band on my wrist, though. Odd.

Also, I’m strapped to the bed. Maybe I should have mentioned that first.

The door opens and a doctor walks in. He looks like a doctor, anyway, white coat over blue scrubs, with a stethoscope slung around his neck and a clipboard in his hands. He’s in his thirties, clean-shaven, with shaggy brown hair and a face that reminds me a little of a young Harrison Ford.

“Ms. Valchek,” he says, smiling at me. “I’m Dr. Adams. Sorry about the restraints—you were convulsing when you were first brought here, and we didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” He starts undoing buckles.

“Where am I?” I ask, resisting the urge to grab him by the throat. Ask questions, then shoot. As soon I find out where my gun is.

“St. Francis Infirmary.” He finishes unbuckling the straps and steps back. “How are you feeling?”

I lift my hand and put it to my forehead. “My head hurts. I’m a little queasy. And I think I may have had some kind of hallucinatory episode.”

He nods. “The nausea and headache are common in cases of RDT—though there aren’t that many case histories to study. Hallucinations are a more severe symptom, though; they usually only manifest in the later stages of the syndrome.”

“So I guess my RDT is pretty bad. What’s that stand for—Raging Doom Tumor?”

“Reality Dislocation Trauma. To put things simply, Ms. Valchek, you come from another universe, with a different set of physical laws. Your body doesn’t like it. It’s trying to reject what it’s being told on a very basic level, but there’s nowhere to go.”

I stare at him. I like to think I’m adaptable, but I kind of had my heart set on the whole brain cancer thing. Rational, tragic, possibly fixable—all I had to do was pick out some fashionable head scarves for my post-operative look. And now?

Now I don’t have to worry about any of that. Just vampires, werewolves, and being allergic to existing.

“I know it’s a big shock,” Dr. Adams says. “But it’s not as bad as it sounds. There is a treatment available, it’s effective and non-invasive. I was just waiting for you to wake up before administering it.”

“Does it involve ruby slippers?” He gives me the blank look I often get when I’m trying to be funny. “Never mind.” A sudden and very nasty thought strikes me. “Wait a minute. Does this mean I’m going to be developing a sudden aversion to sunlight and/or silver?”

Now he’s the one who looks shocked. “Of course not! Ms. Valchek, we have something here called the Hippocratic Oath, and we take that very seriously. Turning a human being against their will is a Federal crime, not to mention extremely rare. No, the treatment you’re going to receive—“

The door opens and a nurse enters, holding a white mug with steam rising from it. She doesn’t seem to have fangs or claws or an excessive amount of body hair, but I study her suspiciously just the same; she’s young, Asian, and has blue streaks in her short dark hair. She hands the mug to Adams, giving me a curious glance in return.

“Ah, thank you,” he says. I guess in this reality nurses are expected to bring doctors their coffee, or maybe Miss Blue Streaks is just a suck-up.

To my surprise, he hands the mug to me. “And here it is. Drink up, but be careful—it’s hot.”

I take the mug and sniff it. It doesn’t smell that bad, kind of like juniper with a hint of ginger. “What—you’re going to cure me with tea?”

“It’s an herbal preparation called Urthbone, specifically formulated to reinforce your connection to this world. It’ll help ground you, physically and psychically—basically, a spiritual immunosuppressant.”

I try a sip. Bitter, of course. But if they were trying to poison me, I’d already be dead. Or undead. Or hairy.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I start feeling better immediately. I take a proper mouthful, ignoring the heat—I like my coffee hot.

“Oh, God,” I say.

“What?” He’s closer in an instant, looking concerned.

“You do have coffee in this world, right?”

He smiles. It’s a nice smile, warm, completely unlike Cassius’ relaxed smirk. “Yes, we have coffee. I’ll get you some as soon as you finish the Urthbone. Before you do, though, there are some side-effects you should be aware of.”

Of course. I take another swallow anyway—in for a penny, in for a pound. “Go ahead.”

“You’ll experience an increase in empathy as your life-force becomes attuned to this plane of reality. You’ll be able to tell what the people near you are feeling—it may even affect your own emotions. If so, let me know and I’ll adjust the dosage.”

I nod. Compared to seizures and hallucinations, a little sensitivity to the moods of others doesn’t seem so bad. My colleagues are always telling me I need to be more sensitive, anyway.

“Where’s my handler?” I ask. “Cassius.”

“He’s a busy man. He’ll be by to debrief you eventually, but he thought you needed a little time to acclimatize, first. I have to apologize for how you’ve been treated, Ms. Valchek—dimensional extractions aren’t done very often, but there are protocols for a new arrival. You should have been eased into your transition, not yanked fully conscious into the Director’s office.”

“Call me Jace. And it’s fine—I’m used to being thown in the deep end of the pool.” I take a long breath and let it out, trying to shift into Active Case mode. In abductions or murders, the first forty-eight hours are always the crucial ones; you have to learn to hit the ground running and go full-tilt. I’d gotten through multiple homicide, rape, and pedophile cases—I could get through this.

“If you’ve got any questions, Jace, I’d be happy to answer them. And please, call me Pete.”

“Okay. Pull up a chair—there’s one or two tiny details I might need clarified.”

He grabs a plastic stool from near the door and sits. “Go ahead.”

Where to begin? I think about it and realize just how big a problem this could be. It depends not only on how knowledgeable he is about his own world, but mine. “Let’s start with broad strokes, Dr. Pete. My world doesn’t have magic, yours does. What kind of magic are we talking about? Witchcraft, Voodoo, Gypsy Curses? Gandalf, Dumbledore, or Aleister Crowley?”

His face does one of those things where the bottom half smiles and the upper half frowns. “Most magic is based upon animist principles—the idea that all things, animate and inanimate, have a spirit inside them. Different cultures interpret this energy in different ways, but the principles remain the same. The terms witchcraft and voodoo are seldom used, but elements of both approaches still exist. The two major forms are Japanese Shintoism and African Shamanism, though there are hundreds of different subdisciplines and offshoots within each. Vampires tend to like the formalism of the Shinto approach, while werekind lean toward the African.”

“How about you?”

“I’m a Shamanist. Guess I like the earthier approach.”

“So you’re a . . .”

“Lycanthrope, yes.”

His brown eyes meet mine. I find it hard to imagine him howling at a full moon—he seems more the milk-and-cookies-before-bedtime type. “Sorry if I seem skeptical. But try to see it from my point of view—where I’m from, this is just flat-out impossible.”

“I get it. I can give you more immediate proof, of course.” He raises an eyebrow—a pretty thick eyebrow, actually.

“Change, you mean? Right here, right now? You can do that?”

“Sure. All lycanthropes assume were form for three days a month, but we can shift whenever we want. There are some disadvantages, though—our mouths aren’t properly shaped for speaking, for instance. But we still have hands, so we use sign language.”

“Okay, go for it.”

“Not until you’re finished your tea. I want you grounded before I inflict further psychic trauma.” He smiles.

“Ask me another question.”

“How much do you know about my world?”

“A little. I was given a dossier by the NSA when they assigned me to you, with a cultural overview put together by government shamans. They defined what they call the cusp divergence at sometime in the twelfth century; before that, our worlds were practically identical. Afterward, not so much.”

“So vampires and werewolves showed up here in the twelfth century?”

