TableofContents

PreambleCase#1SpectreofJustice

Chapter1.1Chapter1.2Chapter1.3Chapter1.4Chapter1.5Chapter1.6

Chapter1.7Chapter1.8Chapter1.9Chapter1.10Chapter1.11Chapter1.12Chapter1.13Chapter1.14Chapter1.15Chapter1.16Chapter1.17

Case#2WritinStoneChapter2.1Chapter2.2

Chapter2.3Chapter2.4Chapter2.5Chapter2.6Chapter2.7Chapter2.8Chapter2.9Chapter2.10Chapter2.11Chapter2.12Chapter2.13Chapter2.14Chapter2.15Chapter2.16

Case#3HabeasCorpseChapter3.1Chapter3.2Chapter3.3Chapter3.4Chapter3.5Chapter3.6Chapter3.7Chapter3.8Chapter3.9Chapter3.10Chapter3.11Chapter3.12Chapter3.13

Chapter3.14Chapter3.15Chapter3.16

Case#4DoggedDetermination

Chapter4.1Chapter4.2Chapter4.3Chapter4.4Chapter4.5Chapter4.6Chapter4.7Chapter4.8Chapter4.9

Chapter4.10Chapter4.11

AuthorBios

BookDescription

The launch of a wild newurbanfantasyseries!San Francisco. Haight-

Ashbury.ItismidnightintheSummerofLove.Thomas Brock and Evelyn

Love are attorneys whocrusade for the rightsofOTs—Other-Than-Humans.Theirclients include ghosts,gargoyles, vampires, andthings that havenotyetbeengiven names. The city’s OTelement is sometimesmalevolent, sometimesmisunderstood, and oftendiscriminated against. Brockand Love represent them,whatever the case, whatever

thespecies.Magic hangs heavy in San

Francisco, and danger andintrigue isas thickas thefogaround the Golden GateBridge.

Love-Haight is a comedy,locked within a mystery,hiddeninahorrorstory.…Wonderfully clever, stylish,and ghoulish. Delightfullytwistedfun!

—WilliamC.Dietz,NewYorkTimesbestselling

creatorofTheLegionoftheDamned®

Making the freakiest burg inthe nation ten timesfreakier is a considerableachievement.

—GlenCook,bestsellingauthorofTheBlack

Companyseries

***

SmashwordsEdition–2015

WordFirePresswordfirepress.com

ISBN:978-1-61475-276-9

Copyright©2015JeanRabeandDonaldJ.Bingle

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybe reproduced

or transmitted inanyformorby any electronic ormechanical means, includingphotocopying, recording orby any information storageand retrieval system,withoutthe express writtenpermission of the copyrightholder, except wherepermitted by law.This novelis a work of fiction. Names,characters, places andincidents are either the

product of the author’simagination, or, if real, usedfictitiously.

Thisbookislicensedforyourpersonal enjoyment only.This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to otherpeople. If you would like toshare this book with anotherperson, please purchase anadditional copy for eachrecipient. Thank you for

respecting the hard work ofthisauthor.

CoverpaintingbyEmmaMichaels

ArtDirectorKevinJ.Anderson

BookDesignbyRuneWright,LLC

www.RuneWright.com

KevinJ.Anderson&

RebeccaMoesta,Publishers

PublishedbyWordFirePress,animprintof

WordFire,Inc.POBox1840

Monument,CO80132

***

Dedication

ForCherylFrech,

whoaddedatouchofglasstomylife

—JeanRabe

ForRichBingle,

whotaughtmeeverythingheknowsaboutgaming

—DonaldJ.Bingle

***

Preamble

Nooneknowswhenandhowthemagicwasreborn.Maybeitneverwentaway.

After all, some people have

always seen, experienced,and … sometimes … fearedthe supernatural, from pixiesand faeries to werewolves,ghosts,andthewalkingdead.But one day—more likelynight—everyone else beganto see, experience, andsometimes too often fear thesupernatural,too.Maybethequantumstrings

of theuniverseplayedanewmusical,magicalnote.Maybe

a blockage holding backmystical energy broke and atrickle of magic became atorrent of paranormal power.Maybethestarsalignedandanew age dawned, like thehippies of Haight-Ashburyalwayspromiseditwould.The world has changed.

Some people embrace thechange. Some fear it. Thereare those who simply try toignore it, while others fight

againstit.But facts are facts. Other-

Than-Humans(OTs)walktheearth with man and animal.They enjoy life, half-life, orun-life,asthecasemaybe,asbest they can. Some work.Some laugh and love.Handfulsskulkthroughalleysinthenight.Othersfadefromsight. Some eat, drink, andmake mayhem, sometimeswith food and drink best not

described in polite company.And there are thosewho killand terrorize. The unluckyamongthemarehunteddownand captured. Some fightback.Somearearrested.Some need lawyers, savvy

souls to lookafter their legalandsupernaturalrights.Thomas Brock and Evelyn

Love are looking for suchclients.

***

Case#1SpectreofJustice

Chapter1.1

“Yourclientisdead.”“That does not preclude

him from seeking jointcustody of his two children,YourHonor.”ThomasBrockeasedbackfromthetableandprayed his nerves did notshow.He’d triedcases in theCivic Center Courthousebefore, but this was his firsttimeinfamilycourt,andhe’d

never been before theHonorable Vernon Vaughan.Thejudge’simposingbulldoglike appearance unsettledhim. “My client—EmanuelHolder—has lucrativeemployment, lives in anewly-purchasedhomein thecity’s prestigious Sea Cliffneighborhood, and hascommitted no crime.Accordingly, he should beentitledtoseehischildren.In

fact, he considered seekingsole custody but decided thisarrangement would be betterforallconcerned.”“Your Honor, seriously?”

Theopposing counsel—JanetWyndam-Smyth—pointed amanicured finger at Holder.She looked girded for war,dressedinablacksuitwithapencil skirt that accentuatedher thinness, bleached blondhair pulled back and slicked

against the sides of her face.Her makeup was simple andsevere, and her eyes weredaggersaimedattheplaintiff.Thomas glanced at his

client. Holder’s expressionshowed a mix of hurt andsurprise. It also showed thathewasmissing his lower lipand had a small hole in hisleft cheek. Death was notkind to the complexion.Holderwasnearlyasgrayas

the three-piece Armani suithe’dworn to thehearing, themaroontie theonlysplashofcolor against a faintlypinstriped shirt. Brock hadtold him to dress well; hescolded himself for notdictatingthecolors.“Seriously?” Wyndam-

Smythrepeated.“Just lookathim.”Thomas had to admit that

Holderwasgaunttothepoint

of skeletal, the skin seemingpainfully stretched over thebones of his face, revealingall the sharp angles andplanesandhintingatavisagethatoncehadbeenhandsome.His wisps of fine hairresembled a cobweb, andblack eyes that looked likewet marbles stared out frombeneathhishoodedbrow.“Yes, seriously,” Thomas

pronounced, holding his

shoulders back. “We arecompletelyseriousaboutthis,Your Honor, Ms. Wyndam-Smyth.”This was Thomas’s first

child-custody case, and heliked the relatively informalatmosphere—no jury, nogallery of curious lookiloos,no reporters he needed tocarefully posture in frontof…justadiscussionbeforea judgewhohada reputation

for being fair and fast. ButThomas hoped—knew—themediawouldeventuallycatchwind of this, and he lookedforward to the attention thatwould do more good thanharm for his fledglingpractice, which was startingtospecializeinOTlaw.The “OTs,” as they were

oftencalled,tendedtoclusterin cities, and Thomas waswellawaretherewereagood

number of them in SanFrancisco, where some saytruemagicwasbornand laidheaviest in the land. OTs, orOther-Than-Humans,included creatures like hisclient.Holderwasaghoul,anundead creature normallyassociated with graveyardsand considered a corpse-eater.ThetermOThadcomefrompolicereportsandfalleninto general usage: a police

radio operator might say,“SeetheOTonthecornerofLewis and Harrel.”Journalists used it asshorthand in articles andnewsreports.According to Holder, he

had approached Thomasbecause the young lawyerrecently won a wrongfulemployment termination caseinvolving a succubus theghoul knew. She had been

fired because the new ownerofthesportsapparelcompanyshe’d worked at for a dozenyears did not like OTs. Theghoul had followed the storyinthenews,andsubsequentlyThomas took on Holder’scase.Thomas and Holder were

joinedattheirtablebyEvelynLove, an athletic lookingwoman with short red hairandasprayoffreckles.Even

inasuit,shelookedmorelikea tennis player than a legalassistant.At the other table was the

opposing council—Wyndam-Smyth, a promising youngassociate from Brock, Davis& Davis, and her clientMarileeCobb,whohadtakenback her maiden name andwho was dressed rathermatronly, save for her long,bright red fingernails and

overly high heels. A formercheerleader for the FortyNiners who had snaredHolder when he was itsstarting quarterback, Marileestruck Thomas as nothingmorethanagolddigger.“Ms.Wyndam-Smyth,” the

judge began. “I have lookedoverMr.Holder’sclaimsandpaperwork, and everything isinorder.Canyouexplainforthe record why your client

objects to sharing custody ofthetwominorchildren?”Thank God, thought

Thomas, that Vaughan wasseated at his bench severalfeetawayandperhapsoutofthe rangeofHolder’s stench.The judge seemed bothamused and irritated that afailure to mediate this inFamily Court Services hadplaced the custodymatter onhisdocket.

“Well, Ms. Wyndam-Smyth?”Thomas waited for it,

dropped his fingertips to thetable, registering the coolsmoothness of themaple.Hetook a deep breath, thefragrant wood polish and hisclient’sliberaluseofcolognecould not wholly cut thestench of decay that hadsettledfirmlyinhisnostrils.Wyndam-Smyth spread

papers in front of her. “YourHonor, my client, MarileeCobb, is a good mother.Gabrielle, seven, and Caleb,eight, are accustomed toliving in their home inPresidio Terrace. They areused to the safe, gatedcommunity,havefriendstheyplay with on a daily basis,and are doing well in theirclasses at the KittredgeSchool with its nine-to-one

student-to-teacher ratio. Jointcustody could disrupt theireducation,and—”“Your Honor,” Thomas

waspleasedthejudgedidnotreprimand him for theinterruption.“AsImentioned,Mr.HolderlivesinSeaCliff,which is actually closer toKittredge School than theirmother’sresidenceandisalsoasafe,gatedcommunity.”“Filled with monsters,”

Wyndam-Smythcutin.“OTs,” Thomas corrected.

“The children’s educationwould not be disrupted.Further, my client pays theirconsiderabletuition.”The judge raised his hairy

eyebrows. Thomas had donehisresearch.Thejudgewasafamily man, had severalgrandchildren,hadspent fouryears as a defensive linemanwith the Green Bay Packers,

then two with the OaklandRaidersbeforeaseriouskneeinjury ended his career andledhimbacktoschoolwherehe picked up a law degreeand eventually landed on thebench. Thomas thoughtVaughan might bepredisposed to favor Holderduetotheirsimilarpasts.Butthe judge clearly tried toavoid looking at the deadman.

“Ms. Wyndam-Smyth,”Vaughansaid,“continue.”“Let me be blunt, Your

Honor, these are childrenwearetalkingabout,andthat—”again she gestured with amanicured nail. “That is awell-dressed corpse, a ghoul,a desiccated, stinking, no…reeking-to-high-heaven …ghoul.Childrenshouldnotbeexposed to that. Thesechildren—”

“Excuse me,” Thomas cutin.“I’dpreferyouaddressmyclient as Mr. Holder or thechildren’sfather,andthatyoustoptheverbalbullying.”“Yes. Casting disparaging

comments is editorializingand unacceptable in mycourtroom, Ms. Wyndam-Smyth,”thejudgesaid.“And,I’dthought,beneathyou.”Score. Thomas barely

managedtokeepthesmileoff

hisface.A hissing breath escaped

from Ms. Wyndam-Smyth’scoral-painted lips. Thomasnoted that, ever theprofessional, she kept hervoice even. She was good,but she was far from thefirm’s best, meaning thatwhile the partners hadthought this case importantenough toassignoneof theirrising stars, they had either

considered it a sure-win thatdidnot require the finesseofa senior attorney, or morelikely believed the matterwould be outright dismissed.There was little in theCalifornialawsthatpertainedto rights for the undead, andtherefore dismissal had beenapossibility.“My apologies, Your

Honor.” Wyndam-Smythnodded toward Thomas’s

table. “Mr. Holder is clearlydead, andwe contend that ifthe children were forced tospend time with him, theycould be damagedemotionally and physically.Studies show thatpeoplecanbetraumatizedbyassociatingwiththedead.”The judge looked to

Thomas for rebuttal, againavoiding eye contact withHolder.

“That’s simple and uglyprejudice.” Thomas wasalmosttooquicktoprovideacounter, but he railed againstdiscrimination, especiallyagainst OTs. He’d beenchampioningOT causes eversince college when he had avampire roommate. “Otherstudies—though admittedlyfew have been done on thematter—show thatassociationwith undead such

as Mr. Holder is no morepsychologically damagingthan association with certaintypesoflivingindividuals.Infact, one study suggests apositiveresponsebecause—”“I also said ‘physically.’

We contend that the childrenwould face serious bodilyharm—if not death—werethey to spend timewith theirfather.”Thomas realized he had

scored another point.Wyndam-Smyth had justreferred to the ghoul as thechildren’s father. Evelynrealized it too; she gentlynudgedhisfootwithherownand quicklywrote on a legalpad.Wyndam-Smyth stood and

smoothed at her skirt.“Ghouls eat flesh, yourhonor; that is a fact. Thechildrenwouldmostcertainly

be in jeopardy. That is whymy client has rebuffed herformer husband’s everyattempt to contact them.Marilee Cobb does not wanther children devoured.”Wyndam-Smyth held up aphotograph of a young boyand girl dressed in schooluniforms.“HandingGabrielleandCalebovertotheirfathercould be tantamount tohanding them a death

sentence.”

Chapter1.2

The judge noddedthoughtfully at the “deathsentence” comment, andThomas grimaced. It was agood argument, one heexpected Wyndam-Smyth tobringout,buthecouldpunch

asizeableholeinit.“Your Honor.” Thomas

kept his composure, thoughhe gripped the edge of thetable so hard his knucklesturned white. “We disagreewiththatpoint.”Evelyn put down her pen

and reached into Thomas’sbriefcase,bringingoutasheetof paper printed with timesanddates.Sheslid it in frontofhim.

“Ms. Wyndam-Smyth isnot well-versed in the natureofghouls.IfImay?”The judge looked at his

watch and gestured forThomastocontinue.“Zombies fancy live flesh,

fresh kills. Ghouls eat deadflesh, preferring that whichhasalreadydecayed.Andthelonger dead, the better.Ghouls buy corpses to eatfrom supply houses. Much

like we’d visit the butchercounter at the market.”Thomas knew, however, thatnot all ghouls used those“civilized” channels for their“groceries.” “Mr. Holder isclearly a ghoul, contractingthe fever that led to hiscondition while vacationingwithhis then-wifeMarilee inthe United Arab Emiratesearly last spring. As thechildrenareverymuchalive,

theyareinnodangerofbeingeatenbytheirfather.”“Fine. We concede that

ghouls eat dead flesh,”Wyndam-Smyth said. “Buteating dead flesh is also anabhorrent practice thechildren should not beexposedto.”“Really?” Score again.

Thomas referred to the sheetofpaper.“OnMaytwelfthatfivep.m.andMayfourteenth

atsixp.m.MarileeCobbtookher children to McDonald’sfor cheeseburger HappyMeals. On May fifteenth,they ventured to Arby’s forroast beef, the sixteenth toBurger King for WhopperJuniors, the seventeenth forpork tenderloins at Culver’s,the eighteenth back toMcDonalds, the nineteenthfor chicken tenders at theColonel’s, and on May

twenty-second, afterapparently eating dinner athomefortwodays,shebrokewith the nutritionally-questionablefastfoodroutineandtookthem—muchtotheirdismay, my privateinvestigator points out—toWarakubuneSushionChurchStreet.”“Your Honor!” Wyndam-

Smyth crossed her arms.“This has nothing to dowith

—”“Dead flesh, Your Honor.

McDonald’s, Arby’s, BurgerKing,Culver’s,theColonel’s,evenWarakubune… thoughthat wasn’t cooked. Deadflesh, all of it.MarileeCobbfed her children a variety ofdead flesh. You can’t objectto my client’s dietarypreferencewhen—”“Seriously?” Wyndam-

Smyth had lost her

professional cool. “There isno comparison. You’remincing words, Mr. Brock,arguingsemantics.Aboveall,the children are better offwith their mother. Childrenneedtheirmother.”Holder’s upper lip curled

menacinglyforthebriefestofmoments.The judge rested his jowls

inhishands.Wyndam-Smyth bent to

whisper something in herclient’sear,andThomastookadvantageofthelull.“Your Honor, I’d like to

quote from California familylaw,ifImay.”“Pleasedo,” the judge said

drolly. “I always enjoyrefreshercourses.”“California courts do not

base right to custody onwhether the parents weremarried, whether one or the

other has a physicaldisability, different lifestyle,religious belief, or sexualorientation.” Thomas paused.“Mr. Holder fits into thedifferent lifestyle category,perhaps, becausehedoesnotrequire oxygen or sleep.California Family CodeSection 3040 states that‘Custodyshouldbegrantedinthe following order ofpreference according to the

best interest of the child asprovided in Sections 3011and 3020: to both parentsjointly pursuant to ChapterFour—’”Evelyn nudged him with

herfoot,shuttinghimup.Thomas glanced at the

judge,whoseemedirritatedatthe legal lesson. “In anyevent, Your Honor, werecognize that the courtconsiders, among other

factors,whichparent ismorelikely to allow the childfrequent and continuingcontactwith theotherparent.That is consistent withSections 3011 and 3020.Marilee Cobb has beenpreventing the children fromseeing their father…despitehis repeated and politeattempts.”“For obvious reasons,”

Wyndam-Smith muttered.