He shakes his head, then brushes a shaggy lock of hair back from his eyes. “No, our kind have been around a lot longer than that—but until then, we’d largely stayed underground. It was something that happened in your world that caused the divergence. You developed a technology called firearms.”

“We—wait. Are you saying this world doesn’t have guns?”

“That’s correct. We have weapons, of course—just not that particular innovation. Can’t say I’m sorry—from the description I read, they sound unreliable and potentially lethal to the user as well as the target.”
I’m not about to waste time arguing the merits of sidearms with a doctor. “Okay, so we invented guns and you guys stuck with, what, longbows and swords?”

“Amongst other things. It was around that time that golems started being used for warfare.”

“Golems. Details, please.”

“A golem is an artificial person, usually man-shaped but sexless. Basic animist magic: shape a humanoid form and charge it with life force. Early versions were made of clay and—despite certain legends—usually charged with the essence of some simple but strong animal. The famous Golem of Prague was powered by the spirit of a bull.”

“And they were used as soldiers?”

“Yes, but without much success—they were hard to kill, but moved slowly. It wasn’t until the Song Dynasty in China began building large golems—fifteen feet tall or so—and using them as a combination battering-ram and mobile catapult that warfare really started to change.”

I try to wrap my head around that. “Giants made out of clay.”

“Fired pottery, actually, filled with pebbles. The joints were hinged metal. They were incredibly strong—they’d rain boulders of a hundred pounds or more down on the enemy from half-a-mile away.”

I try to imagine what it would have looked like to a fortress under siege: a row of terra-cotta titans standing back and hurling rock after rock, while three or four of them charge at the front gates, a handy redwood tucked under their arms. No wonder these people aren’t impressed by guns; while we were still experimenting with fireworks, they’d invented a tank that could follow orders.

“If the Chinese had been able to keep the golem-making process a secret, they might have been able to conquer the world—but it wasn’t their discovery to begin with. A sorcerer named Ahasuerus claimed to have perfected the ritual, and disseminated the procedure to most of the civilized world. The shift to golem warfare is what eventually led to the supernatural races coming out of the shadows.”

On my world, we’d started with bottle rockets and wound up with nuclear warheads—I’m almost afraid to ask what golems have evolved into. “I take it the current models are substantially different?”

He chuckles. “Very much. The standard, mass-produced golem today is basically a human-shaped plastic bag filled with sand—cheaper than clay, and more flexible. They’re used mainly for manual labor or clerical work, though law enforcement and the military utilize them, too. They’re animated largely by slaughtered livestock, but not always.”

Ritual sacrifice, check. Barnyard-powered robots, check. Rising sense of unreality . . .hmm. Actually, that’s subsiding. I take another long sip of tea. “So we studied David and built a better slingshot, while you went the new-and-improved Goliath route. So how do vampires and werewolves figure in all this?”

“As mercenaries, in the beginning. Hemovores made excellent assassins, while lycanthropes are natural soldiers—fast, savage, hard to kill. After a few hundred years the supernatural races were taken for granted, if not accepted as equals. It culminated in the treaty of 1388, when a universal armistice was declared between the three races—golems weren’t considered people back then. After that, killing a member of another species—for blood, meat, or any other reason—was declared to be murder. Except in times of war, of course.”

“Of course. So vampires stuck to animal blood, werewolves crossed long pig off the buffet menu, and human beings put away the stakes and silver. One big happy. Sure.”

His smile turns wry. “I’m not trying to sugarcoat the situation, okay? But what happened after that wasn’t genocide, it was evolution. Vampires did what they did best—which is get craftier as they get older—and weres did what they did best, which was breed, hunt and eat. Hemovores insinuated themselves into hierarchies where they could take control from the top—turn a king and his court and you pretty much have yourselves a country—while weres took a slower but just as effective approach.”

“Have lots of kids and feed them people?”

He pauses. Though his expression doesn’t change, I can feel his reaction—a spike of anger that seems completely at odds with his personality. I almost expect the next thing out of his mouth to be a snarl. “No,” he says, his voice calm. “They converted.”

“What, to vampires?”

“No. Catholicism.”

“How did that work?”

“It was a better fit than you might think. Werewolves are animals, and animals are creatures of God—that’s the theological argument. We don’t have a problem with the crucifix—as long as it’s not made of silver—and the Catholic Church has always encouraged procreation. It took a few generations, but by the end of the Renaissance even the Pope was a lycanthrope.”

“And most of the royals were vampires—so basically, civilization was being run by the nonhumans by that point.”

“Not yet. We were still in the minority, and many countries had instituted laws designed to keep us ‘nonhumans’ in check. But hemovores and lycanthropes aren’t ‘nonhuman’; we’re just a different kind of human. One that’s better suited to survive certain things. . . like the Black Death.”

I see where this is heading. “Got it. Millions died, but not vamps or weres. I’ll bet recruitment hit a new high, too—better undead than Bubonic, right? And the fact that plague was carried by fleas would have worked out nicely for the fur-enhanced, too.”

“Nobody knew that at the time. But yes, it was no doubt a factor.”

“Let’s skip ahead, okay? I’m guessing that after that, it was pretty much downhill for us non-fanged types. How long did it take? Was it a gradual decline, or something more dramatic?” I try to keep from sounding bitter, but that’s never been a skill I really developed.

“World War One. Most people agree that’s when things really changed.” He sounds different now, less removed; he isn’t discussing history any more, he’s talking about something he has a personal connection to. I suddenly realize that a werewolf’s lifespan is probably a lot longer than a human’s.

“The war itself killed millions, but the Spanish Flu pandemic that followed killed even more. Humans accounted for around fifty percent of the global population before the war, and they were firmly in the minority by the end. The last human-only government fell in 1918. Over the next twenty years, their numbers plummeted as many chose a new life as a vampire or lycanthrope.”

“The tipping point,” I say. “A lot of people saw the writing on the wall, and just gave up.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

The last of the tea’s gone cold in my hand. I slug it back with a grimace, then hand him the mug. “Rats deserting a sinking ship is another.”

“Maybe just rats learning how to swim,” he offers. “But that doesn’t really work, either. The ship is still here, Jace—“

“You know, I think I’ll skip that coffee,” I say. “I’m tired. Get the light on the way out, will you?”

He doesn’t argue. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll be back after you’ve gotten some sleep.”

I slide down under the covers and turn my back to him. A moment later, I’m alone in the dark.
Really alone.

Chapter 2

Morning. I open my eyes and the last, miniscule hope that everything was just a dream evaporates with a tiny, melodramatic scream. Good riddance, I think. I’d rather deal with reality—no matter how bleak—than have some ridiculous, forlorn hope distracting me. Yeah, and I hate kittens and puppies, too.

I’m a little testy before that first hit of caffeine.

I sit up and look around. Same hospital room, same plastic chair, same wardrobe. There are two doors, but no window. I get up and investigate—the one Dr. Pete came in through is locked and the other’s the bathroom. I use the facilities, and note that a toilet is pretty much a toilet, no matter what universe you’re in.

They’re probably watching me, but I can’t spot the cameras. I check the wardrobe and find clothes in my size: underwear, socks, black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, black leather loafers with rubber soles. I shrug and get dressed; everything fits.