“Theirfatherisdead.”“Further, Your Honor, the

court in July approvedMarilee Cobb’s request forchild support, and assessedmyclientamonthlypaymentschedule of eighty-twothousand dollars, which sheand her attorney argued for.California law specificallylinks custody and childsupport. The amount of timea parent spends with the

children can be contingentupon the amount of childsupport paid. My client ispaying child support, has notobjected to the substantialamount the court decidedupon, but—since his deatheight months ago—has notseenthechildren.”The judge glanced at

Wyndam-Smyth and shuffledsome papers on his desk asthough he was searching for

something. “Ms. Cobb, youweregrantedchildsupport?”“Of course I was granted

child support.” Thomasthought his client’s widowhadanannoyinghigh-pitchedvoice. “Why shouldn’t I getchild support? Ideserve—mychildren—deserve childsupport. The son of a bitchmakes more dead than whenhewasalive,andthatsonofabitch—”

“That’s enough,” Vaughangrowled. “Just answer thequestion.”“Ireallylovedher,”Holder

croaked so soft onlyThomascould hear. There was realpain in the ghoul’s voice. “Ilovedher,andshecallsmeanS.O.B.”MarileeCobbputonaself-

righteous expression. “Yes, Igetchildsupport,judge.Thatson—”

Wyndam-Smythputahandon her client’s shoulder.“YourHonor,myclientdoesnotholda job.She isa stay-at-homemother,devotingherfull time to the raising ofGabrielle and Caleb. Childsupport allows Marilee toenroll the children in costlyextracurricular activities suchas gymnastics, orchestra,karate,payfortheircontinuedupkeep,and—”

“Not part of the custodypaperwork, Your Honor, isthe legal will ofMr. Holder.The eight-point-four milliondollarhomeinwhichMarileeCobbandthechildrenliveinthegatedcommunity—”“—has nothing to do with

the matter at hand,”Wyndam-Smythsaid.“I’lldecidethat,”thejudge

said. “Let’s be civil aboutthis,shallwe?Oneata time,

and when I direct you. Nomoreinterrupting.Mr.Brock,aboutthiswill—”Thomas handed a copy of

the will to the bailiff, whohanded it to the judge. “Thehome in the PresidioTerracewas purchased when Mr.Holderplayedquarterbackforthe San Francisco FortyNiners.”He’d intended to fitthe professional football stintin there somewhere because

of the judge’s background.“That home, as well as thecars and all of the couple’sinvestments, residual incomefrom endorsements, went toMarilee Cobb and thechildren at the time of Mr.Holder’s death. She receivedhalf of the estate, the otherhalf divided equally betweenGabrielleandCaleb in trusts.Mr. Holder’s death legallydissolvedthemarriage…’til

death do us part … andtherefore there was nodivorce. I can assure youthere is plenty of money inthe estate to cover theexpenses Ms. Cobb soughtchildsupportfor.”The judge pored over the

papers with increasinginterest.Thomaswaiteduntilhehad

the judge’s attention again,thendramaticallyheftedafile

folderEvelynhandedhim.“Ihave copies of the financialsif you want to peruse them.And I note again that Mr.Holder is not challenging hiswidowon theclaimforchildsupport. In fact, since he isgainfully employed—onDead and Loving It, one ofthe top-rated reality showscurrently in syndication—heisthereforeabletoassistwiththechildrearingcosts.”

Thomas had wanted tomentionDead andLoving It.The show followed threeundead—Mr. Holder, avampire,andarevenant,eachtrying to find love andacceptance in society aftertheir existence had sodramaticallychanged.Hehadlearnedthejudgewasafanofreality TV, and so figuredVaughanattheveryleasthadheardoftheprogram.

The bailiff accepted thenewfileandpasseditovertothejudge.“Mr. Holder has made

everyscheduledchildsupportpayment. He is merelychallenging her on thecustody matter. Since aCalifornia court has deemedthat he must pay childsupport, this court mustrecognize his legal right toseekjointcustody.”

There, thatwasthecruxofThomas’s case. He couldhavebroughtituprightaway,theveryfirstargumentoutofhis mouth, but he’d knownWyndam-Smyth would pointout just how dead his clientwas, and the eating fleshissue.The judge looked from

Thomas to Wyndam-Smyth,narrowing his gaze wheneach started to speak again,

theglaresilencingthem.Holder belched, a visible

cloudofdustissuingfromhismouth.Thomaswincedandfelthis

eyeswateringfromtheaddedstench.“I want to look over these

papers again, Ms. Wyndam-Smyth, Mr. Brock, andconsider what you havepresented today,” Vaughansaid.“AndIwanttosetupan

appointment to talk to thechildren … without eitherparent in the room.Counselscanbeinattendance.”“I have more material to

present, Your Honor.”Thomas had observationsfrom his private investigatorabout Marilee Cobb’sinappropriate party lifestyle,the men she’d been runningwith, a misdemeanor drugcharge that had conveniently

been left out of thenewspapers, and conversely,documents showing his ownclient’s economic stabilityandmentalhealth.“It is late in the afternoon,

sowewill call this done forthe day.” Vaughan peeredover his desk. “I stronglysuggest counsels meet againtomorrow or over theweekend and try to come upwithasettlement.”

“Settlement?” MarileeCobb shook her head. “Nothappening. That walkingcorpseain’tseeingthekids.Itain’t about money, like thatop-edpieceintheTimessaid.Iain’tnofuckinggolddigger,like those undead rightsactivists claim. That ain’ttrue. I ain’t taking advantageof my ex-husband’stransformationintoanundeadthingtotakethewholeestate.

It’s about what’s right andproper.And it ain’t rightandit ain’t proper to be hangingaroundwithdeadpeople.”Thomas was inwardly

pleased at her defiance andher overt show of prejudice.This case was a real chancefor him to set some sort ofprecedence, to establish legalrights for undead such asHolder. At the same time, itwas an opportunity to draw

publicity to his tiny practice,and to attract more business.It was all win-win for him.On top of all of that, hewasconfident the child supportissue was that proverbialslam-dunk thatwould lead tothejoint-custodyhisclientsodesperately wanted. But hefelt bad forHolder, towatchhis ex-wife vent hatred andprejudice. Holder hadn’tasked to become a ghoul, or

tolosehischildren.Marilee Cobb brushed off

Wyndam-Smyth’s hand.“Thatthingain’tgettingclosetothem,Itellyou.”“Verywell,we’llkeep this

going for another session,”Vaughan pronounced. Hisdismal tone belayed hiswords. “I eagerly lookforward to hearing moreevidence. You both makecompellingcases;andthefact

that Ms. Cobb was grantedchild support adds a definitewrinkle in Mr. Holder’sfavor.”Slam-dunk indeed, Thomas

thought. He doubtedWyndam-Smyth had knownabout the child supportpayments. Too, Wyndam-Smyth clearly hadn’t doneher research. A primedattorney wouldn’t have leftherself open for the eating

dead flesh issue, which lethim show the poor fast foodnutritionalchoicesofMarileeCobb. Thomas knew hewould have prepared betterhadhebeeninhershoes.Andhe well knew it could havebeen him sitting on that sideof the courtroom … if he’djoinedhisfather’sfirmoutofcollegeandnotstruckoutonhisown.Thatnotionofbeingin the stable ofBrock,Davis

&Davis left aworse taste inhis mouth than his client’srottingodor.The judge consulted the

calendar on his desk. “Ms.Wyndam-Smyth, Mr. Brock,determining the fate ofchildren is serious business,and custody involves carefulthought and consideration ofthe law. I would like tocontinue this tomorrowwhileeverything is fresh, but there

are some matters I cannotreschedule. So next week,then.Mondaymorning looksmoveable. We can resumethis at ten a.m. Monday.”Vaughan cast the briefest ofglancesHolder’sway.“Allrise,”thebailiffsaid.Thejudgestood.Hehadno

gavelonhisdesktosignalanend.Thomasgatheredhispapers

andhandedthemtoEvelynto

put inorderand return tohisbriefcase. He held his breathas Holder burped anothernoxious cloud of corpse-gasand watched Evelyn turnwhite from the stink, herdusting of freckles standingoutlikepinpricksonherpaleface.The ghoul extended his

hand and Thomas carefullyshook it,half-afraidhemightbreak one of Holder’s finger

bones. The deadman’s fleshwas dry and felt like leather,thegripsurprisinglyfirm.“Monday,” Thomas told

Holder.“We’llfinishthisup,win itMonday.You’ll get toseethekids.”The ghoul grinned,

revealingwellcaredforteeththatgleamed iridescentwhiteagainst his gray features.“Monday,” Holder croaked.“Thank you, Thomas. Thank

youever-so-much.”

Chapter1.3

“Buy you dinner, all right?We’ll celebrate our firstsuccessful outing in FamilyCourt.”Thomaswasn’tmuchof a cook and usually atedinner at Asqew Grill, ZonaRosa, or Kan Zaman Café

when he had a taste forsomethingMiddleEastern,allon Haight and a short walkfrom the office. But tonighthe wanted to go someplacespecial, maybe Massawa, anEthiopian spot in LowerHaightwith incredible honeywineandvegetablesamosatodie for. If they got therebefore six, they wouldn’tneed to call ahead forreservations.

“Celebrate? We haven’twon,”Evelynsaid,“yet.”Hergrin was infectious, and hervoice musical. She saidsomethingelse,buttheblatofa car horn cut her off. Thedriver leaned on it until itkeened in a continuous tonelike a siren, and the pickupright behind started honkingto add to the dissonantcacophony.Thomasclosedhiseyesand

unsuccessfully willed theruckustopass.Theystoodinfront of the courthousewaiting for the Golden GateTransit bus. Holder had paida large enough retainer—themost money the law officehad ever taken in since he’dhung his shingle—thatThomas could have rented alimo. He’d nearly done it,too,wantingtoarriveinstyleto show Evelyn what a

successful practice lookedlike.She’dcometohimfroma small, desperate firm thathad closed its doors at thedeathofitsseniorpartnerlastyear.Thepartnerhadn’tcomebackfromthegrave…onlyarare percentage of folks didthat.Thomas had been quick to

approach Evelyn with hissorryofferof apart-time jobwhen he’d heard the news.

He’d tried a case against herthe year before. Well, she’dbeenthelegalassistantat theopposing table, but he knewthework had been hers. Sheaccepted, saying she didn’twant a full-time job becauseshewastakingaprettyheavyclass load as she tried tofinishupherlawdegree.Shewas an excellent student.Most of the time, it seemedlike she knew the law better

thanhedid.A police car crawled by,

flashed its lights, and thehonking marathon subsided.Trafficunsnarledandthelinestarted to move. An oldBuick, more rust than paint,chugged by, back windowscracked open and a rap songspilling out—the driverapparently wanting everyonetosharehischoiceinmusic.Thenthebuspulledupand

Thomas courteously waitedfor the others who hadgathered. He and Evelyn goton last and found two openseats in the middle. Theywere used to publictransportation. He thoughtagainabout that limowhenateenagerwho’dgonetoolongwithout a shower and withbluejeanshangingmorethanhalfway down his hipswalked the aisle and shoved

flyers at each of the riders.Thomas folded the Day-Gloorange sheet and stuck it inhis pocket without botheringtoreadit.He’d noticed an OT two

seats behind him, the fellowlookingmore than a little bitlike a troll doll with thick,stubby limbs, a wide face,and a pug-like nose. Theotherpassengersstared,andafew rudely pointed fingers.

Thomas, curious butrespectful, quietly pulled outhis iPhone and did a searchon the Internet. It was acreature he wasn’t familiarwith, but with a fewkeystrokes on an OTencyclopedia website (withSiliconValleysoclosetotheabundance of OTs in SanFrancisco, it was no surprisetherewasanappforthat),hediscovered that his fellow

passenger was a bungaya.San Francisco had a sizeableAsian population, andaccording to the website thisOT was Japanese. Thedefinitionread:Bungaya, or Kijimunaa,

rare except in Okinawa.Japanesespritethattakestheshape of a short, young boywith bright red hair,sometimes seen playing withfire. Known for harmless

pranks,theywerefirstsightedin the tops of Okinawa’sbanyan trees. They fearoctopi, enjoy sport fishing,andprefertoeatseafood.In the aisle across from

him, two middle-aged menheld hands. Thomas glancedat Evelyn. Her hair gleamedlikemoltencopperinthelateafternoon sunlight streaminginthroughthewindows.He adored her. It hadn’t

started out that way. In thebeginning it was allprofessional. It was stillprofessional, but latelythere’dbeenalittlemoretoit—lingering glances, fingersbrushing, occasional dinnerstogether after work, a fewconcertsinGoldenGatePark,standing closer thannecessary and sharing eachother’s breath. He knew shefelt something too, a mutual

attractionthatneitherhadyetbeen willing to take anyfarther.Evelyncaughthimlooking

ather.She’dbeenreadingtheflyer.“A concert?” he asked,

pretendingtolookatthesheetinher lap. Itwaseasy to seeover her shoulder; she wasaboutaheadshorter.“I suppose there might be

music. It’s a revival at Saint

AgnesChurch.”Thomas was familiar with

thechurch,aonehundredandtwenty year old RomanCatholicmonumentthatdrewgays, straights, and OTs.Called “the last chancechurch” by those in theHaight-Ashbury district, itboasted a large library thathe’dvisitedseveraltimes.“Do you want to go?”

Thomas knew Evelyn was

Catholic and that shesometimes stopped at SaintAgnes’s.“DinneratMassawaandthen—”“I can’t.” She blew out a

breath, fluttering the curlsagainst her forehead. “Youknow I can’t. Class tonight,admiralty.”“That’s right. Thursday.”

Thomas concentrated on hiscasessomuchthatsometimeswhat day it was eluded him.

She had classesTuesday andThursdaynights,MondayandWednesday mornings, andintotheafternoons.“Dinner would be nice.”

The smile reached her fog-grayeyes.“ButI’dbetternotskip class. There’s only sixweeks left in the semester,and the bar exam is comingupinFebruary.Ineedtopassitonthefirstgo.Idon’twantto wait for the August

testing.”Hehadnodoubtthatshe’d

pass.And thenhowcouldheafford her after she got herlaw license and could workfull time? Would she goelsewhere? Some firm thatwould pay her what shewasworth? “So dinner tomorrowthen?”“Tomorrow.” She nodded.

“BeenagessinceI’vebeentoMassawa.Andit’dbegoodto

celebrate.” She gentlysqueezedhisarm.Thomasturnedtowatchthe

middle-aged couple, notwanting Evelyn to see hisbroadgrin.He thought abouttaking a peek over hisshoulder to get a better lookat the bungaya, but worriedthatmightberude.Hegothislook, though. When he andEvelyn got out at the parkstop, the bungaya got out

theretoo,butsaunteredoffinthe opposite direction doinganoddsoftshoeshufflestep.The park stop was a little

ritualwhen itwasn’t raining.Therewas one stop closer tothe office, but Thomasenjoyed the brief walk, andthe temperature wasagreeable for the first ofNovember, a balmy sixty-five.Itwasforeverinterestingtoseewhowasinthepark…

sometimes mimes—a few oftheregularswerequitegood;often panhandlers thatThomasrefusedtoencourage;frequentlysaxophonebuskerswho took requests; andalways a smattering ofcolorful folk, a fewofwhichweren’tquitehuman.Then there were the

buildingsalongHaightStreetthat he often paused formoments to study. He never

tired of looking at them, notjust from an architecturalstandpoint, but to see themerchant displays, and to bepleasantly surprised by thescattered renovations inprogress with the oldVictorians.After graduation from

Stanford,andoptingtofollowhis heart and avoid hisfather’s firm, Thomas hadpurposely looked tohangout

his shingle in thisneighborhood. He liked theaura of the place; the “vibe”as residents from a fewdecades past would havecalled it. And he appreciatedthe lower rent. While hedidn’thaveanycollegeloansto pay off—thanks to hisfatheranda fewscholarships—hehadonlyalittlesavingstothrowatthisventure.He andEvelyn crossed the

street and headed toward thelaw office, passing a fruitvendor and a trio of girlsplayinghopscotch in frontofa thrift shop. The law officewasjustdowntheblock.“I really feel for Holder,

youknow,”Evelyn said.Hergaze was cast downward, nodoubt so shecouldwatch forthe uneven blocks in thesidewalk. Thomas knew thesidewalk by heart. “Not able

to seehiskids? I think that’sjust horrid, Thomas. I wanthimtowin,ustowin.”“It’d be good to make a

difference, wouldn’t it?”Thomas really believed that.He wanted to make adifference—for the better—for the Other-Than-Humanelement in this crazy world.And he was beside himselfthatEvelynsharedhisvision.He knew she’d been a little

skeptical at first about thisparticular case, actuallyworrying ifHolder’schildrenwould be bothered by seeingtheir father as a ghoul. Butshe was the one to find thestudies about children beingmore nonplussed than adultsaround the undead and moreaccepting of oddities andalternatelifestylesingeneral.The office was a long,

narrow, three-story brick

building on the corner. Itdatedto1905,theyearbeforethe big earthquake. Thisentire neighborhood hadsomehow avoided the firesthat followed the quake andhad consumed more thaneighty percent of the city.There were two sections onthetopstorywherethebrickshad noticeably shifted, eitherfromthatquakeorthenot-as-big-rumbler in 1989, not

jeopardizingthestructure,butgiving it a hair morecharacter. One of the quakeshadalsotakendownacornergargoyle, leaving one thatwasn’t especially obvious,butthestonyprotrusionmadethe old building a littlemoreinteresting.The law office was on the

first floor. An apartmentoccupied the second andanotheronthethird,thelatter

of which was Thomas’s. Helikedthenotionofwalkingupand down three flights for alittle extra exercise, and helikedgoingoutontotheroof.Thebasementwasanearthencrawl space where he keptcartons of soda and bottledwater for the office fridge.Cozy.Butmoretothepointitwas within his budget. If hegotmore cases like Holder’shemight be able to rent—or

buy—better digs. Butsomething in thisneighborhood. This placebeat with a rhythm foundnowhereelse.Hell,maybehecouldbuy thisbuilding if thelandlordwouldagree to let itgo.“See you tomorrow,”

Evelyn said, disrupting hismusings.She was standing close to

him,herlilaccologneteasing

hisnose,andtherewasahintof strawberries remainingfromthefruitsaladshe’dhadat lunch.He could get drunkonthescentofher.Heshouldkiss her now, he thought, asheleanedin.Foramomentitlookedlike

shewouldoblige, tippingherface up, the setting sunmaking her hair look likeliquid fire. But a rust buckettrundledpastandcoughedup

a backfire. Themoment lost,Evelyn turned and headedtoward the side door that ledto the stairwell. She rentedthe second floor apartmentfromhim.“Have fun in admiralty,”

Thomassaid.If she said something in

reply, it was lost in thesounds of the traffic, whichhad picked up as peopleheadedhomefromwork.

Chapter1.4

ThomaspulledouthisiPhoneand texted the landlord,suggesting they meet so hecould pay past-due rent nowthat he had money fromHolder’s case. The replycame back immediately, thelandlordconvenientlyonline.

On my way, the landlordtextedback.Thomas stared at his

reflection in the law officewindow.He’dlookedgoodincourt today, hadn’t he? Hewas six-two and had thebroad shoulders of aswimmer, cornflower blueeyes, mud-brown hair, andwas only a few poundsoverweight. His nose wascrooked,though,nothorribly,

but noticeably. He knew helooked good in court—physically—wearinghisnavysuit, but that wasn’t whathe’d meant. He’d presentedhis case quickly andsuccinctly, and he’d scoredpointswiththejudge.He adjustedhis darkgreen

tieandsawafacelookingoutat him. Gretchen, hissecretary. Shewaved a stackofpinkphonemessageslips.

Thomas went in, the bellabove the door janglingmerrily. “Surprised you’restillhere,”hesaid.“Wanted to hear how it

went. I like thatMr. Holder.Very polite.” Gretchenpaused and rested her handsagainst her waist. “So …don’tkeepme twisting.Howdiditgo?Didwewin?”Brock was always struck

by how small Gretchen

looked behind the big oakdesk, the largest and nicestpiece of furniture in theoffice,andtheonejustinsidethedoor.Ithadbeentheonlypiece he’d bought new, andGretchenhadclaimeditwhenhe’d hired her. He hadn’targued;hewantedthebestupfront to make an impressiononpotentialclients.“Not yet,” he said. “But

I’m pretty sure wewill.” He

proceeded to tell her abouttheafternoonspentbeforetheHonorableVernonVaughan.Gretchen listened raptly,

turningupthevolumeonherhearing aid. Gretchen wasseventy-three, and looked asstately asKatherineHepburnhadinherlateryears,butshewas tiny, not quite five feet,and shrunken from theyears.Hercanewasproppedagainstthe desk, her overlarge purse

next to it. Brock could tellshe’dpackedupfortheday.“Good,” Gretchen

pronounced. “I like that Mr.Holder. Very polite.”Sometimes she repeatedherself.“So we go back Monday

morningtowrapitup,thoughweprobablywon’tgetafinaljudgment until later in theweek.Vaughanwants to talktothechildren.”

Gretchen pushed awayfrom the desk and adjustedher thickglasses. “Yougot adozen calls to return,” shesaid, fluttering the pinkmessagesheetsbeforesettingthem down with a flourish.“Though I suppose some ofthemhavealreadygonehomefortheday.Mostofthemarenormals, but you got twofrom that psychic trying towarn you about something

and one from that shape-shifting dog-man.” Sheopened her desk drawer andpulled out an antique Coltrevolver, dropping it in herpurse.Thomasknewshekeptthe gun for protection, butdidn’t know if it actuallyworked.“That psychic, she was

persistent as all get-out.”Gretchen bent to retrieve herpurse and slung it over her

shoulder, the weightmomentarily setting her offbalance. She reached for thecane.“I’mgoinghome.”Shetoddledtothedoor.“Seeyouon Monday, Thomas. I havetomorrowoff,remember?”He remembered. She’d

signed up for a day-longseniorcitizenbustriptowinecountry. “You have a goodweekend,Gretchen.”Sheturnedandlookedover

her hunched shoulder. “Oh,and Val pestered me prettymuch all afternoon. He cutout just before you showedup. Tell him to lay off me,will you? Can’t go throughthe case paperwork and dealwith him at the same time.You tell him that, will you?Heneverlistenstome.”“Certainly, Gretchen.

Enjoyyourweek—”“I’m hoping for some

Zinfandels. I like blackberryzin. Gonna watch the FortyNiners game on Sunday.They’regonnacrushDetroit.”She was gone with thejangling of the bell, headingtoward the bus stop thatwould take her to the SanFrancisco Towers, theretirement community whereshelived.GretchenCainwasBrock’s

part-time legal secretary,

though she usually kept full-time hours. When he firstopenedhispractice,hehadn’tbeen able to find a goodyoung or middle-aged legalsecretarywhowouldworkforhis rates. So he hiredGretchen, who’d come inanswer to his classifiedadvertisement.She’d told him she was

bored at the Towers; thatretirementhadn’tagreedwith

her, and that she neededsomething to keep heroccupied.Shehadawealthofexperienceworkingasalegalsecretary, first for the DA’soffice and then later for acoupleofcorporatefirms,andBrock, a crusader againstdiscrimination, could hardlyturnherawaybecauseofherage. He’d found herindefatigable, tolerant of theodd clientele that crossed his

threshold, and she’d taughthim more than a little bitaboutthelaw.The ceiling creaked.

Evelyn was walking throughthe apartment above. Amoment later he heard theupstairs door shut and thethud of her hurried footstepsdown the side stairs. Hestepped back behindGretchen’s desk and staredout the window, moments

later seeing Evelyn jog by.She’dchangedintobluejeansanda sweatshirt andhadoneof those messenger bagsslung over her shoulder, thefaintoutlineofaniPadinside.It looked like she was goingtoruntoherclassratherthanwaitforthebus;heknewshedid that sometimes. Evelynwas in great physical shape,andSanFranciscoUniversityanditsSchoolofLawwasn’t

allthatfar.A familiar male voice

coalesced in theempty spacebehind him. “Chick’s alooker,eh?Fineaswine,andno foam domes. I like towatchher,too.”Thomas shivered from the

instant chill and whirled tosee a translucent imagehovering a few inches abovethe floor.Ashewatched, thedetails grew sharper; the

figure looking likeapieceofmorning mist along the baythat had congealed into thesemblanceofaman.“Valentino,” Thomas

pronounced. “Gretchen saidyoubotheredhertoday.”The mist shrugged. “She

canbearealdrag,youknow,Tommy-boy.”Thomasscowled.“Sorry…Shecanbeareal

drag, you know.” The

manlike shapehadamassofwispy hair that hung pastsharp, narrow shoulders. “Iknow.Iknow.Layoffher.”“Yes,Val, youneed to lay

offher.”“Especially when she’s in

oneofhermoods.”Theghosthadfirstrevealed

himself to Thomas after thelawofficehadbeenopentwomonths. Thomas had spenttimewithahandfulofOTsat

college, including hisvampire roommate who’dbecomeaclose friendduringhissenioryearoflawschool,but ghosts…? Val had beenhisfirstghost.Always open-minded and

curious,Thomasneverthelessdidn’t initially like the deadhippie. Val was all aboutgettinghighandtalkingaboutHaight-Ashbury’s summer oflove; he definitely “lived” in

the past, not in the “now.”Straight-laced Thomas justwasn’t a good fit with him.But as the weeks wore on,Thomas mellowed on thespirit, eventually coming toenjoy the ghost’s company.Now he almost consideredValafriend.“And Gretchen was

certainly in one of hermoods,”Valcontinued.A silence settled between

the spirit andThomas and init a siren wailed mournfully,crescendoing as anambulance sped past, andthen fading to nothing.Traffic resumed, a littlesparser now. A Golden GateTransitbuswentpast,lookingalmost full, and then therewas a gap before an agingBuicktrundledbyandslowedin front of the office, itswindowsdark.

“Sounds like that dude’srunning open pipes,” thespiritobserved.Thomasagreedthat thecar

was loud, probably a badmuffler, and the driver couldget cited for it. Maybe apotential client was behindthewheel,lookingintoseeifthe office was still open.Thomas realized he hadn’tturned the sign around yet.Maybehe’dgetanothercase.

With thewindows of the cartinted like that, you couldn’ttell whowas driving.MaybeanOT.“I’datleastputaglasspack

onthatbaby,don’tyouthink?Pigs’ll pick him up if hekeepsrevvin’likethat.”Thomastookasteptoward

the door. Let the driverrealize we’re still open. Butthen the car squealed away.An opportunity lost, he

thought. “Val … aboutGretch—”“Yeah.Yeah.Yeah.I’lllay

offGretchen.Really,Iwill.”“Thanks.”“Youhavetounderstand—

It’s just—” The spirit let thethoughtdangle foramomentbefore explaining. “It’s justthat her arthritis was actingup more than usual today.Can you dig it? She waspoppingVikes.”

“Excuseme?”“I said Gretchen got her a

scriptforVicodinandpoppeda couple with her CheeseDoodles, and I hung close toget theeffect.Thatwasall. Iwasn’t really bothering her,just…youknow…coppingthe buzz. Didn’t you noticehow she practically floatedoutofhere?”Thomas stretched out an

arm toward the closed sign,

fingers grabbing it, buthesitating.TheBuickcruisedpast again. Somethingniggled at the back of hisbrain.“Thatcar—”“Yeah, it could be bitchin’

don’tyouthink?Butthedudeprobablydoesn’thaveenoughbreadtogetitsandedoutandcherry.”Thomas remembered that

he’dseen theoldBuickbackatthecourthouse,rightbefore

he and Evelyn had boardedthebus.“Thatcar—”“Listen, Tommy-boy, I

gotta split. Catch youtomorrow, man. You hangloose.”Thomas dismissively

waggled his fingers. Hedidn’t have to look to noticethe spirit had vanished. Thechillintheairwasgone.

Chapter1.5

Thomas always paid his renton the roof, another of hislittle rituals—this one startedby his landlord, who sharedan appreciation for beer,conversation, and OTs. Theroof was accessible from afire escape near the back ofthe building. It had recently

been painted and inspected,someof thewelds reinforcedtokeepituptocode.Three folding chairs lay

near the front corner of theroof under a vinyl tarp.Thomas opened all of themandpulledoveraplasticmilkcratetoserveasatableinthemiddle. He’d lugged a smallcoolerwithhim.Reachingin,he pulled out three cans ofbeer, set them on the milk

crate, and then brought out aboxofwholewheatcrackers.Hesatbackandwaited.He

liked coming here. The citysmelled different, and thesounds were muted, echoingoddly and not unpleasantlyagainst the short canyonscreated by the buildings ofHaight-Ashbury.Thelandlordarrivedjustas

the cans were fully beadedwithcondensation.

“Zaxil!” Thomas wavedhimover.Zaxil Mandala, or Z-man,

as he preferred to be called,had recently turned twenty-one but could pass forfourteenandgrumbledthathewas carded everywhere. Hesnapped up one of the beersand plopped down on afolding chair, running histhumb through the waterbeadsbeforepoppingthetab.

He was short, skinny, withflawlessebonyskin,andinkyhairshavedsocloseitlookedlikeaswimcap.Thatheworebaggy blue jeans and aTransformers sweatshirtadded to his youthful image.Zaxil had inherited thisbuildingfromhisgrandfather.“Tom, this looks

expensive.” He held the canto his face. “Gubna’s OskarBlues. Some micro-brewed

thing.How can you buy thisexpensive shit when you’retwomonthsbehindonme?”Thomas pulled a cashier’s

check out of his pocket andpasseditover.Zaxil’s eyes widened and

henearlyspilledthebeer.“Thetwomonthsbackrent

I owe you, interest on that,plus four more months.That’ll take me to March,right?”

Zaxil letouta lowwhistle,kissed the check, and stuffedit in his front jean’s pocket.“Whodied?”Thomasraisedaneyebrow.“Whodiedandfavoredyou

intheirwill?”Thomas laughed. “A case,

Zaxil. I have an ex-footballplayerforaclientand—”“Ooooooh! That dead guy

youwastellin’meabout?”“EmanuelHolder.”

“Aghoul,right?”Thomas nodded. Zaxil

knew a lot of OTterminology,whetherbecausehepickeditupontheInternetor on the street, Thomas hadnever bothered to ask. Itpleased him, though, that theyoung landlord didn’t showtheprejudiceheldbya lotofotherfolksinthecity.“MindifPetejoinsus?”Thomas nudged the third

beer.“Iplannedonit.”Zaxil took a pull from his

can. “Yo, Pete!Got a can ofgood stuff today.How aboutyoucomeandhaveadrink?”Therewasagratingsound,

stone against stone, and thegargoylesculptureon the topcorner of the buildingseparated itself from the restof the trim, stretched, andclimbedovertheledgetojointhem.Thecreaturewasabout

three feet tall, hence why itwas not terribly noticeablefromstreetlevel.Saveforthestubby wings, which couldnot possibly sustain itsgranite form in flight, itresembled a goblin from theDungeons&Dragonsgame.“It’s still nice and cold,

Pete,” Thomas said, pointingatthethirdbeer.“Thanks, Mr. Brock.” The

gargoyle’svoicesoundedlike

gravelbeingspreadonaroad.Thomashadtoconcentratetopick out the words, andmarveled thatZaxil appearedto have no such difficulty.“Nicenight,Mr.Brock.”Thegargoyle padded over andeased himself onto thefolding chair, the metalgroaning from the stonecreature’sweight. “But I likeMiller,”Petesaid.“OrBud.”“Tryit,”Thomascoaxed.

Thegargoyletippedthecanup and drained it in one go.He brought the can down sohe could read the label.Thomaswasn’t sure how thegargoyle could read, as hisstone eyes were solid andnevermoved.“Amicrobrew,eh?Spicy.I

like this. It’sado-over.”Thegargoyle reached for the boxof crackers and dughis clawin.

Thomas had met thegargoylebeforehesignedthelease.Zaxil had toldThomasthe gargoyle’s name wasPermythius, but that Zaxilalways called the creaturePete. It had been a conditionof the lease that Thomasrespect Pete, and it waswhyhe’d paid ahead on his renttoday … to protect Pete.Maintaining the building,maintainedthegargoyle.

“This’ll keep the wolvesfrommydooralittlelonger,”Zaxilsaid,pattinghispocket.“Pete-my-pal, this place issecureatleastuntilMarch.”The gargoyle nodded and

stuffed his mouth withanother handful of wheatcrackers.Thomas wondered if Pete

ever eliminated what he ateanddrank.Thomashadfoundno waste or gravel on the

roof. Maybe he’d ask someday.Nottoday,though.“Theybeenafteryouagain,

Zaxil?”Thomasdrankalittleof the beer. “That Arnoldfellowandhisfriends?”The gargoyle looked

concerned.“Z-man,don’tyouletthemgetthisbuilding.”Zaxil finishedhis beer and

crumpledthecan.Hesetitinthe cooler and reached for asecond, stopped, and instead

passed it to Pete. “Theycalled yesterday and uppedthe offer. Made it tempting,Pete-my-pal.” He winked atthegargoyle.“ButIwon’tletthemgetthisplace.”The gargoyle filled his

stonylungsandletoutasighof relief so great that itwobbled theboxof crackers.Usually he breathed soslightly Thomas couldn’t seehis chest rise and fall.

“They’ll kill me, you know,Z-man.”“I know.” The young

landlord’s face was instantlyglum.“Theywanttotearthisbuilding down, and the onenexttoittoputupbrightandshiny condos. They boughtthe other one a few weeksago.”“But we won’t let that

happen,” Thomas said. Hecouldn’t imagine the

neighborhood without thisbuilding—without hisbuilding.“ThisHoldercaseisjust the start. I’ll get somegood publicity off this,moreclients,moremoney.”“And I can pay all the

bills,” Zaxil said. Thoughhe’d inherited the buildingandowneditoutright,hestillhadtopaypropertytaxesandall the other fees and utilitybills that came along with

owning real estate in SanFrancisco. Keeping thestructure up had been costly,too,becauseofthebuilding’sage.Thomas knew Zaxil had

blown through most of hisinheritance on the buildingand paying for upgradesrequired because of codes. Ithad been vacant for nearly ayear before Thomas movedin. Now it was Thomas’s

money that kept the building—and thereby Pete whowasphysicallypartofit—going.Thecreaturehad to remain

incontactwiththebuildingtosurvive,andwouldbeslainifthe building were to bedemolished. Thomas knewPete once had a companion,butitwaslosttoonequakeoranother. Pete would notdiscussanyoftheparticulars.Thomas and Zaxil both

passed on a second beer,leaving the remainder forPete, who made quick workofthem.“Seriously good, Z-man,

Mr. Brock,” the gargoylepronounced. “Seriously, buythis again.” He finished thebox of crackers, easedhimselfoutof thechair, thenpolitely folded it and laid itdownagainsttheledge.“Andif youwant to come upwith

somemoremoney,youbettergo downstairs,Mr. Brock.Acar keeps circling the block.Maybe the driver needs agoodattorney.”He gave Thomas a salute

andclimbedbacktohispost,the sound of stone gratingagainst stone echoing aroundthem.