No gun, of course. It’s probably disassembled in some NSA lab by now, while a dozen or so techs have geekgasms trying to reverse-engineer it. I hope one of them shoots himself in the eye.

Around then my head informs me, non-too gently, that it requires coffee immediately, and probably some more of that Urthbone concoction.

I hear the door unlock. It opens, and Dr. Pete comes in with a tray—it holds a large mug of coffee, a little wooden pitcher, a small porcelain bowl and a tall glass of something brown and murky.

“I see you’re up, good. I brought you the Urthbone cold, today—thought you might like to try it both ways.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. I grab the glass and chug it back. Cold, it reminds me of herbal iced tea with a side of aspirin. I put the empty glass down on the tray and grab the coffee. “Thanks.”

“I see you’re a woman with priorities.”

I take a healthy swallow. Ah. If whisky is the water of life, coffee is the whisky of Nirvana. “Brain . . . activating,” I mutter. “Will to live . . . returning.”

“Good to hear. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine.” I’m halfway through the mug already. “For a prisoner.”

“Sorry, that was beyond my control. But the door is open now—you’re not going to be treated like a captive.”

“No, just an abductee. Technically, this entire universe is my prison.”

He shrugs. “Sure. But the same holds true for everyone, doesn’t it? Technically, you were a prisoner in your own universe.”

I glare at him over the rim of the mug and take another swallow. “I have a rule, Doctor—no existential philosophy before the second cup of coffee.” I hand him the empty mug.

He takes it and sets it down on the table beside the bed. “I have a rule, too: my patients don’t leave until they’re fit to do so. So sit down—you don’t have to get undressed, but there are a few basic tests I have to perform.”

He checks my eyes, my reflexes, my blood pressure, asks me if I had any nightmares or felt dizzy since I woke up. I tell him the truth, which is that I feel fine.

“Okay,” he says. “The Urthbone seems to be doing its job.” He pulls a sealed plastic bag out of his pocket and gives it to me. “You can mix this on your own—directions are on the outside. Let it steep overnight, make sure you take at least six ounces a day. If you have any recurrence of symptoms, let me know right away.”

“Absolutely. I just have a few quick questions, all right?”

“Go ahead.”

“It sounds like you’re discharging me. Where the hell am I going? What bed will I be sleeping in while my tea steeps? Whose stove will I be boiling water on? And how do I contact you, anyway—pee on the nearest fencepost and hope you get the message?”

“My phone number’s on the bag. The other questions you’ll have to take up with the Director; he’s sending someone to pick you up after breakfast.” Dr. Pete gives me an encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine. The Agency will provide you with a place to live, clothing, all your essential needs. You’ll get the same salary any agent does, plus a healthy bonus for your . . . situation.”

“Kidnap victims rate a higher pay grade? Well, that makes up for everything.”

“Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”

I follow him out the door. It occurs to me that so far, all I’ve seen of this world has been two small rooms, and I’ve only met two—well, three, if you count undertaker guy—people. That’s about to change.

I’m not sure what to expect, but all I get is an empty corridor that seems more like part of an office than a hospital. We walk down it and into what looks like a smallish cafeteria. The nurse with the blue-streaked hair sits in one corner, across from a bulky black man in scrubs. Both glance at us, then go back to their meals.
It’s completely mundane until we get to the food counter. Eggs, bacon, ham, sausage—a little protein-heavy, but nothing that strange. Then I notice the rows of plastic bottles half-submerged in a tray of melting ice.

I pick one up. Looks like tomato juice. The logo reads JUICY PIG in brilliant crimson, and below that is a cartoon bat wearing a monocle and saying, “Bloody good!”

“Want that heated up?” the bearded man behind the counter asks.

“No,” I say, putting it back. “I’ll stick with eggs, thanks.”

Once again, there’s no windows. I guess in a society full of vampires that makes sense, but it just reinforces the fact that I’m here against my will. I’m not that hungry—the ghost of last night’s tequila is currently haunting my lower abdomen—but I make myself eat.

Dr. Pete has a ham steak, scrambled eggs and coffee, and I study him as we eat. I feel kind of strange, almost drugged—the jumpy, nervous feeling in my stomach is slowly being smothered by a completely irrational feeling of ease. Of course, the Urthbone could have almost anything in it. . .

I abruptly realize that what I’m experiencing is exactly what Dr. Pete warned me about. The sense of relaxed competence is coming from him—I’m feeling what he’s feeling.

And just as suddenly, I’m not—because the idea that my emotions aren’t my own provokes an immediate feeling of anger and revulsion, which apparently trumps the doctor’s warm fuzzies. Good to know; I can always count on my natural orneriness to kick in, usually at inappropriate times.

But part of me wants to give in, to go back to that feeling. Dr. Pete, it seems, is one of those people that loves his job; he feels at home here, feels confident and strong and valued. I think there was a two hour period when I felt that way at the Bureau, right between considering myself an incompetent newbie and hitting old-timer burnout. I don’t remember it very well.

But Dr. Pete knows that feeling intimately. It strikes me that I’m being played, that the reason the good and sincere doctor was assigned to me was exactly because of how I’d respond. Maybe they even thought I’d be attracted to him—he is cute, in a slightly unkempt, puppy-doggish kind of way.

Well, if that’s what “they” thought, they’re barking up the wrong agent. I don’t do romance, in the same way that I don’t do heroin, Russian roulette, or nude alligator wrestling. I consider all of the above to be stupid, self-destructive, and demeaning, and these are things up with which I will not put.

I’m a survivor. Everybody knows that in order to survive you have to be adaptable, but nobody tells you that “adapting” means being able to give up the things you care about. Or, sometimes, the people.

Dr. Pete notices me glaring at him accusingly. “Whuh?” he says, his mouth full of eggs. I feel his confusion, coupled with wariness—is this woman going to do something crazy?—and my anger subsides a little. Great. Welcome to the rollercoaster, don’t forget to strap in. And I thought PMS was bad.

“Nothing. Just getting used to the medication, that’s all.”

He swallows before speaking. “It may be intense at first. Just try to stay conscious of where the emotions are coming from; after a while, you should be able to separate your feelings from those around you.”

Sure, I’ve got plenty of experience doing that. But even though I try to keep a layer of Kevlar between my heart and the rest of the world, the damn thing keeps breaking anyway . . .

I finish my food and push the plate away. “So what can you tell me about the case?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. The NSA doesn’t give high-level briefings to lowly MDs.”

About what I’d expected, but I had to try. “How about Cassius, then? What’s my new boss like?”

“Remember what I said about vampires getting craftier as they get older? Well, Cassius is old—real old. No one knows how old for sure, but he plays up the Roman angle a lot. There are all kinds of rumors about him, but I think he starts half of those himself.”

“For instance?”

“That he’s the original model for Michelangelo’s statue, for one.”

I think about it. “I can see a certain resemblance. How about something a little less like high school gossip?”

“He’s also supposed to be the one that personally cut off Stalin’s head.”

“Stalin was a vampire?”

“Lycanthrope. Silver-edged sword.”

“Right. How long’s Cassius been Director?”

“1935.”

“Guess there’s not a lot of room for advancement when everybody’s immortal.”

“Not everyone is.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “Lycanthropes live around three hundred years. We’re immune to most diseases, but not all; we don’t have the virtual invulnerability that hemovores possess, but we do heal very quickly. We can recover from any wound short of decapitation, except those caused by silver.”