Chapter1.6

Evelyn craved the adrenalinerush that jogginggaveher. Itwas a pleasant, aching burnthat started in her chest andspreadtohertoes.Sheshouldhaveworndifferentjeans,notthis only-washed-once pair,something a little looser, orsome decent sweatpants thatwouldn’t have lookedhorrible in class, something

not so stiff to run in. Thesweatshirt was new too,ocean blue, thin and notbulky, with LITQUAKE inblack block letters against awhite word balloon. It hadbeen a splurge when she’dattended the annual bookfestival a few weeks ago.More than eight hundredauthors packed events spreadacrossSanFrancisco.She’d bought a dozen

books,allbutonesmallpressmysteries written by localswho’d inscribed them to her.Thetwelfthwasamemoirbya skateboarder … the coverlooked interesting, and ithadbeenhalf-price.Itwasagoodthing she’d only allowedherself twodaysofLitquake;it ran a little more than aweek, and if she’d treatedherself toevenonemoredayshe feared she would have

doled out all her meagersavings.Evelynlovedtoread,real books where she couldbend over the pages tomarkher place, not the e-stuff herfriends and classmatesdownloaded. But she vowedthat her purchases from theevent would remain stackedin the bottom of her closetuntil after the bar exam.Books were the only thingssheletclutterupherlife.

Inthemeantime,there’dbeonlyHolder’s case,whateverelse crossed Thomas’s desk,and studying. She sniggered.Howmanyotherlawstudentsrealized that “dying”was thelargest part of the word“studying?”A song ran through her

head and she set her feet intime to it: Sonny and Cher’s“TheBeatGoesOn,”amoldyoldie that fit her pace at the

moment. She’d heard it onthe radio in the bus andcouldn’t get it out of herhead. One of those … whatdid they call them …earworms. She’d refusedThomas’soffertoborrowhisiPodwhensheran;shedidn’twant earbuds deliveringsongsthatkeptoutthenoisesof the city. She loved thiscity.She jogged in place at the

light, Cher wailing away inherhead,whileapairofolderwomenlookedineachother’sshoppingbags andmade tsk-tsking gestures. The“WALK” sign came on justas her imaginary Sonnystartedsinging“ladeedadeedee, ladeedadeedie.”Thenshewasoff,pickingupspeedand leaving the sidewalkbehind, stretching her strideandcuttingacrossthepark.

More than a thousandacres, larger than CentralPark in New York City,Golden Gate Park ran threemiles north to south, a half-mile east to west. She ranunder theshadeofastandoftall trees—blue gumeucalyptus and Montereypines. This was in theopposite direction of the SanFrancisco Law School onlower Haight, which was

basicallydowntown.She’dgivenherselfenough

time for Strawberry Hill. ItwasanislandinStowLakeinroughly the center of thepark,andshetooktheclosestbridgeandpoundedacrossit,narrowlyavoidingagroupofJapanese tourists and achattering, red-skinned imp.The heat in her legsintensifiedassheclimbedthetrail, not losing speed,

pushing herself, letting thebreeze that had picked upcomb her short hair.Fortunately, the temperaturehad dropped a half-dozendegreessincecourtandmadeforbetterrunning.She was on her fourth or

fifth pass of “TheBeatGoesOn”whenshereachedthetopof the hill. Evelyn brieflypictured herself like RockyBalboa,chargingupthesteps

inPhiladelphia,fistspumpingatthetop.Shestoppedherselffrom taking that iconic pose,butcontinuedtoruninplace,lookingdownacrossthepark.She could see most of thewestern part of the city fromthis vantage point, the glowofsunsetgivingitallawarmfall cast that would make apicturesquejigsawpuzzle.Evelyn’ssideacheda little

from the exertion; it was a

friendly pain. She headedbackdown,feelingthegentlethumpofheriPadagainstherback.Itwasatoughmachine.Her runningnever seemed tohurt it or jar its circuits. Shehad a spiral notebook withher … just in case the iPadever decided to give up thatproverbial ghost. A part ofher wanted it to succumbduring one of her jogs; shewas looking for an excuse to

gettheminiversion.Thered-skinned imp had stoppedtalkingtohimselfandemitteda loud wolf-whistle as shepassed.BackonHaight,shefeltthe

feverish warmth in hercheeks, the rundoing its job.She guessed her pace wasfive or six miles an hour, agood clip, though shecertainly could managebetter. But “better” would

mean working up a serioussweat,andshedidn’twanttodothatrightbeforeadmiraltyclass—maritime law, herleast-favorite subject, andtherefore the one she had tostudy the hardest for. It wasan elective she took onlybecause she thought it mightcome in handy givenCalifornia’ssprawlingcoast.Evelyn was in her fourth

year… fourth and a half…

of the San Francisco LawSchool’sotherwisethree-yearJD program. If she hadn’tworked so much, she couldhave taken the role of atraditionalstudentanddoneitin three. But she needed thework to pay for school, andworking in the legalprofession—first for SaulGoldstein and now forThomas—was an equallyimportanteducation.

Only six weeks to go andshe’dbedone.Then the bar about eight

weeksafterthat.Thepeopleonthesidewalk

were a colorful lot, a coupleoffeyinthemixhuddledinaconversation under anawning,mostofthepassersbyignoring them.Because therewere so many folks outtonight, she slowed so shewouldn’t run into anyone.

Evelyn had allowed herselfforty-fiveminutesfortherunto theparkand then toclass;she’dbepushingittomakeitontime.Dinneratherdeskinthe lecture hall again. Goodthing she’d packedsomething.Herheaviestclassloadwas

MondaysandWednesdays…secured transactions,international human rightslaw, and advanced criminal

law. She’d taken tax law,conflict of laws, andsecurities this past summer.Except for admiralty, it hadbeen relatively easy forher … but then she’d spentabout half of her twenty-seven years in law offices,basically her entire stint inSanFrancisco.What would she do when

she passed the bar and hadher license? And she would

passthebar;therewasno“if”tothatcomponent.Well, practice with it, that

wasagiven.Butwhere?Unless there were more

cases that paid well likeHolder’s, Thomas wouldn’tbe able to afford her… andneither could she afford tokeep working for part-timelegal assistant rates. Not andpay back her school loans.She swore she could feel her

heartskipabeat.Asmuchasshe wanted to graduate andpass the bar, she wanted tostay with Thomas. She toldherself it was because of thecutting edge OT law theywereinvolvedin.She’d hesitated renting the

second floor apartment fromhimwhenhe’dfirsthiredher,wanting to keep theirrelationship detached andprofessional, and fearing that

being sandwiched betweenthe law office below andThomas’s apartment abovemight breed too muchfamiliarity. But the rent wastoo cheap to turn down, thelocation too convenient toworkandtothelawschool.

OOOThe turkey wrap went

down quick, followed by anapple juice box chaser. Shecrammedgrapesinhermouth

whileshetypednotesintotheiPad, all the while onlyhalfway listening to theprofessor.She took the bus back,

accompanied by the wail ofpolice sirens and anambulance. Always thereweresirensinthecity,partofitsmusic. Evelynwas up foranother run, but it was ninethirty, and sometimes thenocturnal element that

wanderedHaightatnighthada seediness to it. Sometimesthat nocturnal element alsotook the bus, but it was stillconsiderablysafer.Sheexitedat the stop only two blocksfrom the office and trippedoff the curb, the strobe-likeeffectofredandblueflashinglights bouncing off thebuildings ahead disorientingher.“No.” Evelyn felt her

stomach ride up into herthroat.There were people out on

the sidewalk, gawkerswho’dcome out of bars andrestaurants or down fromtheirapartmentssotheycouldgetabetterlook.Evelyn hurried toward the

policecarsparked in frontofthe law office. Barricadesweresetupandofficerskeptthe curious lookiloos at bay.

Traffic was redirected to thesidestreets.“What—what’s

happened?” she hollered,jumpingtoseeovertheheadsofthepeopleinfront.Evelyn edged through the

throng, gagging at the smellof a couple of street peoplewho were wholly filthy. Shelooked forThomas,nodoubthe’d be at the center ofwhatever was going on,

trying to calm people andhelpthepolice.“Thomas!” Evelyn cried,

forcing her way to the frontand up against the barrier.She tried to dip under thebarricade, but an officerstoppedher.“You have to stay back,

ma’am.”“I work there,” she said,

pointing at the office. Shespotted a red-and black-

skinnedfeyinthebackseatofthe closest police car. It hadon a pale muscle shirt thatwasspatteredwithblood.Thefrontdooroftheoffice

was propped open. A manand a woman wearing darkjackets, MEDICALEXAMINERinyellowonthebacks,wheeledoutagurney,abodyonitinavinylbag.“I work there.” Again she

tried to drop below the

barricade.Then she knew why the

policeandtheMEwerethere.Dear God, somehow she

knew.There are crystal clear

moments when worst fearsbecome real, when illthoughts hang ugly andsuspended like carcasses ofmeat on hooks in theslaughterhouse. She knew itwas Thomas on the gurney,

andtherealizationhitherlikeasledgehammertothegut.Her knees threatened to

giveout.“Iworkthere.”Itcameout

asawhisper.“Ifyouworkthere,ma’am,

then we’ll probably need tospeak to you,” the officersaid. He’d been sayingsomethingelse,butitwaslostinthelightsandtheshushingsoundoftrafficfromtheside

streets and in theconversationsofthecrowd.“Ma’am?” The officerwas

in her face, lookingconcerned.“Ma’am?”Her legs were jelly and

they wouldn’t hold her up.She gripped the barricade.“Thomas? Where’s ThomasBrock?”Sheknew…thathewasonthegurney…butsheasked the question anyway,some littlepieceofhermind

railing against fate andholdingontohope.“Ma’am—” the officer

gently gripped her shoulders.“ThomasBrockisdead.”The darkness reached out

andsuffocatedEvelyn.

Chapter1.7

“It’s those … things, ya

know. It’s those things thatgo in and out of his office,those things he calledclients.”“Monsters come and go

every once in a while. I see’em. I live right across thestreet, above the deli, and Iwatches ’em when I ain’tworking. I watches ’em, Isay. I see a dead man go inand out of there quite a bitearlierthisweek.”

Deadman…Evelynknewthe gossiper was talkingabout Mr. Holder. She waswoozy,beinghelpedupbyapoliceman. Somehow she’dgottenontheothersideofthebarricade. He was walkinghertowardtheoffice.“Maybe that deadman did

it, wanting to have a deadattorney.”She heard someone laugh

atthatcomment.

“You sure that’s Brock inthe body bag? He had ageezerforasecretary.Sureitain’therinthebag?”“Nah,heardthecopssayit

wasBrock.Heard that itwasmurder, that they got thethingthatdidit,too.Seethatthing in the car? Looks likethedevilitself.”“I see monsters come and

go out of there once in awhile.”

Evelyn tried to turn herhead toget another look intothebackofthepolicecar,butall she saw was thepoliceman’s armpit. She hadseena fey, though,a redandblack one, no more detailsvisiblebecauseofthewaythecarwasparked.Dead. Thomas was dead.

She felther legsstart togivewayagain.“Joe, get the paramedic

over—”“No. I don’t need one.

Don’t want one,” Evelynsaid. She’d refuse a ride tothe hospital too if theyoffered. “I just need to sitdown.Justletmesitdown.”It was a dizzying whirl of

colors… the lights from thepolicecars,theneonfromthetwobarsacrossthestreet,thespotlights—streetlights—thatshowndownonthelookiloos

in their garish clothes.All ofitseemingtobeapsychedelicpaisleythatspuntothemusicofpoliceradioscrackling,theincessantbuzzof thecraningnecked gawkers, and to theMamas and Papas who weresinging “CaliforniaDreamin’” out of someone’sopenwindow.Brownleaves,graysky,the

Mamas and Papasharmonized.

Evelynwished thiswas allsome horrid Californiadream.Allthelightswereoninthe

office, and they sat her atGretchen’s desk, turning thechair so it faced the frontwindowand the still flashingpolice lights. They hadn’tturned her fast enough,though. She’d seen into thevery back by the conferencetable.

Therewasalotofbloodonthe floor, some on the backwall, files, papers, and pinkmessage slips were scatteredabout, and a desk lamp wasknocked over. Classic signsof a struggle. Technicianswerefingerprintingtheplace;instinctively she kept herhands off Gretchen’s desk.Evelyn was good at noticingdetails, and she’d seen toomany; her stomach churned.

Thepolicehadbroughtherinherebecausetheyweregoingto ask her to “take a lookaround.” Otherwise theywould have kept her outside,maybe in one of the squads.Allthatblood,thatwasn’tanaccident.Murder, she remembered

one of the lookiloos saying.Noquestionitwasmurder.“Thomas was murdered.”

Evelyn doubled over and

worked to keep the turkeywrapandgrapesdown.“Ma’am.” The policeman

sethishandagainstherback.Back? Where was herbackpack? Her class notesand iPad and—There it was,sitting on the floor next toher. She hadn’t rememberedtakingitoff,guessedthatoneof thecopshaddone that forher, maybe when she’dcollapsed at the front of the

crowdandhe’dcarriedithereforher.“Ma’am—”“EvelynLove.Mynameis

Evelyn. Please don’t call mema’am.”“Yes, ma’… Evelyn.” He

sat a small bottle ofwater infrontofher.Shewasquicktoopen it and take a longswallow.“I work here,” she said.

Hadn’t she already told himthat? Told one of them

anyway. “I’m ThomasBrock’slegalassistant.”Was.She gestured behind herwithout turningaround. “Thedesk in the middle. Thatone’s mine.” Was mine.She’d remembered that theblood hadn’t quite reachedthat far, not to her desk orThomas’s; it was a long,narrowbuilding.The cop pulled over a

chair, the rollers clattering

againsttheoldwood,broughtit all the way around so hewas in front of Gretchen’sdesk. He tapped on the deskto get her attention. He waswearing white latex gloves.Hadhejustputthemon?No.He’d had them on when shefirstsawhim.Itwasher chairhewas in,

and she almost asked him toswitch; she had it at just theright height. Gretchen’s was

too low. She saw him adjustthe chair higher to better fithis long legs. She decidedthatbotheredher;he’dhadnoright todo that. “HasanyonecalledGretchen?”“Who?”“Gretchen Cain, our

secretary.Thisisherdesk.”“No, ma’am, not that I

know of. Evelyn. But we’llgettoit.”“Ishouldcallher.”

“Not yet.” He nudged thewater bottle and she drank alittlemore.“When did this happen?

Who called it in?Why—” Ithadn’tbeenthatlongago,thepolice still swarming, thecrowd so interested.And yetit had been at least a littlewhile, since they werealready moving Thomas’sbody.They’d been here longenough to take pictures, call

the coroner.How long couldthat take? They could havedone all that in less than anhour,sheguessed.Sirenshadserenaded thebus to its stop;the police had still beenarriving.“Howlongago—”Heshookhishead.Were they using anything

supernatural in theirinvestigation? A witch or aseer to mentally reconstructthemurder?Itdidn’tlooklike

it, looked like only plain-oldcops were here. Maybe theydidn’t need anythingsupernatural if they alreadyhad the suspect in custody.Maybe it was too cut anddried. Evelyn knew mostpolice in the city didn’t likerelying on any supernaturalelements anyway, prejudicecoupled with a doggeddetermination to rely onhumanskills.

“What about his father?Thomas’s father. ReginaldBrock of Brock, Davis &Davis.He’s—”“Someone is going to Mr.

Brock’s house now to notifyhim.”Evelyn knew Thomas

hadn’t seen his father formanymonths.Thetwodidn’tgetalong,thoughonceuponatimeThomashadadmiredhisfatherenoughtofollowinhis

legal footsteps. Somethingcaused a split, however, andThomas had talked only alittle about it, saying hisfather delighted in tryingcasesagainstOTsandthathedisapproved of Thomas’spractice,whichfavoredthem.“What happened here?”

Evelyn tried again, notbothering to hide thedesperation in of her voice.She had a hundred more

questions,allliningupinherbefuddled brain. Sheshivered; itwas cold inhere.Val…Valentinowasaround,probablynotwilling to showhimself. Val hated cops. Butthe chill told her he wasprobablyhanginginthewall,watching. Maybe Val hadseenwhathappened.“Tellmewhat happened.” Afteranotherswallowofwater,sheadded.“Please.”

He redirected her just likecops did in the books andmovies—the goodprocedurals in any event—turning the questions to her,carefully, and taking out anotebook. He wasn’t adetective,buthewasfarfroma rookie. She’d spotted adetectiveintheback,aprim-looking all-business womaninplainclothes.Evelyn obligingly went

through everything, knowingfull well she’d go through itagain, tomorrow morningprobably,maybedownat theprecinct.Wherehadshebeen,when had she last seenThomas, was he alone, whatwerehisplans, etc., etc., etc.Didhehaveanyenemiesthatshe knew of? Had she heardanyone make threats? Thepoliceman gave her next tonothinginreturn.

“You have—” She’dwatched the police car withthefeyinthebackseatleaveafewminutesago.“Therewasa fey in the car, a dark fey.Washetheone?Didhe—”Can’t discuss it,ma’am…

Evelyn.Ongoinginvestigation.We’llknowmorelater.Notatlibertytosay.Sheesh, they really did

recite that last line, Evelyn

thought.Itwasn’tjustapieceofTVdialog.“I live upstairs, will I be

ableto—”“You lived with Mr.

Brock?”Sheshookherhead.“No, officer, I live on the

second floor. Thomas has…had … an apartment on thethirdfloor.”“I don’t think there’ll be a

problem with you going to

your apartment later.But I’llcheck.”Evelyn knew there

wouldn’t be a problem, sheknew the law. They couldn’tkeepheroutofthere,therentpaid up. The crime had beencommitted here, and herapartmentwas not accessiblefrom inside this office. Butshe would let one of theofficers walk through herapartment;itwouldmakeher

feelbetter.No,nothingcouldmakeher

feel better, she corrected.ThomasBrock is dead.WhatthehellamIgoingtodo?

Chapter1.8

Itwasnearlymidnightbeforethey’dfinishedtalkingtoher.The woman, Detective

AngelaReese,askedmanyofthe same questions that thefirstofficerhadandsayinginthe middle of it: “sorry foryour loss.” They’d told hershe didn’t have to go to thestation tomorrow after all.She’dgiventhemenough.She wouldn’t be going to

Massawa for honey wineeither.Evelyn had gotten another

look at the office—an

unfortunate long look at thedetective’s request. Shespotted Val poking his headout of a filing cabinet. Theoffice had only two filingcabinets … not enoughcasework to justify more.And thankfully those wereagainst the wall near herdesk,awayfromtheblood.She wanted to talk to the

spirit,butknewthatwouldn’thappenwiththecopsaround.

Valhadbeenpickedupafewtimeswhenhewasbreathing,spentmore thana fewnightsin jail, and in death he hadretained his passionateloathingforlawenforcement.“Seeanythingmissing,Ms.

Love?” the detective hadasked.Thomas’s computer was

there, but the back had beenpried off it, the electronicguts ruined,hisdeskdrawers

gone through, an impressive-looking diving trophy he’dkept on a shelf broken. Thelid of the office’s cashboxwas under Thomas’s chair,the empty box a few feetaway. And well beyond thatdimes and nickels werescatteredintheblood.The detective saw her

looking at the lid. “Do youknow howmuchmoneywasin the cash box? How much

moneyThomasBrockcarriedinhiswallet?Wedidn’t findanymoneyonthefey.”Evelynshookherhead.“A

couplehundredmaybe in thebox. No more than that.” Apause: “And Thomas nevercarried a lot on him. Notenoughtobekilledfor.”“Anything else missing?

Obviouslymissing?”So maybe they were

thinkingrobberyasamotive.

“A glass snow globe thatwas—”No,itwasn’tmissing,andithadn’tbeenvaluable.Itwas broken, the glitter at theedge of the blood, one ofThomas’s memoriesshattered. “That.” Evelynpointed at the damagedcomputer, but that wasevident. “Pieces of that aremissing, the boards frominside it at least.And Idon’tsee his backup hard drive

either,andthatwasalwaysonhis desk because it wouldn’tfitintheskinnydeskdrawers.Foranythingelse,I’dhavetogo through stuff,” she’d toldthem. “Really look. Thedrawers, the papers, the filecabinets, and it’ll take time.Then I’ll know if somethingelse is missing.” Her owndeskappeareduntouched;herchair had been returnedbehind it, seat still adjusted

toohigh.“Tomorrow,” the detective

had said. “Around noon. I’llcome back and we’ll gothrough it together. Thenwhen I clear it after that youcan have a crew come in forcleaning. I can recommend—”Evelyn had numbly

nodded. “I know a cleaner.I’ll call them.”She’d tried toask about thedark fey again,

thinking the detective mightgive her something, but shegot another “not at liberty tosay.”Damn, they really did

recitethatline.

Chapter1.9

Shewatchedthenumbersflipon the clock by her bed, the

“1” coming down, theminutes starting to turnover.Police walked throughThomas’s apartmentoverhead.Threebythesoundof it, then two,one trompingdownthestairs.Evelyn had thought about

asking to be present duringtheir search of Thomas’splace. The request wouldhave been approved; shecouldhavespewedlegaleseif

necessary. But she didn’twant to see his things. She’dnever been up to hisapartment, though he’dinvited her for dinner a fewtimes,admittingthathewasabad cook but was willing togiveitatry…orwaswillingto bring in Chinese take-out.On the other hand, Evelynwas by necessity a goodcook, and figured he washinting that she should

instead ask him over. Thathadn’t happened and they’dalwaysgoneout.Tearscame.She’d been holding the

grief largely at bay sinceshe’d arrived on the scene,looking at the whole thingwith forced detachment,maybe a big part of her notwantingtoadmithewasgoneand thinking this was allsome wretched nightmare.

“CaliforniaDreamin’”startedplayinginherhead.Butsomeofthenumbnesswaswearingoff, a little bit with eachturnover of the numbers onthe clock. Her shouldersshookandshegavein,lettingthetearsgushandsobbingsoloud she feared the policeupstairswouldhear.“What the hell am I going

todo?”She should call Gretchen,

shouldn’t she? She openedhercellphoneandpunchedinthe numbers, hating to wakethe secretarybutnotwantingher tohear iton themorningnews. Next, she dug throughtheRolodexshe’dtakenfromdownstairsandcalledHolder.“Mr. Holder—” Evelyn

stopped herself from saying“sorrytowakeyou.”Aghoul,Holderdidn’tsleep.“Thomasis dead.Murdered. I thought

you should know. Yourcase?” She rubbed at herchin.The voice that came back

was gravely. “I’m sorry,Evelyn.Dyingisnotpleasant.But murder? I can’t imaginehow horrible that must havebeen.”There was a pause, and

Evelyn thought she ought tosay something else, butHoldercontinued.

“Ihatetosoundselfishatatime like this,Ms. Love, butwhat about my case? Whatwillthisdotomycase?”“There are options,” she

came back quickly. “I’ll gothroughThomas’spapersandcall you later. He has anattorney of record.” She wassurprised she didn’t have toexplainthattotheghoul.“So my case will move

forward, butMondaywill be

toosoonforanewattorney.”There was a rasping noise,which Evelyn thoughtsounded like an asthmaticstruggling for breath. Holderdidn’tbreathe,maybehewascrying. “I really am sorryaboutMr.Brock.Ilikedhim.But I’m worried about mykids.Iwanttoseemykids.Ihope this new attorney isgood.”“Thomas would not have

listed an attorney of recordunless he was confident inher.”“Good.”Therewasanother

pause. “What about Mr.Brock’sbody?”Evelyn swore she could

feelhertoesstarttocurl.“What do you think the

police will do with Mr.Brock’s body? Do you think—”Evelynwasn’t going to let

Holder finish the question.“No, I don’t think they’llrelease it to the food bank.Hisfatherwillwantafuneraland to bury him.”She endedthecallandheldherstomachat the grisly thought Holderhadposed.Then she sat and watched

the clock until the hournumberread2,theminutesat31. She didn’t hear anyfootsteps overhead. The

police had probably leftThomas’s apartment. Maybethey were still downstairs.She hadn’t taken off herclothes yet, just her runningshoes. Hopefully she couldcatchoneofthemdownstairs,and maybe they’d finallycave and tell her a littlesomethingbeforeshefounditout on the news. If not …she’d talk to Val. The ghostwas a great built-in security

system…when itwasn’t onthefritz.Shepaddedinherstocking

feet down the side stairway,making her way along thesidewalk and to the front ofthe building, careful not tostep on bits of glass from abroken bottle and discardedgreasy-looking foodwrappers. She should haveput her shoes on, as theconcrete was chilly and

rough.There was scant traffic, a

few cars passing, slowingbecause there was yellowpolice tape stretched acrossthefrontofthelawofficeandthedriverswerecurious.Thepolice cars were gone, aswere the gawkers who’dplastered themselves behindthe barricades, which hadbeenremoved.Thestreetwasquiet.HaditbeenaFridayor

Saturdaynight, thatwouldn’thave been the case—somepeople in the neighborhoodstayed up deep into themorning hours despite thebars closing at two. Acrossthe street, on the floor abovethe deli a light burned, andEvelyn saw a man’s facepressed against the window.She’d recognized him fromthe crowd, one of theparticularlynoseylookiloos.

I’ll give him something towatch, she thought, as sheducked under the policeCRIME SCENE tape andfumbled with the key in thelock. The police were gone,the place dark, she’d be abletotalktoValentinoTrinadad.Likely he would have

appeared to her out on thestreet corner if she wouldhavecalledhim.He’ddiedonthe corner, about fifty years

back, and his soul had gluedhim to within a few dozenyards of the spot. Not allghostswere so anchored, butthere must have beensomething especiallytraumatic about Val’s deaththatheldhimhere.Hewas inside; Evelyn felt

the customary chill thataccompaniedVal.She turned on the light at

Gretchen’s desk. It was a

brass banker’s lamp with agreen glass shade, lookingclassy but costing onlytwenty bucks mail order onAmazon. It cast lightdownward, and not far.Evelyndidn’twanttoseetheblood, bad enough that shecould smell it. She hadn’tworn a watch, and so couldonly guess at the time … atadbeforethree.Therewasaclock on the back wall, but

she wasn’t going to turn onmorelightsandlook.“Val—” She repeated it

louder.“Shhhhh! Heard you the

firshttime.”Thespirit’svoicewas thick; the words slurredlike he was on a significantbender. Evelyn knew theghost couldn’t eat or drinkanything,butstillmanagedtoget inebriated or high off ofunknowing hosts. “Sho

shorry ’bout Tom. Really. Afabdude,Tommy-boy.”Evelynfacedthestreet,not

wanting to look into therecesses of theoffice, fearfulthat she might see the bloodagain.Shedidn’t need to seeit; she could picture the poolso clearly in her mind—couldn’t get it out of hermind,actually.“Val,canyoucome over here where I canseeyou?”

“Shure.”“Did you see what

happened,Val?Whodidit?”There was no answer, but

thechillpersisted.“Val—”The spirit rose through the

desk, head above the blotter,tendrilsofhair extendingoutin all directions like smokecurlingawayfromanashtray.Evelyncouldmakeout someofhisfeatures,he’dcoalesced

justenough.Theghost’seyeswere set wide and lookedhollow,likewalnutshellsthathad the meat dug out. Therewerecreasesacrosshisbrow,and sunken-looking cheeks,the nose overlong for theface, almost like a cartooncaricature.“Sherioushly, Evey, I’m

shorry.”Evelyn felt tears at the

corners of her eyes. Did she

have anything left inside tocry?“I think he really dug you,

shweetie, the only chick hehadeyesfor.”“Did you see it? The fey

that killed Thomas? The onethat—”“—the one that the pigs

hauled out of here? Thatshtinking fey?” The ghostrosealittlehigher.Infrontofthe banker’s lamp he looked

ephemeral. “Yeah, I shaw…saw…thefey.”Valgrinned,revealing uneven and brokenghost-teeth. “Dude wastrippin’. So sheriously goneonsomething.Didn’tseehimcomeinbecauseIwasacrossthe shtreet. I felt him,though.”Evelyn knew that meant

Valwashangingout in frontofthebars,tryingtocatchthealcoholbuzzfromthepatrons

leaving.Theghostgothighordrunk when passing throughthebodiesofothersundertheinfluence and always seemedto be on the hunt for theultimatetrip.Shewonderedifthat was what caused hisdemise, drugs and alcohol.He’d never told her, andshe’d never asked. Maybehe’dconfidedthattoThomas.Hewasmostdefinitelyunderthe influence of something

now. She’d love to grab hisshoulders and shake moreclarityintohim,butsheknewher fingers would only passthrough.“But you did see him, the

fey?”The ghost nodded, tendril-

hair moving like serpents.“See him? Shure. Not atfirsth.Ifelthimfirsht…first,butItoldyouthat.Fromclearacrossthestreet,Ifelthim.”

She opened her mouth toask for an explanation, andthendecidedtowaitfor it.Asiren wailed and the soundgrew and moments later apolicecarcruisedpast.“Can’t stand gumball

machines.”Evelyn raised her

eyebrows.“Cop cars.Pigs.Hacksme

off, youknow.But they suredohaul assh…ass…down

this street, don’t they?” Hetwistedhisheadas ifhewastryingtoclearhissenses.Themore he talked the lessslurred his words were, as ifhewas sobering up. “Awildbuzz,Evey.”“The fey?” Evelyn

prompted.“Hewasonshomething…

something…serious.Ifeltit.A mix most likely from thevibe, had to have some LSD

in it, I was thinking at thetime.ItwasthesamefeelingIgot from being on Kesey’sbus, you know.But thiswasstrongerandIhadtohavemesomeof that.”Thegringrewwider and a shiver raceddownEvelyn’sback.“Maybeheroin, ketamine. Whoot! Ifigured the fey was headingfor a funeral, his own. Butyou know OTs, things workdifferent for them.Thedrugs

had him trippin’, but I couldtelltheyweren’tgonnaicehisass.”Evelynfrowned.“Sorry for the language.”

Theghostgaveherasheepishgrin and sunk lower into thedesk,chinontheblotter.Shehad to glance down to meethisgaze.“Sothefeywashigh?”“Obvious-o-mundo. Except

it wasn’t LSD or anything

else I could put a name to.Neverquitefeltanythinglikeit. It was scary good andscarybadat thesame time. Ipassed throughhimonceandcouldn’t think straight orcrookedforalittlewhile.”“He came in here looking

for money, maybe, so hecouldbuymoredrugs.”Val shrugged, the hair

whirlingandthinning.“And Thomas wouldn’t

give him the money ongeneral principals so the feykilledhim,”Evelyncontinuedtosurmise.“Ripped him to pieces,

actually. I’d passed throughthefeydudeasecondtimetoscore another hit, then Icouldn’t keep myselftogether, the trip out ofcontrol. But I watched. Thecheckerboard—”“Checkerboard?”

“The fey was black andred, scales like acheckerboard. He startedrippingawayonTommy-boyand I couldn’t do anythingabout it. I can’t touchanything, you know. Ishouted ‘booo!’ but thecheckerboard either didn’thearmeorwasn’tabouttobedistracted.Can’timaginethatsomething like thatwouldbeafraidofaghostanyway,you

know. We’re all prettyharmless.”“You don’t know what it

wasabout?Money?”“Like I said, I missed the

first bit. I came in on it justbefore the shredding. Man,poor Tommy-boy. That hadtohavehurtlikehelland—”“Val!”The ghost disappeared into

the desk, reemerging a fewmoments later. “Sorry. I’m

still feeling the buzz off thecheckerboard. Probably willstillfeelittonextTuesday.”Another siren cut through

the night, muted because itwas farther away, a secondsiren with a different soundand then a third, fire truckssandwiching an ambulance.Thenoisedissipated.“No,”Val said.His visage

had taken on a thoughtfulcast.Evelynknewhecouldn’t

manipulate his features toappear as a differentindividual, other than todisappear and reappear andtake on various thicknesses,but he could showexpressions. “No, I don’tknow what it was about,sweetie. But I’d never everseen that fey around herebefore, so he wasn’t adisgruntled client orsomething. Tommy-boy had

some OT run-ins when hewas in law school that he’dtold me about. Maybe thecheckerboard was from lawschooldays.”Evelyn looked surprised

thatThomashadtalkedaboutlaw school with Val; hehadn’twithher,otherthantodiscuss elective courses he’dtaken and recommended toher.Theonlythingsheknewbeyondthatabouthiscollege

life was his competitivediving…and that hemissedmaking the Olympic diveteam. Would his sister wantthe college diving trophy?Would shemend it? Thomashad a sister, and Evelyn hadmet her a month back. Sheran a restaurant alongFisherman’s Wharf, andThomas had taken Evelynthere for Sunday brunch.Evelyn couldn’t recall his

sister’sname.Wouldshebecominghere?

To go through Thomas’sthings? Maybe his fatherwouldcomeby.How long would Evelyn

havetopackupherstuffandfind a new place to live? Atleast until the end of themonth,she’dalreadypaidtherent.“I don’t know what I’m

goingtodo.”Evelynsaiditto

herself.“You’ll soldier on,” Val

said. “You’ll finish lawschool,takethebar,andkeepthisofficegoing.”Evelyn laughed. “Val, I

don’t have a law degree yet.The bar’s not until February.I can’t practice on my own.Theofficeisgoingtoclose.”“Bummer.” The ghost’s

face seemed to grow longer.“You’re not shittin’ me, are

you?”“No,I’mnotshittingyou.”

Evelynsaggeddeeperintothechair. “Tell me one moretime, Val, everything youremember.”Theghostdid,invividgory

details that Evelyn figuredwould stick in her brain foreternity. She’d have to relatethis, somehow, to thedetective tomorrow … latertoday. She knew better than

to ask Val to make a report.Either the police wouldn’tbelievehimbecausehewasaspirit—an OT—or hewouldn’t utter one word tobeginwith.“I know what you’re

thinking,Evey.Idon’ttalktopigs.”“Yeah,Val,Iknow.”“Sorry.”He started to fade and she

wavedhimback.“Wait,Val.”

He rose higher andimpatiently and soundlesslythrummed his insubstantialfingers across Gretchen’sdeskblotter.“Ithinktherewassomeone

with the fey.” Evelyn shouldhave realized that when thedetective dropped the hint.Shehadn’tcaughtitthen.“I was mostly paying

attentiontothecheckerboard.The fey was awesomely

high.”“But you said that you

didn’tgethererightaway.”“No. Just basically in time

fortheshredding.”Evelyn gritted her teeth.