“Okay. Are there any weird discrepancies I should be aware of?”

“Like what?”

“Differences between my world’s mythology and your world’s facts. Like, does garlic still repel vampires, or do I have to stock up on paprika? Is a wooden stake through the heart still effective, or do I have to aim for the spleen?”

“Wood of any kind will penetrate hemovore flesh, and wood through the heart or the brain will usually prove fatal. They find garlic intensely repulsive, so much so that possession of garlic by anyone other than a police officer is a misdemeanor. The major area of vulnerability for a vampire, ironically enough, is his neck; it doesn’t have the same kind of resistance to damage the rest of his body does. The leading cause of hemovore death is accidental decapitation, usually due to a car wreck.”

“How about silver and vampires?”

“A silver blade will cut vampire flesh, but it will heal almost immediately. Sunlight’s a bigger problem, but it’s not immediately fatal—it takes direct exposure of a minute or longer to cause critical body-wide collapse and burnout. Emergency rooms deal with minor burns on a daily basis—bad ones can scar, but most fade away within a few weeks.”

“Why do you switch back and forth between ‘vampire’ and ‘hemovore’ but always stick to ‘lycanthrope’ instead of ‘werewolf’?”

He blushes. “That’s, uh, my mistake. Vampire and werewolf are both considered impolite—I guess I was using them because I was trying to make you feel comfortable.”

“The V word, huh? But were is okay?”

“Were is, werewolf isn’t. Lycanthropes are descended from more than just wolves—canids from all over the world can manifest the energy that triggers transformation. Jackals, coyotes, dingos—even dogs.”

“Hang on. There are were dogs?”

“Dogs are just domesticated offshoots of wolves. Werewolves that bit dogs transmitted the carrier curse to them, and they infected other humans the same way. Similar to a virus—and when a virus jumps from one species to another, it mutates. A human infected by a dog will still transform under a full moon, but now he’ll exhibit certain characteristics of the canine that actually bit him—and he’ll pass those on to the next person he bites.”

Visions of were-chihuahuas dance in my mind; I think they’re doing the Macarena, but it’s hard to tell. “So if I have to deal with some yappy little beaurocrat, he’s probably just channeling the yappy little dog inside him?”

He laughs. “More than likely. It doesn’t necessarily mean he was bitten by an infected dog, either—just that one of his ancestors was. The traits are passed down genetically as well.”

“And what’s in your family tree, Dr. Pete? No, wait—let me guess.”

I mock-squint at him. The shaggy brown hair reminds me of a cocker spaniel, but it’s not curly enough. Brown eyes, more soulful than sad—not basset hound, but maybe beagle. Average size nose, which eliminates the pugs and greyhounds but leaves everything in between. His name doesn’t give me much of a clue—Adams is probably British, but it’s pretty generic.

“How about a hint?” I say.

“All right,” he says, and I can hear the mischief in his voice.

He transforms.

I’m not sure what I expected as far as the actual process goes; probably either the instant morphing you see so often on television, or the extended, bone-cracking version movie directors love to inflict on their audiences. What I get is somewhere inbetween—not instantaneous, but not three minutes of skin-stretching agony, either. I guess it takes about ten seconds, total, and the most disturbing thing about it is how it sounds: kind of like someone squishing raw hamburger in their fist while chewing a mouthful of peanuts with the shell still on.

In the movies, werewolves are always snarling and growling and generally looking vicious. Dr. Pete opens his mouth and pants at me, like a—

“Collie,” I say. “You’ve definitely got some collie in you.”

He nods agreement, which is a lot cuter than scary; it somewhat offsets the fact that his eyes are a vivid, unearthly yellow. I stare at him, noting that while his head appears pretty wolf-like, the rest of his body hasn’t changed that much. His chest is a little broader, his arms a little bigger, and his hands have turned into big, furry things with wicked-looking claws on the end. I duck my head under the table and see that his legs—sorry, his hind legs—now crook backward the way an animal’s does. His shoes have fallen off but he’s still wearing socks, which looks faintly ridiculous.

I straighten up. He does something nimble with his hands, but unfortunately I don’t speak were sign language; I’ll have to do something about that.

Changing back takes him about the same amount of time. “Collie on my mother’s side,” he says. “Some Black Lab on my father’s.”

His tone is light, but I can feel the sudden surge of alertness in him. He’s worried that seeing him transform will be too much for my fragile psyche to handle.

“I could use some more coffee,” I say. I hand him my cup. “Fetch?”

He laughs more like a terrier.

The golem finds us in the cafeteria.

He—it?—isn’t what I expect. Dr. Pete’s description of “a human being-shaped plastic bag filled with sand” had me envisioning something like a lumpy yellow blow-up doll, minus the orifice options. What stands in the doorway is a broad-shouldered figure a little over six feet tall, wearing a very sharp pin-striped suit of dark blue, matching fedora, and polished black leather Oxfords. His skin is darker than his shoes, and just as glossy; his features seem sculpted out of black chrome. His tie appears to be alligator skin.

He strides over to us, his movements oddly deliberate but not jerky; he reminds me more of someone performing a dance about walking than actually doing so. He stops in front of our table and looks at me. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing; he doesn’t seem to have actual irises or pupils, just eye-shaped indentations. It’s like looking at a mask, one with strong, angular features: square chin, heavy brow, Roman nose with a pronounced hump to it.

“Jace Valchek?” he asks. His voice is deep and raspy, sandpaper scraping the bottom of a metal barrel. He holds his hands loosely at his sides, and I note that the skin on them is just as black as his face. He doesn’t have fingernails.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

“I’m Charlie Aleph. I’m here to escort you to see the Director.” Just like Cassius, I can’t quite place his accent—Arabic? German? Something with harsh gutturals, anyway—but the coiled tension in his voice is as obvious as a stretched bowstring, while his body language is completely relaxed. The only people I’ve ever seen able to pull off that combination effectively are lifelong politicians and trained assassins.

I can’t tell how much of the wariness I feel is natural caution and how much I’m picking up from him. “Yeah, fine. Do I get to actually see the outside world now, or are we traveling in a hermetically sealed armored car?”

“We’ll be driving,” Charlie Aleph says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I toy with the idea of having another cup of coffee and making him wait, but that’s a game I’d probably lose; never try the patience of someone whose family tree includes marble and granite. I get to my feet. “Okay, let’s go. Dr. Pete, thanks for the tea.”

“Call me if you have any problems,” he says, and I get the feeling he’s talking about more than just symptoms.

“Sure,” I say. I wonder if they’ll give me a phone.

Charlie leads me out of the cafeteria and down the corridor to an elevator. His body makes these soft crunching noises as he walks, like he’s stepping on fresh snow.

“So,” I say as we stop at the elevator. “What’s my status? Am I a prisoner or a cop?”

“Neither. You’re a consultant of a non-recognized foreign government, granted Special Agent status for the duration of the case.” He doesn’t look at me while he talks, which is good. Those eyeless eyes aren’t exactly comforting.

“Beaurocratic doublespeak meaning that while I work for you, I don’t have any special legal standing. No Diplomatic Immunity, for instance.”

“No.”

The elevator arrives and we get on. I almost expect it to creak under his weight, but that doesn’t happen.