“The detective askedme if Inoticedanythingmissing.”“Gutsaremissingfromthe

computer,lookslike.”“They’re called circuit

boards.”The ghost looked

disinterested.“Val, Detective Reese

asked if I noticed anythingmissing.”The ghost cocked his

insubstantial head. “You’repulling aGretchen, repeatingyourself.”“Don’t you get it? They

took the fey into custody. Isaw him in the back of apolicecar.”“Yeah.” A gauzy finger

reached up and twirled intothebeard.“So they’dknow if the fey

had taken anything, ’causethey carted off the fey fromright inside the office. Theywould’ve grabbed whateverhehadonhim…likemoneyfromthecashbox,thebackuphard drive. They wouldn’thave asked me what wasmissing,wouldthey?Andthedetective said he didn’t have

money on him. She let thatslip.”“I don’t think he was

wearing any clothes, nothingwithpocketsanyway,nothinghe could have stuck moneyin. He had this Tarzan lookgoingon.”Evelyn abruptly stood, the

chaironrollersshootingbackfrom the momentum. “Sothere was someone else. Iftheythoughtmoneyandother

thingsweremissing,someoneelse had to have taken themand got out before the copsshowed. Someone else washerewiththefey.”“Well, duh. There was a

secondguy.Ijustdidn’tpayaworldofattentiontohim.”“Val,whydidn’tyou—”“I don’t talk to pigs.But I

liketalkingtoyou.”“Thanks.”“Theseconddudewasina

hooded sweatshirt, but hewasn’t interesting.Wasn’tonanything, and hadn’t beenhighforquiteawhile.Didn’tgivehimanyofmytime.Thefey, that was the interestingone. Besides, the hoodeddude left before the pigsshowedup.”“But the fey didn’t get

out.”“No. He was woozy, and

after he’d picked himself up

afterallthatrippingand—”“Val!”“Sorry. But you’re right,

thefeydidn’tgetout.Hewasstanding at the back of theoffice, justpickedhimselfupaftertearingTomup,startingtocomedownfromhishigh,whenthepigsbargedin.”“So the police somehow

knewtherewassomeoneelsehere.”Shestartedpacinginatight circle. “Andwho called

the cops? Someone passingby with a cell phone? Thebuilding next door is vacant.Someonefromoneofthebarsacross the street? Someonedriving by? The guy in theapartment above the deli?”She could find that out fromthepolicereport.“Maybethecaller mentioned there wasmorethanone.”“We done here? Gotta go,

you know.” Val shimmered

andmeltedintothedesk,andthe air around her warmedagain.Evelyn wondered where

Val went when he wasn’t inthe office or on the street.Maybe he hung out in thesewers with other ghosts orother OTs, or maybe… sheshook off the notion—itwasn’therconcernanyway—andwrappedherarmsaroundherself, the chill returning.

Maybe Val had forgotten torelateanespeciallygruesomedetail and had come back totellher.She blew out a breath,

seeing that it fanned awayfromherfacelikelace.Reallycoldinhere.“Evelyn.”Her throat grew tight and

shefoughtforair.“Evelyn?”Herlipsquivered,fromthe

cold and fear and therealizationof somethingbothwonderful andwretched.Sheturned, slowly, lookingtowardthebackoftheoffice,keepinghergazehighsoshecouldn’t see the blood. Mistcoalescedintoaman’sform.“Thomas?”“Evelyn, I came back.”

There was disbelief in hiswhisperyvoice.She spun, looking for him,

buttherewasnothingthere.“Thomas?”Had she imagined his

voice? No, she’d heard him.She felt him. Her spine feltlikeanicicle.Arm’slengthinfrontofheraspotofairaboutthe size of a baseballshimmered, looking waterylike the mirage haze thathovers above blacktop on aswelteringsummerday.Her sensibilities gathered

and screamed for her to run.But her feet had turned toconcrete.The shimmery spot

lengthened and widened, foran instant reminding her ofthe special effects they usedaround teenaged vampires ina popular movie series. Shediscarded that image as theshiny quality vanished tobecome fog like and opaque.Itcontinuedtogrowandtake

on a thickness, a swatch ofgray tissue paper flutteringandthreateningtoblowawayin the air she exhaled. Thepatch darkened ever soslightly.When it took on the

silhouette of a man hernotions of God and heavenandhell swirled inhermind,the memories of Sundayschool sermons and Biblesessions spinning out of

control into a white noisemiasma that threatened todrop her. She knew theyexisted—undead like Holderand others the office hadworked with and that she’dread about. They were trueand not the stuff of fantasyfiction. But until this verymoment they’d all been “theother,”realbutnotactuallyapartofherlife.Separate.Realandyetsurreal.

Thehazyhintofamanthatcontinued to become moredistinct threatened to sunderherCatholicconvictions.ThomasBrockwasaghost.“DearGod,”Evelynsaid.“Call Dagger,” the ghost

managed. “I need to talk tobothofyou.”

Chapter1.10

It was ten before Evelynmanaged to reach DaggerMcKenzie, a privateinvestigator she’d met at theprevious law firm she’dworked for. It was anotherhour before he got to theoffice.Hedidn’tbothertotakeoff

his sunglasseswhenhecamein, nodding to her and

scowling, saying nothinguntil he’d downed the largecoffeehe’dbroughtwithhim.Evelyn had consideredThomas tall, butDaggerwastaller—six feet five, jet hairpulled back tight in a shortponytail and long, thicksideburns that hid the hardplanes of his face, andmuscles that strained theseams of his black denimjacket.Shethoughthehadthe

look of ex-military. ButEvelyn only guessed at hisbackground; she knew littleabout him other than that hewasgood,discreet,andfairlyexpensive.“This better be good,”

Dagger said, folding himselfinto Evelyn’s chair. She hadexpected him to have somesortofreactionwhenThomasappeared as a ghost. ButDagger just sat there. “Well,

whatdoyouneedmefor?”“To help solve my

murder,”Thomasreplied.“Cops got somebody,”

Daggersaid.“Ihearditontheradio coming over here. Thereporter said a dark feybasically put you through apapershredder.”“Therewasa littlemore to

itthanthat,Ithink.”“Thenspill,”Daggersaid.“I decided to put in a late

night at the office,” Thomasbegan.

OOOIt wasn’t that Thomas

didn’t have anything else todo or that he had anextraordinary amount ofbacklog to plow through, hejustlovedthelaw.Infact,hedidn’t somuch think of it aswork, but as his life and hismission. Nothing else to dowith the Holder case—until

the Honorable VernonVaughanrenderedadecision.He had another casesimmering, and it involvedbuilding codes, historicpreservation, and this verystructure… and Pete on theroof. He dug through thematerial, more than an hourpassingbeforehecameupforair.His stomach rumbled. The

micro-brew and a few

crackershadn’tbeenenough.He reached for the phone,punching the “3” on speeddial and quickly placed anorder with Asqew Grill.Thinking about the wholeeating dead flesh thing fromcourt that morning, heselectedthegrilledpearsaladwithasideofcitruscouscous,anextra-largepinklemonade,andsaidhe’dcomepickitup.Just down the street, he’d

grab it, bring it back, eat athis desk, and study buildingcodesandfloorplanstherestofthenight.Thomas slipped his suit

coatbackonandoutofhabitdroppedhiscellphone inhispocket.The Buick chugged by

again, even slower this time.The backseat tinted windowrolleddown,Thomassawthevisageofsomesortoffey.He

heard the car stop, probablyfinding a place to park infront of the empty buildingnextdoor,samecarhe’dseenat the bus stop at thecourthouse. He’d flipped thesign to closed, but he wouldcorrectthat,neveronetoturndownthepossibilityofanewclient, especially anOTwhoobviously had been cruisingtofindhim.Thomas had to go out

anyway to pick up his foodorder, and so he craned hisneck around the office front,seeing the Buick abouttwenty feet away, parked alittle too far from the curb.Thefeygotout.“I’m still open,” Thomas

called—justincasetheywereheretoseehimratherthantogodrinkingatoneofthetwobarsacrossthestreet.Thomas caught himself

impolitely staring; he hadn’tseen a fey like this before.Oneofhisfavoritecharactersfrom vintage X-Men comicbookshadbeenNightcrawler,the black-bluemutant with aprehensile tail, a shock ofcurly hair, and bright yelloweyes.Thisfellowlookedquiteabitlikethat,butwithoutthehair. The ears were sharplypointed,but insteadofblack-blue, the skin was black-red.

As the fey stepped closer,Thomas saw that it wascovered with scales,snakelike, and that its tailundulated, further invokingthe serpent image. The onlyclothing was a loincloth incamouflage army print and amuscleshirt.“Here toseeme?”Thomas

asked, putting on his stoic,businesslikeface.The fey didn’t answer, but

the driver side door openedand a second individual gotout—this one human,wearing stylish tight jeansand an overlarge hoodie, thehoodofwhichwaspulledupand shadowing the facewithin.“Yeah, we’re here to see

you,” the man returned. Hehadadeepvoicewithatraceof aLatin accent. “Acase todiscusswithyou.”

“By all means come in,”Thomassaid.He’dheldopenthedoorandgestured.The fey went inside first,

andthehoodedmanfollowedwiththeswaggeringwalkofastreet punk. But the mandidn’t smell like a punk, hesmelled expensive, colognetrailing him. His right handwasthrustintheslashpocketofhishoodie,buttheleftwasfree, and there was a big

watch on it, a Swiss HublotKing with diamonds circlingthe face. Thomas recognizedit because his father favoredtheexpensivebrand.“My desk is the third one

in.Theconferencetableisallthewaytotheback.”The fey seemed uncertain,

casting furtive glances hereand there, appearing a littlenervous or perhaps ill.Thomasdidn’t thinkmuchof

it; he was more concernedabout the man, who hadn’tremoved his hood and whonudgedthefeyindeeper.Somethingdidn’tfeelright,

but Thomaswas never quickto judge anyone. He hopedthat perhaps this might beanother wealthy clientcrossing his threshold. Still,he dropped his hand into hispocket and touched the cellphone inside and flipped it

open.Justincase.“So this case,” Thomas

prodded,followingthepairtothe back. “Tell me what it’sabout.”“The Northern Structure’s

bringingyousomebusiness.”“The Northern Structure?”

Thomas had never heard ofthat organization. “This case,youmention—”He suddenlyworried that the hoodedmanmight have had a gun in his

pocket, but that wasn’t thesituation.It was a syringe, and the

man brought it out andjammeditintothefey’sback.Then he stepped to the sideandthefeywhirled.Thomas’sfingersfoundthe

“9”and the“1”andpunchedthem.“This case,” the man

taunted,twitchinghisneckina hip-hop dancer’s move,

“We’re all over your case.You’re in the hat, lawyerman. Dust. It’s time for youtogrowdaisies.”Thomas reflexively

hollered.Thefey,uglytobeginwith,

became horribly grotesquenow,facecontortinginamixof pain and rage, eyesshimmering with uttermadness. The fey sprang atThomas,drivinghiminto the

floor next to the conferencetable and shredding hisclothes. Some detached partof Thomas heard the hoodedman toss things around,breaking his computer,pulling out drawers andrepeating“Yourcaseisgonnabeclosed,chapete.Yourcaseisgonnabeclosed.”Thomas tried to fight the

fey, but it was impossiblystrong.AndalthoughThomas

was an athlete, his strengthwasnothingnext tothebeastthatrippedintohisflesh.“Your case is all bloody,

Mr.OTLawyer.Yourcaseishistory.”Thomas felt pain at first,

hotandhorrible,but itdidn’tlast. Somehow his brainmercifully disconnected fromall that, granting him ameasure of peace. Still, hecould hear the hooded man

tear through his office,continue to rant loudly aboutthe Northern Structure, andfaintly he heard someonetalkingfromhispocket.“Sir?What is thenatureof

youremergency?”The nature? I’m getting

killed, Thomas thought.“Help!”hemanaged,prayingthat the listener could hearwhatwasgoingon.That’sthenatureofmyemergency.

“Your bloody case isclosed. Hear me, lawyerfool?”“Help!” Only one more

strangled word would comeout, and then half his throatwastornaway.Thomas thought about

Evelyn, hoping she wouldn’tsee the mess that he wascertainthefeyandthehoodedman were making, that shewouldn’t have to look at

whateverwasgoingtobeleftofhim.AndhethoughtaboutHolder, about how hewouldn’tbeable to representthe ghoul come Mondaymorning in the HonorableVernonVaughan’schambers,andabouthowhe’dnevergettotrythebuildingcodescasethatwassointriguing.Then he thought about

dying…diving.Thomashadexcelledatthe

backward press. Standing ontheplatform,a regulation tenmeters above the water, hewould do an inward takeoff,arcing fast and making theslightestof splasheswhenhehit.Heonlyeverhadsecondsto register the feel of thechlorine-tingedairagainsthisskin before he cut into thewater, down down down,thenturningupandsurfacingto the applause of whoever

was watching. It was anamazing rush he never gotenoughof—divinghisspecial“crack” that gavehimahighlike nothing else could everapproach.The only Olympic events

he’d watched in August hadbeenmen’sdiving.Infrontofthe television, he saw DavidBoudia—who’d claimed hewas once afraid of heights—twist and somersault from a

platform three stories high,attaining a speed of nearlythirty-fivemilesanhour,andgarner thegoldmedalfor theUnited States. Boudia hadplaced only tenth whencompetinginBeijingin2008;Thomas had nearlymade theteamthen,rightafterhisfirstyearinlawschool.Thomas knew he could

havedonebetter thanBoudiathat year, and a sizeable part

of him regretted not eventrying to make the team forLondon. But he’d stoppeddiving as often after 2008,focusingmoreonhisstudies,and then after graduation in2010,focusingentirelyonhisnew practice. It had been atleast two months since he’dventured to the universitypoolandgottenpermissiontouse the platform. The publicpools and the ones at health

clubs only had lowerspringboards, and though hevisitedthehealthclubtodiveevery week, it wasn’t thesameasaplatform.Dyinghadbeenlikediving,

falling, accelerating, hittingthe surface and going under.Down down down andturning up for whateverreason, breaking the surfaceandcomingbackout intohisoffice,hoveringaboveabody

that looked like it had beenthroughhispapershredder.Dead. Thomas Brock was

dead.Hadhebeeninheaven?Or

had he been going there?Thomashadthoughthewasafairly religious man, raisedPresbyterian, attending aprivate church school in hiselementary years, beforegoing to San FranciscoUniversity High School for

college prep, and theneventually onto Stanford.He’d not attended churchsince high school, save forChristmas celebrations withhis family, weddings, andfunerals.Funeral.Thomas forced himself to

look away from his bloodycorpse.HadGodthrownhimback?Orhadhenotbeenreadyto

facethehereafter…whateverthe“hereafter”was?Had there been too much

unfinished business in hislife?Was he that tied to this

office?Hefloatedalongtheceiling

for a while, watching thehooded man pick up atreasured diving trophy andbring it down hard on theback of the dark fey’s head.

Then the man left, backuphard drive under his arm,pockets full ofwhatever elsehe’d taken … money,probably, Thomas guessed,judging by the open andemptypettycashbox.The fey had struggled to

rise,butslippedintheblood,fell and lay there until sirenskeened in response toThomas’s9-1-1call.The feycovered his ears, the noise

clearly bothering him, andonce more he worked to getup, finally succeeding andstaggering toward thedoor—only to be met by a pair ofpatrolmen rushing in, gunsdrawn.Thomas noted the look of

disbelief on the fey’s face—notjustatthepolice’sarrival,butatwhathe’dwrought.“I—I—I killed that man,”

the fey stated. His words

were thick, like a patientcoming out of the effects ofanesthesia.“I thoughthewasgoingtohelpme.AndI—I—Ikilledhim.”The rest was a blur of

activity.The police called for

backupandmorearrived, themedical examiner’s peoplecameshortlythereafter.Thefeywasreadhisrights,

handcuffed, and shoved into

thebackofacruiser.Barricades were put up,

officers dispatched to keepthegrowingcrowdatbay.A seasoned woman

detective arrived. She startedbarking orders like a drillsergeant, the officers aroundhercomplying.So many pictures were

taken, and little numberedmarkers were set here andthere like Thomas had seen

the actors do on the variousincarnations of the CSItelevisionshows.Curious and repulsed, he

watched them gather hisbody, put it in a vinyl bag,andwheelitoutside.Thomas followed it,

hoveringabove the sidewalk,watching itallwithamorbidcuriosity and wonderingwhere Valentino Trinadadwas. Could spirits see each

other?Valhadsaidhe’ddiedfromadrugoverdoseon thiscornerandhadcomeback tohaunt the spot. Thomas hadcomeback.Maybeitwasthecorner.Maybeitheldsoulstoit.Thomas noted familiar

facesinthecrowd,restaurantwait staff, people who livedin the apartments above thebars and the deli across thestreet,thefruitvendorandhis

family, hookers who workedtheneighborhood.Evelyn.Hethoughthisheartshouldseizeat seeing her arrive on thesceneofhismurder.Buthisheartdidnothing.Itdidn’tbeat.He couldn’t feel the blood

pounding, and he thought itshould be thrumming out aserious beat against histemples.He should feel something,

shouldn’the?Evelyn…he’dtriedtocall

to her, but words wouldn’tcome.He watched her collapse,

policemenhelpingherupandleading her inside the office,turning her in Gretchen’schairsoshewouldn’tsee theblood and all the littlenumbers on plastic stands,heard an officer ask herquestions,heardthedetective

ask her more, ask her ifanythinghadbeentaken.My backup hard drive,

Thomas had tried to say.Pettycash.Maybemore,filesI think. I saw the manmessingwithmyfiles.ButI’mnot sure. Still, the wordsremainedatbay.But Val talked. Thomas

had shared numerousconversations with the deadhippie.IfValcouldtalk,why

couldn’tThomas?He concentrated, picturing

veinsstandingoutinhisneckfromtheeffort.Stillnothing.He watched Evelyn leave,

going around the side of thebuilding and up the stairs toher apartment. Then hewatched the policemenfinishing, taking still morepictures,pickinguptheirlittlenumbers,closingthedoorand

stretching crime scene tapeacrosstheentrance,collectingthebarricades.Two officers remained out

frontforanotherhour.Three officers searched

through his apartment, notreallydisturbinganything.Then they all left, and

Evelynwentbackdownstairs.OOO

“Thatit?”Daggerasked.The ghost nodded. “That’s

allIcanremember.”“Nonames?Notof thefey

ortheotherman?”Thomasshookhishead.“All right, I’m on it.”

Dagger rose and dropped hisempty Starbucks cup in thewaste can. “Take care,Evey.I’llmeetupwithyoulater.”