“What happens if I try to run?” I ask as the doors close.

“I’ll stop you.”

“You don’t look too quick.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I hate surprises.”

“Then don’t run.”

The doors open. We’re in the lobby of an office building, not a hospital; I guess that was Dr. Pete’s private practice, or maybe just a facility the NSA reserves for special cases like me. I see a few other people, but nobody out of the ordinary—a paunchy guy in a business suit, a middle-aged woman in a long beige coat. The front wall of the lobby is all glass, and it looks like a gray, overcast day outside. My own internal clock tells me it’s early morning, but for all I know the sun’s about to go down.

Okay, Scary New World—here I come.

Out the door. Charlie Aleph heads straight for a dark blue Crown Vic parked at the curb. I stop, take a deep breath of air, look around.

The first impression I get is utterly mundane. City street, lots of buildings, businesses, cars. People walking down the sidewalk, driving past in Toyotas, Fords, Chevys. No bats soaring overhead, no howls echoing off the concrete. But there is something . . .

It’s the air. It smells, I don’t know, wilder somehow, as if there were animal musk and wet moss underneath the car exhaust and damp asphalt.

I hesitate for only a second outside the car—I’m not going to run, where the hell would I go?—then get in. Charlie’s already started the car, and pulls into traffic before I even get my seat belt on.

I look over at him. He stares straight ahead.

“So,” I say. “Golem, huh?”

“I prefer the term Mineral-American.”

“Oh. Sorry. Uh, I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me—“

“You’ll be told everything at the briefing.”

Right. Golems aren’t big on the small talk, I guess.

I stare out the window as we drive. I start to notice details that would have me questioning my sanity back home—here, they confirm it. Restaurants with names like The Severed Artery or the Happy Leech. Vehicles with heavily-smoked windshields and windows. People walking down the street wearing gloves, goggles, face-masks and hoods—no exposed skin at all. And what can only be more golems, with the same shiny skin as my driver but colored white, red, brown or yellow. I glance over at him and say, “I thought go—uh, Mineral-Americans would all be yellow.”

“Different grades of silica. Sometimes artificial color is added.”

“Why?”

“Job designations. Clerical, manual laborer, hazardous worker. A few others.”

I study him a little harder. Up close, I can see the grainy texture of the black sand beneath his thick plastic skin. “What’s the job designation for black?”

“Enforcement.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to.

Something lopes past us, way too fast. It leaps onto the hood of a cab, goes sideways off the door of a delivery truck and disappears around a corner. I don’t get a good look at it—I get the impression of short grey fur, a stream-lined body, long arms, legs and snout, and a vest of Day-Glo green. I think it was carrying some sort of bag slung over its shoulder.

“Damn couriers,” Charlie says.

A sudden thought strikes me. “Charlie, where are we?”

“Grant Street.”

“No, I mean which city?”

“Seattle. Space Needle’s right over there.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “You have one of those where you come from?”

“No, we all live in grass huts. Big pointy building scary.”

He glances at me. His almost expressionless face creases ever so slightly around the mouth, in something that might one day—with careful care and feeding—be called a smile.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

The FBI office I work out of is in St. Louis. I’ve been to Seattle once before, but don’t know the city well—which is probably a good thing, as I’ll have to unlearn most of what I know anyway.

We don’t drive far. A few minutes later we’re pulling into the underground parking of a large concrete structure, with the monolithic impersonal architecture of a Federal building. Security seems a little lax to me, but maybe they have some kind of protective voodoo I can’t perceive.

The lot’s filled with government cars, lots of Crown Vics and boxy sedans. We park and head for the nearest elevator.

“Got any helpful advice?” I ask as we’re waiting for the doors to open.

“If the Director invites you out for a drink,” he says, “say no.”

The elevator lets us off on the twenty-third floor, in front of a security checkpoint. Two large frosted glass doors set into a bare concrete wall, with two of the scariest-looking guards I’ve ever seen posted on either side: both are lycanthropes, but they bear about as much resemblance to Dr. Pete as a professional wrestler to a jockey. The one on the right has jet-black fur, yellow eyes, and a muzzle big enough to bite my head off in one snap. The other one’s fur is a reddish-orange, and while he’s shorter than his partner he makes up for it in width. His biceps are as thick as fire hydrants and look about as solid. Both wear chainmail suits, stainless-steel links covering them from wrist to neck to ankle, leaving their heads and clawed extremities bare. Spiky tufts of fur bristle here and there between the links.

There’s some complicated hand motions from the red-furred one, which Charlie responds to. “Yeah, hi, Tony. This is Consulting Agent Jace Valchek.”

The black-furred one makes a few gestures of his own.

“She doesn’t sign,” Charlie says.

Tony taps his own chest with one curving claw.

“Oh, yeah,” says Charlie. He fishes in the pocket of his suit and pulls out an ID badge. He hands it to me and

I clip it on.

The black-furred one looks me over, then bends over and peers at my badge close-up. When his muzzle is about six inches from my face, he growls. It’s possibly the deepest, most threatening sound I’ve ever heard in my life, and despite the fact that I know it’s supposed to intimidate me, it still makes my breath catch in my throat and my pulse speed up.

I meet his blazing yellow eyes. Take a deep breath through my nose. “Nice,” I say. “Is that Aloe Vera? I would have guessed you were an oily, not a dry—but split ends are a bitch, either way. You use a crème conditioner?”

He stares at me. Blinks. Then straightens up and waves us through. As the doors shut behind us, I can hear Tony snort. Guess I have a bright future on the werewolf comedy circuit.

The office is large and busy, and I don’t get to see much of it; Charlie hustles me down one side and to the far wall, which is made mostly of smoked glass except for the wooden door. He pulls it open and motions me inside.

I recognize the interior: it’s Cassius’ office. The smoked glass wall is covered by wood paneling on the inside—I’m guessing it can be retracted into the floor or ceiling—and Cassius himself is seated behind his desk. A blond woman in a grey skirt and a high-collared white blouse sits primly on the edge of the leather sofa, hands clasped together on her knees. She looks like she’s in her mid-to-late thirties, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She smiles at me with exactly the amount of friendliness a receptionist displays.

“Jace,” says Cassius. He’s replaced his tie with one of blue velvet, the same deep blue as his eyes. He seems older today than he was yesterday, and it’s not just because of what Dr. Pete told me; his body language is different, his spine straighter, his shoulders back. I realize my initial surfer-boy impression was deliberate on his part, trying to make me feel less threatened. “I hope you’re feeling better. I apologize for the inept and negligent way in which you were introduced to our world.”

Junior partner in a law firm, I think. Bright, sharp, but still a little inexperienced. Just the kind of person you want to mentor, share your own insights with. “Save it. I know you need my help, and I know why. You want me to co-operate? I want our deal spelled out. In writing.”

“Of course.” He opens a drawer and takes out a document. “Your employment contract. The terms are very clear—they detail your salary, accommodations, and a generous bonus as compensation for the way in which you were recruited.”

“I don’t give a crap about any of that. When do I get to go home?”

“At the successful conclusion of your assignment.” He places the document on his desk and pushes it toward me. I stride forward, pick it up, and read through it. It’s surprisingly void of legalese, stating more or less exactly what Cassius just told me—except for one thing.

“This doesn’t define what my assignment is,” I say. “Just that it will ‘be deemed to be successfully concluded with the capture or elimination of the target of the mission.”

“Yes. The person responsible for at least three murders so far. We believe—“

“What if I don’t sign?”

Cassius smiles at me. It’s a genuinely likable smile, and I wonder how many years it took him to perfect it.

“Who said you have to sign anything? This is simply a description of what we’re willing to provide, if you co-operate with us. You’re free to turn us down.”

He’s good. He doesn’t bother threatening me—I can figure it out for myself. Homeless, broke, and alone, one of a tiny minority on a world full of predators. Good luck with that; I’m sure you’ll do great in your new career as entrée.

Still, they obviously need me. This may be the only chance for negotiation I get.

“I want my living allowance increased by fifty percent,” I say. “I’m not setting up shop in some cramped little walk-up. The abduction bonus gets doubled, and don’t bitch at me about your budget—I can tell you guys don’t do this kind of thing every day, and special projects always have deep pockets. And I want my gun back.”

He doesn’t argue, which irritates me. Instead, he nods, picks up a pen and writes in the changes.
Then he hands me the pen.

I grit my teeth, take it and sign the contract. At this point, a signed document is probably better for me than for him.

“Welcome aboard,” he says, tucking one set of the papers away in a drawer. I fold my own copies and jam them in a pocket. “Your weapon and laptop are being examined, but they’ll be returned to you shortly. First, I’d like to introduce you to some of the people you’ll be working with.”

He nods at the golem, who’s been standing motionless as a statue by the door since we arrived. “Charlie Aleph you’ve already met. He’s an Enforcement class golem with twenty years experience. Served in the first Persian war as field artillery, decorated twice for valor. He’ll be your enforcer.”

“Right. Is he going to frisk me for crucifixes and wooden stakes, too? Look, if I’m going to work for you, you’re going to have to trust me—“

“I’m aware of that,” he says, and his tone stops me cold. It has that unmistakeable ring of command, the one that says I know exactly what I’m doing so just shut the hell up or suffer the consequences. I shut up.

“Charlie isn’t there to spy on you or keep you in line. He’s there to protect you, and inflict serious damage on anyone that gets in your way. He’s your weapon, not your babysitter. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And this is Gretchen Petra.” He nods at the woman seated on the couch. “Gretchen will be your liaison with our intel division.”

The woman rises from the couch and puts out her hand. I shake it; her grip is strong and cool. “A pleasure,” she says. Her accent is British and cultured, and she looks vaguely amused. “Please don’t judge our world solely by David. A few of us aren’t complete bastards.”

I know I’ll be working with this woman, but I’m not in the mood to be gracious. “Oh? What are you, three-quarters?”

Her smile gets a little bigger. “Oh, heavens, no. No more than fifty percent, I assure you.” Her eyes actually seem, I swear to God, to twinkle. “Of course, the rest is pure bitch.” Her voice stays as soft and gentle as freshly-laundered flannel. I think I like her.

“Good to know,” I say. “Can we start the briefing now, or do I have to sacrifice a goat or something?”

“No thank you, I just had breakfast,” Gretchen says. “Sir?”

“Go ahead.”

Gretchen nods. “Here’s what we know so far. There have been three killings. Each was recorded, using digital equipment. The recording of the first murder was uploaded to the Internet from the site of the second, and the second uploaded at the site of the third. Two of the sites were in remote areas with no readily available web access; we don’t know why the killer went to the time and trouble to establish his own.”

“Who were the vics?”

“A researcher, a tour guide, and a waitress. Two males, one female. We’ve been unable to discover any link between them and think they may have been chosen at random.”

“No such thing. How were they killed?”

“That’s somewhat—involved. Three methods were used, all of them requiring a fair bit of planning. The first victim was killed by sled dogs—“

“Hang on. Sled dogs?”

Cassius clears his throat. “Yes. The murder took place near a small outpost at McMurdo Station—the victim was a government scientist.”

I stare at Cassius incredulously. “McMurdo Station? In the Antarctic?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing research on, werepenguins?”

“I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. It’s classified.”

Of course. This was the NSA, after all, not the FBI. “Okay, sled dogs. Go on.”

Gretchen continues. “The dogs were sedated, then had a coat of silver-based paint applied to their teeth. Once they were awake, they were exposed to a stimulant that drove them into a near frenzy. The researcher was placed into their pen and torn to pieces.”

“Silver. So he was a lycanthrope?”

“No, a hemovore. He survived until the dogs managed to separate his head from his body.”

“All right. Vic number two?”

“Australian tour guide, male, also a lycanthrope. Found locked inside a home-made Iron Maiden in the middle of the Outback. Are you familiar with the device?”

“I know what it is.” A close-fitting coffin lined with spikes that impaled the victim when the lid was closed, a torture device from the Middle Ages. “Silver spikes?”

“Blades, actually. But it was the design of the sarcophagus itself that was particularly cruel—the blades initially penetrated the victim’s skin to a depth of less than an inch.”

“Not enough to kill him, you mean. How did he die—bleed to death?”

“Not at first—the blades were positioned to miss the major arteries. But the victim was locked in the sarcophagus just before the rising of the full moon—the one time that lycanthropes must transform. As his body changed in size and shape, the embedded blades tore deeper into his flesh. Exposure to silver also becomes much more painful to a lycanthrope during a full moon; the resulting agony caused the victim to writhe uncontrollably, literally tearing himself apart.” Her voice is clipped and precise, a professional doing her job. “Then he bled out.”

“And the last one?”

“Took place on the island of Hokkaido, Japan. The victim was a hemovore employed as wait staff in a blood bar in Sapporo, the largest city and capitol of the prefecture. She was bound and suspended by her wrists, approximately twelve feet off the ground. A sharpened wooden pole was fixed to the floor beneath, one end inserted in her rectum. A pulley system transferred her weight slowly from her wrists to the pole. An extremely nasty way to go—the pole eventually emerged from her mouth.”

I nod. “Was the pole tipped with silver, or did it have silver embedded in it?”

Gretchen arches one elegant eyebrow. “Yes, there was a silver cap affixed to the top of the pole. Completely unnecessary—sharpened wood penetrates the flesh of hemovores on its own. How did you know?”

“He’s killed a vampire using animals and silver, and a lycanthrope by locking him in a coffin and impaling him. These acts are deeply symbolic. Killing a vampire with a wooden stake, even a really big one, doesn’t fit the pattern—there had to be some symbolic reference to lycanthropes in it somewhere. Where was the body found?”

“In a forest—a protected reserve, actually.”

“Let me guess: it has historical or cultural significance to lycanthropes.”

“Yes. Hokkaido is home to a species of wolf found nowhere else.”

I nod. “Okay. Antarctica, Australia, Asia. Obviously, he’s killing people on continents that begin and end with an A—keep a close eye on those places and I guarantee you’ll catch him. Can I go home now?”
Cassius ignores my joke, which almost makes me feel at home. Almost. “Gretch, take Jace up to the forensics lab. The physical evidence we’ve collected is there, plus Damon should be done with your equipment by now. But first, I’d like a few moments alone with Ms. Valchek.”

Charlie heads for the door without a word. Gretchen gives me sly smile on the way out that I’m not sure how to take.