Chapter1.11

Daggerpulledoutachocolatebar and handed it to thehomeless woman who livedin the alley behind Brock’slaw office. She sat cross-leggedinthegraveloutsideasagging refrigerator box thathad been turned on its sideand was decorated withgraffiti and dried flowers allalong the lower half. Plastic

bags were duct taped acrosswhat served as the roof andhalfwaydownthesidesinaneffort to keep rain fromturning her home to pulp.Inside were carefully foldedblankets,a threadbarepillow,andapaperbagfilledwithanassortmentofthings.She looked Latino at first

glance, but Dagger knewbetter.Hesawpastthelayersofdirtthathadtintedherskin

and picked up the faintestedges of pink around hereyes. She was white, andstrandsofblackandgrayhairpeeked out from under thedirty American flag scarfshe’d wrapped around herhead.Daggerhadkeenvisionbut couldn’t place her age.She looked sixty, but shecould have been at least adecade or two younger.Homelesslifewasbrutal.

He had a keen sense ofsmell, too, and her odor wasdifficult to take.Shestankofgoingmanymonthswithoutabath and of all the scents ofthe alley that had adhered toher like a second skin.Therewasa traceofcheapcolognetoo, likeperhaps she’d foundadiscardedbottleinthetrashandupended the last of it onher. Dagger concentrated tokeepthebilefromrising.

Hewatchedherdevour thechocolatebar, andhehandedher a second,which sheheldreverently for a moment andthenstretchedbehindherandplaced inside the paper bagfor later. There were a fewotherhomelesshangingaboutthis alley, but no othershanties. He would get tothemnext.He’dcomewithasatchel stocked with a goodsupply of candy, jerky, and

packages of dried apricotsandpineapple.Daggerhadpickedherfirst

becausefromthelooksofhercardboard hovel, she’d beenhereforquitesometime.“Sadie,”shesaid.“Name’s

Sadie.” She raised aneyebrow.“Dagger,” he replied.

“DaggerMcKenzie.”“Odd name that. You’re

private, right?” Sadie gave

him a suspicious look. “Youdon’tlooklikepolice.”“Yeah, I’m private,” he

said.“Lookingintothatlawyer’s

death,aren’tyou?Thatyoungonewhatdiedlastnight?”“Yes.”“Don’tknownothingabout

it.” But her eyes saiddifferent.Dagger reached into his

satchel and pulled out a box

of granola bars and tossedthem to her. Homelesscurrency. It was his personalpolicy not to give thehomeless any money; hedidn’t want them purchasingdrugsorboozetodrowntheirdesperation and feed theiraddictions.“I didn’t see nothing that

night.” She held the box andlookedat it, turned itoverasif reading the ingredients.

Thensheplaceditnexttothepaper bag. “Except that oldBuick thatkeptgoingaroundthe block. Was gonna comethroughmyalley,butitwasabig car. Driver tried it andbacked out.” She cackled.“Car was rusted to shitanyway, hitting a couple oftrash bins in my alleywouldn’thavehurtitmuch.”Dagger worked a kink out

ofhisneckandfixedhiseyes

onSadie’s.“Allright,”sheadmitted.“I

saw a little bit more. I wentbetween those buildings overthere,gettingaluminum.Builtthem things so tight togethera fat man couldn’t getbetween them, but I ain’tneverbeenfat.Igoesinthere’cause people toss cans inwhen they walk by on thesidewalk.They think thegapisgoodforgarbage.SoIwent

in there, picking up cans lastnight. Had me a flashlightthatworked.”“Goon.”“I saw the Buick pull up

out on Haight and park infront of my crack. Didn’tpark very well, neither, toofarout.ButIknewthey’dbegonebeforeacopcouldwritethematicket.Ithadthatlook,you know, of being in ahurry.”

“Goon.”“That rusted to shit Buick

had the back window downwhen it circled the last time,and I saw a monster-thinginside.Lookedalittlebitlikethe devil, all black and redandwith ears sopointed likethat. First I thought it wassomeclientofthatattorney.Iseenthosetypes,notthedeviltypes but other monster-things, go in that office. I

don’t like them, OTs. Not abit.ButwhenthatBuickkeptgoing around the block, Iknewitwasforsomethingnogood.”“Howso?”“It had that look about it,

you know, both the car andthedevil thing,acruisingfortroublelookandaninahurrylook.On that lastpass, Isawthe guy what was driving.He’dleanedovertheseatand

wastalkingtothedevilthing.And then after they’d parkedout front of my aluminumcrack, I sawhimevenbetter,just before he pulled up hishood and got out of the car.You live in thisneighborhood, this city longenough, you can read peopleatalook,youknow?HewasLatin,andaganger.Had tatson his neck, the prison kind,theydon’tlookasgoodasthe

ones you get professional. Icould’ve smelled ’em theygot any closer. They wasright there in front of thebuilding crack where I waslooking with my flashlight.That attorney should’veknown better than to invitethemin,agangerandanOT.Someone pulls up a hood,that’s trouble. I heard thatattorney invite them in. It’shis own damn fault he got

killed.”Daggerfoundhimselfsadly

agreeingwithher.Abig citylike this, you had to be onguard. San Francisco was animpossible distance fromMayberry.“Describe this man, Sadie,

as close as you can, thetattoos. The one with thehood.”“ForatwentyIwill.”“Nomoney.”

“Atenthen.It’llcostyouaten.”“No.” Dagger’s eyes

narrowedandhetossedherathick shrink-wrappedpackofjerky.Hesethislipsinathinline, a practiced expressionmeant to unnerve his target.Sadie was tough, but after afew moments of stare-down,she shrugged and startedtalkingagain.Sheprovidedasurprisingly

detailed description, down tothe lightningbolt scaron theman’s cheek, and a tattoo onhis neck—though shecouldn’t quite see the entiredesign. It was enough, thesymbol of a dangerous man.And Dagger knew where tofindthesort.“Saw him good ’cause he

was under a streetlight.Didn’t need to shine myflashlight on him. ’Sides, I’d

turneditoff.Didn’twanthimto seeme.He had that look,youknow.”“Did you tell the police

aboutthis?”She crossed her arms and

sucked in her lower lip,giving a shake of her headand glancing away. “Don’tmind cops, I don’t. But Idon’t like them OTs. ThemOTseatus.”Daggerraisedaneyebrow.

“Us, people withoutpaperwork, people who ain’tgot an address. Who missespeople without an address?Who looks out for us? And,besides, that devil thing, itgave me the creeps. Notgoing to tell the cops aboutthat, I’m not. Besides, theyonly talked to Jerry, thecops.”Shegaveanod to thehomeless fellow closestnearby. “Jerry’ll talk to

anybody.Talks a lot, but thewordsdon’tmeanmuch.”Daggerwaited, listening to

bottle flies that buzzedagainst a trashcan on theopposite side of the alley.Therewas a swarm of them,and the afternoon sun cutdown between buildings andheated the metal can andwhatever food scraps hadbeen tossed inside that wereapparently beyond even the

homeless people’s tastes. Itwas getting almost too coolforflies.“I was still in the crack,

picking aluminum … therewas a lot of aluminum thatnight … when the hoodedmancamebackoutofthelawoffice for his car. Tossedsomethinginthecrack.Iwasafraidhe’dseenmethere,buthewasintoomuchofahurrytonotice.Andafterhedrove

away I looked for what he’dtossed. Turned my flashlightbackon.”“Whatwas it,Sadie?What

didhethrowin?”Shewaited,clearlywanting

another bribe, but Daggershookhishead.“Didn’t want it, what he’d

tossed,” she said. “Thehooded fellowwas a druggieand had shot up. It was ahypo.Idon’tdodrugs.”

Those kinds of drugsanyway,Daggerthought.“Don’t want AIDS or

anything like that. No resalevalue on hypos that I knowof.”“Anything else happen?

Didyouseeanythingelse?”“Yeah.Thecopscameand

the ambulance. Lights allover, lots of noise. Me andJerrywentout togetabetterlook.Hadtogoaround’cause

Jerry is fat and won’t fitthrough the crack.Had to goaround and up the sidewalk.That’swhenwefoundoutthedevil thing had killed thelawyer. The cops werepulling thedevil thingoutofthelawyer’splace.”Dagger squatted, eye-level

with the homeless woman.“What about before that,Sadie?”“Already told you. Isn’t

nothingelsetotell.Donetoldyoumorethanyouneededtoknow. Don’t need to keepjawingwithyou.”“Before last night, Sadie.

What did you see before lastnight?”Shedrewher lips together,

like she’d just bitten into alemon, and she leanedforward.Thebile rosehigherand Dagger felt it on histongue; she had that serious

ofastinkabouther.“Whatdidyouseethenight

beforethat,Sadie?”“The Buick the night

before, and the night beforethat, too. But not any nightsprevious. Just the two nightsbefore the devil thing killedthelawyer.”Shepaused,eyesbrightening. “That’s becausethe ones in the Buick, theywere casing the place, right?Theywereplanningtokillthe

young lawyer, weren’t they?Just looking for the besttime.”Dagger nodded. “Tell me

some more about the Buick,Sadie.” He added one morecandy bar to his bribe, andthen, when he moved on,repeatedtheexercisewiththeother homeless people in thealleybehindThomasBrock’slawoffice.Butnoneof themwereashelpfulasSadie.

Daggerhadnotintendedtospend his afternoon in thisalley. In fact, he’d notplanned on getting up beforenoon…roughnightwiththemoon so full. He’d tried toignorethephonebuzzingthismorning, but he saw theCallerID:EvelynLove.He’ddone some work for SaulGoldstein’s office and hadmet Evelyn there, liking herenough to add to her

education—with skills theydidn’tteachinlawschool.SoDagger had picked up thephone, his voice thick withsleep and the aftereffects ofhis rough night, and listenedtoEvey’stale,agreeingattheend of it to investigateThomas’smurder.Because of Evey, Dagger

had done some work forThomas Brock, finding theyoung lawyer almost a little

too green and toomuch of aboyscoutforhisliking.Still,Thomaspaidontime.Saul had died of a heart

attack and left Evey out inthatproverbialcold,andnowThomas was dead. PoorEvey,shedidn’thavealotofluckwithemployers.Atleastshe’d managed to outlivethem.Dagger had talked to

Thomas’s ghost before

making his rounds in thealley, wanting to hear therecountingofwhathappened.NotashelpfulasDaggerhadliked, but then he realizedhow quickly Thomas’sdemise had come. Sadie’sinformation had been farmoreuseful.Andhe realizedSadiehadbeenright:Thomasshould have known betterthan tohaveopenedhisdoorto the fey and the hooded

man.OOO

Following Sadie’s leads,Dagger found the biker barhellhole about an hour afterleaving the alley. Lookinglike the set of a rap musicvideo, the placewaswedgedbetween an auto repairbusiness that he thoughtmight double as a chop shopand a tattoo parlor thatdisplayed dragons and

motorcyclesinthewindow.Dagger strolled in. He

knew it would be dark inhere,anditdidn’tdisappoint.The place reeked of spilledbeerandsweat,thetwodozenoccupants an equal mix ofcandidates for WeightWatchersandmodelsforIronMan Magazine. All of themhadtattoos,probablyregularsoftheplacenextdoor,itwasjustamatterof reading them

to find a target. Three stepsinto theplacehe lockedeyeswith someone, the inkmarkinghimamemberoftheNorthern Structure. WhenSadie had described one ofthe tattoos, Dagger realizedThomasBrockhadpissedoffsomeoneeitherverypowerfulorveryvile.The ganger agreed to talk

toDaggeralone in themen’sroom.

DaggerhadbeencriticalofThomasBrockforhislapseinjudgment letting the fey andhishandlerintohisofficebutherealizedhisownjudgmentwasn’talwaysperfecteither.The largest of the three

thugs grabbedDagger’s headand slammed it against thebathroomsink.Theothertwohadbeenholdinghisarms,noeasy feat. The men’s roomwassmallanddirty,smelling

of soap, beer, and piss; andDagger should have knownbetter than toagree to talk tothe ganger back here “out ofearshotofmybuddies.”Dagger usually smelled a

setup,buthe’dgottensolittlesleepandwasinahurry,andthose two factors had playedagainst him. The thugs werestrong, and though hecould’ve easily taken any ofthem without breaking a

sweat,togetherthethreeweregetting the best of him. Thetall one slammed his head asecond time, and Daggerthought he saw stars. Hestruggled to rip himself free,butinsteadwaspusheddowntothefilthytilefloor,hisfacenear a patch of dried vomit,eyeswateringfrompongthatwasthickandchokingat thislevel. Keen senses wereinconvenientsometimes.

They rolled him over ontohis back, and the tall onestarted kicking his side, theother two grabbing a tighterhold.Foran instantDagger’smind took him back toAngola,wherehe’drunafoulofaterroristcellinabar,thethrum of artillery landingnearbycoveringthesoundsofthe slugfest—that fight hadbeen in a men’s room too.Here it was the racket that

tried to pass itself off asmusicblaringfromajukeboxontheothersideofthemen’sroom wall. In Angola he’dendedupinICUforahandfulofdays.Heshouldhavediedinthatgodawfulplace,buthewas tough and healedquickly.Andhewasn’tabouttodie

now,notinthishellhole.Thetwo holding him tried to pinhis legstoo,but theyweren’t

quite big enough for that.Their mistake had beentakingDaggeroffhisfeet.Hekicked at them now, like awild animal filled with afrenetic, desperate energy,dislodging one while at thesame time the tall guy keptkicking him. The dislodgedthug tripped, and Daggerwiggled one arm free,brought it up and around,hand opening and fingers

reaching. He found the rightarmofthethugthatstillheldhimanddughis fingersdeepinto the flesh.Themanworeone of those muscle shirts,big swathof skin exposed; itwas an easy target forDagger. The man howled insurpriseandrage.Dagger had just bought

himself a heartbeat, and in ithemanagedtopropelhimselfup from the tile and into the

tall one, lashing out, gettingbehind him, and pinning hisarms,swinginghimaroundtobe a shield against the othertwowhowererecoveringandcoming at him again. Thesong on the jukebox endedandanotherequallyatrociousonebegan,justasthetallonecaughtaknife in thegut thathadbeenmeantforDagger.Dagger pushed his now-

dyingmeatshieldat the thug

who still gripped the knifehandle, driving both menagainst a stall door and intothestall.Daggerkickedattheotherguy,highandhardwiththe heel of his boot, andcatching him in the groin.The man let out a reflexivewail and dropped to hisknees, cupping himself.Daggerhadanotherheartbeattohisadvantage.In the stall he pushed the

dying thug hard into theother, ramming them bothagainst the toilet again andagain, until the meat shieldwas dead weight. Daggerreleased the shield andbrought both hands up intoonefistanddrovethemdownontheneckofthewoozyoneagainst the toilet. Herecognized the snap of acollarbone and in the dimyellow bathroom light saw

the pupils of the thug’s eyesdilateandfloatback.One dead—not of his

doing, one unconscious—ofhis doing, Dagger turned hisattention to the remainingthug who was holding hisballs.“Getup.”The man groaned and

struggled to his feet, andDagger shoved him againstthe door to keep anyone else

from coming in and joiningtheparty.“Say something

interesting,” Daggerthreatened.“Unlessyouwantme to turn your brains intoJell-Opudding,youbettersaysomethingrealinteresting.”Sweat was thick on the

thug’s forehead. He had atattooonhisneck,andthoughSadie hadn’t clearly seen theone on the guy driving the

Buick, Dagger saw this oneandrecognizedit,themarkofa Latin prison gang, theNorthernStructure.Theslanghad fit, too, that Thomas’sghost had regurgitated forhim:“You’re in the hat, lawyer

man.”You’reonthehitlist.“Your case is gonna be

closed,chapete.”Idiot.Prison slang used by gang

members.

Dagger knew from aprevious case he could findex-cons at this biker bar,including Latin gangmembers.“Talkfast.Andtalka toda

madre.” Dagger threw someof the slang back at theganger. “I’ll give you somehard candy, asshole. You’llbetheonegrowingdaisies.”

Chapter1.12

Zaxil stood in front ofEvelyn’s desk. He nodded ahello to Detective AngelaReese.The detective smiled

politely and turned to workwith Gretchen, who wasgoing through some ofThomas’sfiles.

“Thisisnogood,Evey.Allfruitisnotripe.”Zaxilshiftedhis weight back and forthfromhisheels to theballsofhisfeetandstuckhishandsinhispockets.“I’mnotofferingyou any rent money back. Ican’t.Ijust—”“I don’t expect you to.”

Evelyn knew about Pete onthe roof and about thewealthy condo developertrying to grab this building.

Thomas had filled her in onthecaseandshewasgoingtohelp him with it after theirwork with Holder was done.“Maybeyoucanfindanothertenant,Zaxil,and—”“Doubt that. Doubt I can

fastenoughanyway.AndI’vepromised Pete that he getsapproval on any tenant. Yougottabeabletodosomething,Evey. You know law. Tomsaidyouknowasmuchabout

law as any lawyer with thepaperhangingonthewall.”“Look,IknowThomaswas

digging into bankruptcyprotection and looking athistoricpreservation.”“So you’ll keep digging,

too, right? You’ll find me awaytosavethisplace.”He’dnot asked the last as aquestion.“Yeah, Zaxil, I’ll dig. I

don’t have to be a lawyer to

dig.”“All right then. All right.

All right. Just figure it outbeforeMarch.” He spun andheaded out, holding at thedoor. “And take care ofyourself, all right? Watchyourself. Pete tells me thatrusted Buick cruised by hereearlythismorning.Sameonethat’d been cruising by thenightbefore,youknow,whenTom was killed. Pete’s real

upset he wasn’t payingattentiontothepeopleonthestreet that night; hemight’veseen the murderer. Pete’s abirdwatcher, said he waswatching someClapperRailson the roof across the street.A big deal, he said, to seethem this far in. Said they’reamarshbird.”Zaxilscratchedathishead.“Neveraskedhimhowheknows that.Anyway,saidtheyflewwhenthesirens

started. Pete’s real sorry hedidn’tseetheguythatgackedThomas.”Heleft, thebellonthedoorjangling.She shivered. All of this

was so desperately unfair…herselfwithoutajob,Zaxilindangeroflosingthisbuilding,Pete in danger of losing hislife.SheragedatThomasforbeing murdered and atwhoevercausedit.Soyoung,she had so much to look

forward to, so much finallygoingrightforher.Shedidn’tneed this complication, anddidn’tdeserveit.She’d survive it, though.