And then I’m alone with my new boss. Again. I hope it goes better than last time.

“Jace,” he begins, then stops with a frown.

“I do something wrong already?”

“No. I did.” He sighs, and gets up from his chair. “Look, I think we can both agree I pretty much blew the whole first impression thing. You don’t have any reason to like me, let alone trust me. But we’re going to be working together, and I do not want the work to suffer—because the work is saving the lives of innocent people. I know you’re professional enough to do that—I just wanted to let you know that I am, too.”

“All right.” I bite down on a half-dozen replies, which hurts; they’re all sharp and extremely bitter.
He looks at me for a second without saying anything. Maybe it’s the Urthbone, but for just an instant he looks incredibly, anciently tired; like he’s been fighting a war for centuries and just doesn’t give a damn anymore.

No, that’s not quite right. He still gives a damn, but it’s buried under so many years and so much psychic baggage that he doesn’t quite know where that damn is anymore, or what it’s for. My grandfather used to get that look when the Alzheimers started to set in, the frustrated groping for a word or concept that was tantalizingly close but had no handle to pick it up by; he had the eyes of a wounded little boy when that happened, and it always broke my heart.

“I’ll—do my best,” I manage. It’s about as conciliatory as I can manage.

The look vanishes, and the junior partner in the law firm is looking at me again. “I’m sure you will,” he says, and opens the door for me.

And just like that, we’re done. I walked into that office a prisoner, and I walk out an employee. The surreality of it makes me a little light-headed, and I realize I don’t actually know how often I’m supposed to get a dose of Urthbone. I’ll have to check the first chance I get.

Charlie and Gretchen are waiting for me, and we head back to the elevator. Gretchen walks as if she’s strolling down a runway at Milan, all poise and elegance. Charlie stalks beside her like a pit bull straining against a leash. I wonder how I look to them—fragile? Alien? Hopelessly ignorant?

“Well, what do you think of our fearless leader?” Gretchen asks. She jabs at the elevator button with one red-nailed finger.

“I don’t know,” I answer carefully. “I just—“

“Don’t underestimate him—he’s made his career out of people who’ve done that. He’s highly intelligent, Machiavellian to the extreme, and utterly ruthless. If you can get past that, he’s not bad to work for.”
Her honesty surprises me. “Yeah, he sounds like a real sweetheart.”

“He can be—but be careful. He doesn’t have many weaknesses, but women are one of them. Especially your type.”

“What, O Positive?”

“Really? I would have said B Negative . . .you’re a smart woman, Jace. You’re also stubborn, aggressive—and human. That’s a combination he finds both rare and irresistible.”

“Why?”

She manages to shrug while only moving her eyebrows. “Who knows? It’s like the old joke: why do vampires date humans?”

“I give up.”

“Yes, but not without a struggle.”

Great. I’m going to have to deal with “human being” jokes, too.

“David is loyal to a fault,” Gretchen says. “Give him your best—professionally, I mean—and he’ll put his very long life on the line for you. Cross him and he’ll wait twenty years for his revenge.”

“I’m not planning on being here that long,” I mutter. “But thanks for the whole carrot-and-stick pep talk.”

The elevator shows up, disgorges an agent in a business suit and a golem in a short-sleeved white shirt, his hairless head and exposed arms a dull yellow. His ears are just bumps. He nods at Charlie, but doesn’t say anything as he steps past.

“How about you, Charlie?” I ask as we step inside. “Do you agree with Gretch? Is Cassius all she says?”

“The Director knows what he’s doing. If that means making sacrifices to get the job done, that’s what he’ll do.”

“Yeah? Sacrificing himself, or just other people?”

“Whatever it takes.”

The forensics lab is on the top floor, a warren of rooms both large and small, all lit by fluorescents and as windowless and claustrophobic as a sub-basement. My new colleagues guide me through the maze to a lab the size of a classroom, stocked with equipment that at first glance seems comfortingly familiar: comparison microscopes, glass-doored cabinets, centrifuges and computers. My laptop is on a long, wide table, plugged in to an outlet with a new power cord, and my gun lies in pieces on a white piece of cloth next to it.

The man studying those pieces is perched on a stool next to the table, peering intently at a bullet he holds with a pair of forceps. He wears the standard white lab coat, but his hair is even whiter, as short, thick and bristly as a toothbrush. His eyebrows are the same, dense and snowy over eyes so ice-blue they look artificial. His face is wide and ruddy, and when he notices us he grins and springs to his feet.

“Hello, hello! You must be the new hire!” He puts out an enormous hand, his fingers short and stubby. He’s built like a weightlifter, his smock bulging across the chest and at the biceps, his legs just a little bowed.

“Damon Eisfanger, very pleased to meet you.” He shakes my hand gently, as if afraid he’ll break it.

“Jace Valchek. I think that’s my property you’re vivisecting.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, the weapon. I haven’t damaged it, I assure you. I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to examine such. . .unusual technology.”

“Can I have it back?” Despite what Cassius promised, I didn’t really believe they’d ever let me hold my gun again; these people weren’t stupid, and the minute someone with an engineering degree understood what they had—

“Yes, of course. It may take me some time to reassemble it—“

“Don’t bother.” I grab pieces with both hands before he can change his mind. Click, snap, chunk, click, and I’m armed once more. Even though I know it’ll be ineffective against most of the locals, it still makes me feel better; if someone ticks me off, maybe I can shoot their car.

Eisfanger is looking at me with admiration. “That was quick,” he said. “I take it this is a hobby of yours?”

“Not really. All law enforcement officers are expected to maintain their firearms where I come from. That includes field-stripping and cleaning them on a regular basis—I’m just a little faster than most.”

“So all police agencies use these?” He sounds fascinated and a little incredulous, as if I’d just told him we also fly around and shoot laser beams from our eyes.

“Not just the police. The military, hunters, criminals, ordinary citizens; they’re about as common as staplers. You do have staplers?”

Eisfanger shakes his head. “No—I mean yes, of course we have staplers, it’s just the idea of a weapon so esoteric being so widespread—“

“Esoteric?” I frown. I’ve heard guns described a lot of ways: cheap, expensive, evil, fun, sexy, dangerous, scary, sneaky—but never esoteric. It’s like calling fast food exotic cuisine. Of course, fast food here may refer to fresh long-distance runner—

Dizziness surges in my head and gut. It’s like that feeling you get when you visit a foreign country and everything seems new but not that strange, and then some little detail jumps out and you realize, you truly understand, that the people here don’t think the same way you do; that you’re a lot farther away from home than you really knew.

Eisfanger doesn’t notice. He’s already talking about something else, my laptop I think: “—I was very careful, especially with the power supply, but it seems our worlds are compatible technologically—which, when you consider the complexity of machine code, is remarkable, quite remarkable—“

“So I can access your systems?”

“Oh, yes. Your account, email, passcodes, they’re already installed. Tutorial programs will give you a tour of our databases. And of course, you’ll be able to review all the relevant information on the case you’re working on.”

Gretchen steps forward. “We’d like to take a look at the physical evidence, Damon.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“The McMurdo victim,” I say.

Throughout this exchange Charlie’s hung back, not saying a word, but he makes sure he’s right beside me as Eisfanger leads us through the lab and to a refrigerated room behind a large steel door. The corpse of a husky lies on a necropsy table on its back, its legs splayed to either side and held upright with clamps. It’s been split open, the internal organs removed and no doubt analyzed. I’m more interested in the murder weapons—the teeth.

I take the gloves Eisfanger offers and snap them on. The room is cold, but the excitement I’m getting off Eisfanger is anything but. He’s practically bouncing on the soles of his feet as he slips on gloves of his own—much thicker than mine, but still rubberized.

“Take a look at this,” he says, grabbing the jaws and pulling them open. The teeth gleam dully, looking more like aluminum than silver, and I realize why Eisfanger’s gloves are thicker—he can’t handle them directly.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“No. So the dogs had to be destroyed?”

“Oh, no. The vic managed to tear this one’s throat out before he went down—the others were anaesthetized and had the paint removed. We have samples.”

More trouble than my superiors probably would have gone to—but then, they wouldn’t have to worry they might be executing a distant cousin. “How were they drugged? Food?”

“No—tranquilizer darts.”

I lean in, pull back the black lip of the mouth. “Doesn’t look like he was all that gentle in applying the paint, either.” I can see cuts and abrasions on the inside of the mouth and the tongue.

“We think he used some sort of clamps to keep the mouth open while the dog was sedated, but something improvised as opposed to medical.”

I nod. “So not a veterinarian. The paint is precisely applied . . . he takes pride in his work. Control is important to him, that’s obvious.”

I straighten up. “Did we recover anything else from the site? The darts, the rifle that fired them?”
Eisfanger looks at me blankly. “The what?”

Oh. Right. “How were the darts delivered?”

“I presume the usual way—thrown.”

Great. These people had no idea what ballistics even were. “Never mind. What else is there?”

“That’s it. No fingerprints, just some snowshoe tracks. The site itself was a modular metal pen, set up literally in the middle of nowhere. The dogs were used as transport there, but we don’t know how the killer left.”

“It’s Antarctica. How many ways could there be?”

Gretchen speaks up. “We’re working on that. We believe he may have access to unorthodox transport.”
“You mean like the way I was brought here?”

She shakes her head. “Not exactly. That sort of thing is very rarely done, and only by government agencies. No, we think he might be using a shapeshifting spell—transforming into something that can fly, or possibly swim.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Extremely. It’s a form of magic that both hemovores and lycanthropes are unable to use—and only a handful of human sorcerers have the necessary training.”

“Sounds like a good place to start.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy.” Gretchen sighs. “Unenhanced humans are not very well documented. Many live in isolation and have virtually no contact with anyone else. We know the number of human animists that could do something like this is small, but we don’t know exactly what that number is—or where, in fact, all of them are.”

“Oh, this just keeps getting better and better,” I mutter. “What next? Are you going to tell me the suspect is short, dresses all in green, and speaks with an Irish brogue? Were traces of shamrocks and breakfast cereal left at the crime scene?”

“Leprechauns are just as mythical here as on your world,” Gretchen says. She sounds more amused than annoyed. “We also have an appalling lack of elves, fairies, sprites, pixies, ogres, trolls, hobgoblins and unicorns. The jury’s still out on UFOs, Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.”

Charlie’s voice rasps from behind me. “There’s always Santa.”

“If the murder happened near the North Pole instead of the South, I’d agree with you,” I say. “Still, I guess we can’t rule him out entirely; maybe he used flying reindeer for the getaway . . .”

Eisfanger chimes in, his eyes bright. “Yes, and maybe the Easter Bunny painted the dog’s teeth!”

We all glance at him, but the line falls flat and nobody laughs. Even lycanthropes have their geeks, it seems, too-bright people with an obsessive interest in their field and slightly off-balance social skills. I’ve known my share—hell, some people would describe me the same way.

“Okay,” I say, “The Australian vic. Do we have the murder weapon?”

“Yes,” says Eisfanger. “Unless the gremlins have hidden it.” His smile confirms my analysis: the subtle cues that indicate a change in topic are more or less invisible to him.

“Take me to it,” I say. Directness usually works.
The sarcophagus is in a corner of the lab, covered with a white sheet. Eisfanger removes the sheet as carefully as if he’s revealing a body, and turns on twin spotlights over the table.

About the size and shape of a coffin, but maybe half as deep. Heavy-duty hinges and a thick metal latch, the kind that locks automatically when it closes. I touch the surface with one gloved hand. “So this is the Silver Maiden, huh? Cheap wood. Looks flimsy.”

“It’s not.” Eisfanger undoes the latch. “Open it.”

I grab the lid with both hands, hoping that Eisfanger’s sense of humor doesn’t lend itself to newbie hazing pranks. It’s much heavier than it looks, but I expected that. I open it fully, the lid coming to rest at an angle against the table. The smell that rises from it is rank and animal, blood and excrement and spoiled meat. The blades that jut up from the inside of the lid are caked with dried blood, bits of flesh and clots of fur; there are nine of them, varying in length.

Eisfanger gives me a quick rundown. “These two went through at the calf, between the tibia and the fibula. These two slid between the ulna and radius bones in the forearms. This pair penetrated the lower abdomen just below the ribs, piercing the large intestine.”

“Pinned,” I murmur. “Like a butterfly on a board. What about these three on the top?” There was a trio of blades in a row at face level.

“These two would have pierced his cheeks. You can see that the middle one is shorter than the others, and angled slightly downward; it would have penetrated just above his lip, and not very deeply.”

“In his human form.”

“Well, yes. When he transformed, it would have been pushed through the muzzle, splitting the nose. The blades on either side kept him from turning his head.”

“And the angle is just enough that if he slams forward it won’t push into his brain.” I’m thinking hard, in that zone where I let my thoughts turn into spoken words without much of a filter to stop them.

Charlie says, “That wood doesn’t look strong enough to hold a thrope, especially one half-crazy with pain.”

“That’s the idea,” I say. I tap the lid and glance at Eisfanger. “Sheet metal sandwiched between thin layers of wood, right?”

Eisfanger nods. “We’re not sure why he went to the trouble.”

“Incentive,” I say. “The wood’s there to create the illusion that escape is possible. He was supposed to struggle. He didn’t have the room to break free, but he did have enough to carve himself up from the inside out. But even then, note how the blades are positioned: between two bones in all four extremities, because bone will last longer than muscle. The blades are positioned so that the sharp edge faces away from the nearest artery—the killer didn’t want the vic to bleed out too soon.”

“To what end?” Gretchen asks. “Is this pure sadism, or is there a deeper purpose? Are we looking at retribution or ritual?”

“Too early to say. How about the third victim, the Japanese one?”

“We don’t have that evidence yet,” Eisfanger says. “The murder only took place—“ he glances at his watch, “twenty-two hours ago.”

I stare at him. “And you let me lie around in a hospital bed?”

“I, uh, didn’t have any say in that—“

“Never mind. Gretchen—this case has leapfrogged three continents so far. Does our mandate cover international jurisdiction, or do we have to sit at home and wait for the phone to ring?”

“We are empowered to travel to countries that are signatories to the Transnational Supernatural Crimes and Activities Act,” she admits.

“Is Japan one of those countries?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest you pack your Dramamine, or whatever vampires take to prevent spewing their O-Negative breakfast into an airsickness bag. That crime scene is less than two days old, and I want to see it with my own eyes.”

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