Evelyn always survivedwhatever thisworld chose todump on her. She’d tellDagger about the Buickcomingbyagain.“That’s it for this stack,”

Gretchensaid.“Damncoldinhere. We should crank the

heat.”Evelyn knew Thomas

hovered nearby … well,Thomas or Val or both, asthere was the telltale chill inthe air. But neither showedthemselves, even thoughEvelyn wanted Thomas totalk to Detective Reese.Evelyn returned to sortingthroughfileswithGretchen.“MeandGretchenarepart-

time,” Evelyn explained to

thedetective.“She’stellingyouthatcrap

pilesup.”Gretchenwasbluntabout it. She’d cancelled herwinecountrybustriptohelp.“These files…” She pointedto a stack on a tilting filecabinet. “I was gonna get tothemnextweek.”Evelyn knew that lawyers

were notorious for havingsloppy files. Big, huge piles,stuffsittingaroundtobedealt

with. It used to takeThomasforever to go through thepaperwork.“Whoever did this last

night, they left the … pilesof…crap…”Evelynsettledon, “pretty much alone. Andit really doesn’t look likeanythingismissingoutofthefile cabinets, just tossedaround.Maybeliketheyweresearching for something butcouldn’t find it.” She was

thankful thebloodwasat thebackof the room,around theconference table. If Thomashadbeenkillednearthefiles,she wouldn’t be sortingthroughpaper.Gretchengaveanevilgrin.

“Couldn’t find it ’cause theydidn’t understand my filingsystem.”Or lack thereof, Evelyn

thought. “Ormaybe they justwantedtomakeamess.”

“I vote on themess angle.It has that feel to it.”Detective Reese appearedthoughtful. “So just thebackupharddriveismissing,a few jump drives, and thememory board out of thecomputer. All the digitalfiles.”“And about that Buick

Zaxil mentioned,” Evelynsaid.“We’re looking for it,” the

detectivereturned.Evelyn had walked

Detective Reese around theissue of clients and therecords, and the policecorrectly hadn’t tried toappropriate any of the files.Attorney-client privilegeextendedbeyondthedeathofthe attorney. It took a courtorder to get past that. Still,Evelynconcededalittleinaneffort to help find the man

who’d brought the dark feyinto the office; she told thedetective the titles ofThomas’s active cases. Thedetective could look upwhatever was public aboutthem in court records andfollowleadsthatway.Evelyn tooka fewminutes

tocallVaughan’soffice.Shetold his clerk Holder’s casewas being passed onto to adesignated attorney and

requested the matter bemovedbackaweek.“Gotta do something about

that blood back by theconference table, Evey,”Gretchen said. “It smellsawful. Like a morgue inhere.”“Ihavesomeonecomingin

about seven.”Evelynhad setup the appointment with acompany that specialized incrime scene cleanup, and

seven was the quickest theysaid they could get here. Itshould take two hours maxfor a single slaying, theproprietorhadtoldher.“Ilikedthisjob,”Gretchen

grumbled. “I reallydid.”Sheput her bony hands on herhips and stared at Evelyn.“Can’t you keep this placeopen?Gothalfadozenactivecaseshere.Youshouldfinishthem. Thomas could finish

them.”“Undead can have jobs,

Gretchen, but ghosts are notrecognized legally becausethey have no physicalpresence. And as for me—”Evelyn had explained this toGretchen an hour ago. “Idon’t have my license topracticelaw.”“You and me,” Gretchen

continued, “we know moreabout the law than Thomas

did…does. You know that,and he knew … knows …that.”“Doesn’t work that way.”

Evelynwasgoingtomisstheoffice too. Maybe a part ofherhadthoughtshe’dbeableto stay here after her degreeand license, thatThomasandshe could find enoughbusinesstokeeptwofull-timeattorneysbusy.“CrystalGayeiscomingover tonight toget

thefiles.”“Who?”“Crystal Gaye. She’s an

attorney friend of Thomas’s.They went to Stanfordtogether. Thomas has herlisted as the attorneydesignated to pick up hiscaseload.” Evelyn had foundthat paperwork first thing.Attorneys were supposed todesignate with the statesupreme courtwhich of their

fellows their cases passed toiftheydiedorbecameunableto continue their practice. Itwould be up to the clients iftheywantedtostaywithsaidnew attorney—Crystal Gaye,inThomas’scase.“Iknowhowitallworks,”

Gretchen grumbled. “But itshouldn’twork thatway.Meand you, we could handlethosecases.Ilikedthisjob.Ireallydid.”

OOO“Crystal’s good,” Thomas

told Evelyn after GretchenandDetective Reese left. Helooked like the fog that onsome mornings climbed thepilings of the Golden GateBridge. “She’s with a three-manfirmdowntown,andtheycanspreadthecasesoutsoitwon’t overload them.Specialize in malpractice,wrongfuldeath,andthelike.”

“You’re a victim ofwrongfuldeath.”They’d stood there for

several moments, or ratherEvelyn stood while Thomasfloated, listening to thesounds of traffic, and tomusic that spilled out theopendoorsof thebarsacrossthe street—one blues, theother rock, a miasma ofracketindisagreeingkeys.“Idon’twanttogiveupthe

cases, you know,” Thomasfinallysaid.“Iputalotofhoursonthe

Holdercase.I thinktherearesome things I could file tokeepme on theHolder case.Butitwouldbealotofwork—thatandschool,andI’msoclose to finishing. I don’twant to jeopardize anythingwiththebarcomingup.”“Crystal’s good. Don’t

worry. She can handle

Holder.”Evelyn decided to change

the subject. “Your sister iscoming over tomorrow. Shecalled, said she’s planningyour funeral for Tuesday.”She still couldn’t recall thewoman’s name. “Are you…uhm … going to showyourself?”“I suppose I’ll have to.

Otherwise I can’t tell her Iwant you to have all my

books.Norights,Ican’tholdontoproperty.”Helaughed.Itwas a haunting, sad sound.“Hell, I can’t hold ontoanything. It passes rightthroughmyhands.”“Thomas—”“Seriously, though. I want

you to have all my books. Iknow you like books. Andyoushouldn’tmove.NotuntilMarch anyway. The rent forthe whole building is paid

untilthefirstofMarch.Trytohelp Zaxil find anothertenant.”If—when—she moved,

she’d probably never seeThomas again. If he wasanything like Val, he wasanchored to this place.Another business wouldmove in … if Zaxil waslucky.If thecondodevelopercame in and tore this placedown,wouldThomasandVal

dieagain?“Ihave togo. Ihavesome

errands to run. Then I’mmeeting Dagger for an earlydinner, see if he foundanything. Then I’m comingback to let … I’m comingbacktotendtosomethings.”She didn’t want to tellThomas that the cleaner wasgoing to wipe up his bloodand make the place smellnew. He’d probably watch it

happenandcoulddealwithitthen.Evelynhurriedout,locking

the door behind her. In thelow sixties on the street, itwasquiteabitwarmerthanithad been in the office whenThomaswasaround.

Chapter1.13

Dagger arrived early at theJasmine Garden II on lowerHaight, cleaned up in therestroom, picked out a table,andwasonhissecondpotofteawhenEvelyncamein.“It was a hit,” he told

Evelyn before she had achancetositdown.He thought she looked

tired, a little pale, probablyhad been through anemotional wringer losing her

second boss. She’d fixed hergaze on his swelling, purplecheek from where he’dconnectedwith the bathroomsinkin thebikerbar.Butshedidn’taskhimaboutit.The waitress appeared and

handed Evelyn a menu.Dagger had already studiedhis.Evelyncontinuedtostareat

him.“I will come back,” the

waitress said in heavilyaccentedEnglish.“Iwillgiveyou some time to look over—”“No,we’re ready.”Dagger

stopped her. “Thit nuongcuonwith peanut sauce, comtomrimcha,andahalforderof com bat buu tom rimi forme.Theladywilltakeabowlofbunocandcomgaxaoxaot.” He handed the menusback.“Andkeepthetranong

coming. Ineed thecaffeine.”They’d eaten here before;Dagger remembered whatEvelyn had ordered the lasttime, saying she adored thelemonchicken.Evelynwrappedherfingers

around the cup, and hepoured her some tea. Sheusually put one packet ofsugar in it,butnot today.Hestudiedher.Sheranherindexfingers around the rim and

stared at the tea’s surface toavoidlookingathim.Daggercouldn’t tell if she waswallowing in grief or self-pity. He wasn’t worried oneither account; he knewEvelynwas toughandwouldgetoverit.The restaurant was fairly

busy for five.More thanhalfof the patrons were seniorcitizens. This early, theelderly turned out in droves

for the specials. Theirconversations were aboutgrandchildren, doctor visits,andtheupcomingelection.There was canned music

playing, soft and under theshush of conversations.He’dspent time in Thailand andVietnam and recognized theinstruments: a jakhe and afewklong jins, and the song,“Sa-Bai Sa-Bai.” Daggerdidn’tlikeorientalrestaurants

that played American music.If he was eating ethnic, hewantedthewholeexperience.“Evey, it didn’t have the

finesseofabullettothebackof the head, but that wouldhavemadeit looklikeahit.”Dagger sat back as thewaitress brought their food.“Cảmơnbạn,”hetoldherinVietnamese.“Comgaxaoxaot.” He waited until shereturned with another pot of

teaand thenretreated tovisither other tables. “Theywanted to make it look likesomething else, like maybeTom had crossed someonewith one of his cases, orstepped on the wrong set oftoes.Maybe that he’d pissedoff an OT client, and hencethe OT coming to tear himapart.” He ate the shrimpfirst, and watched as Eveyplayed with her soup. “But

they didn’t want it to looklikeahit.”When he was pretty sure

she wasn’t going to actuallyeat, he dropped more news.“The guy in the hoodie …he’d juiced up the fey, withsomething that set it out ofcontrol.Got a syringewith atrace of the juice in it, and afriendatthelabischeckingitout.Theguy,theoneholdingthe fey’s leash, I haven’t

found him yet. But I have agood lead, Evey. He’s aganger, hasn’t been back onthe street very long, owedsomepeoplesomefavors.”“So whoever he owed a

favorto,”Evelynsaid,“that’swho ordered the hit onThomas.”“My guess.” Dagger

thoughtthepeanutsaucewasa little too salty.He finishedtheshrimpandstartedon the

rice. “The fey’s a dead end,though, Evey. Literally.” Hecould tell from her archedeyebrows that she didn’tknow. “Someone gave him aChristmastreetothestomachand shifted gears about anhour and a half ago,supposedly a liferwith a fullhate-onforOTs.”He’dtaughtEvey enough of theterminology, that it was atypeofshank.“Theliferwas

amemberofaLatingang.”“Thesamegangastheguy

whoheldtheleash.”Evelyn always caught on

fast.“SoIneedtofindwho’sat

the top of the favor-chain,Evey.”She set her spoon down.

DaggerfinishedhismealandaskedforEvey’stobeboxedupwithacoupleofextrabeefrollsanda largeto-gocupof

tea. He’d stop by the alleyand drop the meal on Sadie,shouldmake her predisposedto him if he ever needed tochatagain.“This favor-chain,” Evelyn

broached. “You’ll follow itright?” She paused andpickeduptheteacupagain.Itwas empty, but it kept herhands occupied. “I can’t payyoumuch,Dagger.Whatevermoney the firm had, that’s

going to Thomas’s sister.Even though he was young,he’dhadtheforesighttodraftawill, andhe left everythingto her. Nothing goes to hisfather, they didn’t get along.A ghost, he can’t ownproperty. Whatever moneythereis—”“This one’s on the house,

Evey.”Shebrightenedjustalittle.“But know that I don’t

make a practice of workinggratis.Notevenforyou.”“You’re going back to it

now, right? Tracking thefavor-chain?”“Can’twork tonight,Evey.

Not even for you. Not forThomas theFriendlyGhost.”Itwasanotherfullmoon.“Dagger,youhaveto.This

is important. His sister iscoming by tomorrow. Iwantto tell her something. The

detective, she’s good,Dagger,but shedoesn’thaveyour resources. You have to—”“Backoff,Evey.”The waitress returned with

his to-go box and largeStyrofoamcupoftea.Hestoodandfixedhiseyes

on Evelyn, showing adarkness he usually reservedfor people like the ones he’dbeaten up at the biker bar.

“I’mnot on the case tonight,understand? Leave it at that.Not happening. Other plans.I’ll be back on it in themorning. Late in themorning.” He’d turn off hiscellphoneforgoodmeasure.Themoonwouldbefull,so

he anticipated another roughnight.

Chapter1.14

“Exotic,” Sadie pronouncedtheVietnamese take-out.Sheprovided a few more detailsfromthenightofthemurder.“Shit.” Dagger looked at

hiswatch:6:30.He had two hours and

twenty-five minutesaccording to the localmeteorologist’s report. Not alot of time toworkwith, but

perhapsworthatry.It was a strip club on

FolsomStreet,withatwenty-dollar cover charge that lefthim only a twenty in hiswallet. The neon was pinkand purple, twisting likespaghetti along the ceilingand above the small stage.Threewomenundulatedonit,two of them human, one ofthem a slight green fey withgossamerbutterflywingsthat

sparkled like glitter, a lookerand a half, he thought. Thetrio had gotten rid ofwhateverthey’dbeenwearingbeforeDaggerhadcomein.A waitress with a few too

manypoundsforherG-stringtoddledoverandpointedtoatable.Dagger shookhis headand said something. Sheshrugged, not hearing himover the new age music thatblasted from speakers in the

bar.He leaned close, his keen

sensespickinguphercologne—cheap,alongwiththescentof cigarettes on her breath,perspiration, and deodorantthat was failing her. “SlyRedmond. I’m looking forSly.”Shepouted,andwavedtoa

booth at theverybackby anemergency exit sign. “You afriendofhis?”

“No.” Dagger brushed byher.Hecouldfeelthebeatofthe bass coming up throughthe soles of his shoes; itwasthat loud. Already he had aheadachefromthisplace.Theodors of beer and whiskeywerenearlystrongenough tochokehim.Keensenseswerehellsometimes.Only half the tables were

occupied,butitwasearlyforaplacelikethis,especiallyon

aFridaynight.He sat opposite aman that

weighed more than threehundred pounds, barrel chestwedged against the table intheboothsothatsomeof thefat spilled over on thesurface.Hewas Latino,witha tattoo like the men in therestroom at the biker bar, asimilar scar on his facemarking some sort of prisonrite of passage. Dagger

glancedathiswatch.“Do I know you?” The

man’swordshadaroundnesstothem;he’dbeendrinking.“No.”He leaned forward, as

much as the table allowedhim.Therewasameannesstohisdarkeyes.Daggermethisstare.“Sly, you own a car I’m

interestedin.”“Idon’tthinkso.”

The waitress came by andset a beer in front of the bigmanthenlookedtoDagger.“Nothingrightnow.”She shrugged and jiggled

away.“A Buick. A rusted-to-shit

Buick.”The big man gripped the

edge of the table and startedto squeeze out of the booth.Dagger was fast. He was upand out of his side and into

theotherwedgedagainstSly.In the same motion he’dpulled a gun and pressed itagainsttheman’sstomach.“It wasn’t you driving the

Buick last night,” Daggersaid. With his free hand hepickedupthebeerandtookadrink. Nothing special, hepushed it away. “That was amanwithyourheightbutnotyour girth. Your brother.Brother-in-law.”

“He’snothere.”Theman’seyes flitted toward the bar.“He’snot—”“That’s the problem with

taking a booth like this, eh?Too far from the action.Nobody to see the Berretta.”Hepusheditharder.“Mybrother-in-law—”“Yeah, yeah. I know.He’s

not here. He’s the one whotold me where I could findyou.”

Thebigmanmoved, usinghisbulk to shoveDaggeroutof the booth. He pushed offon the table, tipping it andspilling thebeer,drawing theattention of a passingwaitress, who gave them alook and then rushed towardthe bar, waving her emptytray to get someone’sattention.DaggershovedtheBerretta

in thewaistband of his jeans

and spun behind the man,reached up and grabbed hiscollar and a handful of theback of his shirt andpropelled him toward theback door, convenientlylocatedonlyafewfeetaway.Behind him the club wasbuzzing with “what’s goingons?”“That’s theproblemwitha

booth like that, makes ittougher to get help,” Dagger

told him.An alarm sounded;it was some sort of a firedoor, the alarm also servingas a warning that maybecustomers were leavingwithoutpayingtheirbills.The alley behind the club

was cluttered withoverflowing trash bins.Garbage pickup must betomorrow, Dagger thought,given the sheer amount ofaccumulation.

“I figure Idon’thavea lotof time to do this civilized,”Dagger said, pushing Slyfarther from the club. Theman struggled against him,but he was bulk withoutmuscle, and he’d apparentlyhad enough to drink that hewasuncoordinated.“They’ll come after you,”

Slysaid,hiswordsstillroundfrom alcohol. “You can’t getawayfromthis.”

“You better hope theydon’t come out here.” Thelast timeDaggerhadglancedathiswatchithadread8:45.“And you better talk veryfast, or unfortunately for theboth of us, I’m going to tearintoyou.”The fire door opened

behind them, and Daggerheardmen trompout, twoorthree;hewasn’tgoingtoturnaroundandlook.

“This isn’t your concern!”he called to them. He gaveSlyanothershoveanddughisfingers into the back of hisneck.“Tell themto leave it.”Dagger’s voice had changed,sounding gravelly. Hegrowledforemphasis.“It’s okay,” Sly shouted.

“Gobackinside.”There was some shuffling,

and then the door closed. Itsounded like theywerealone

again, but Dagger suspectedthere would be morecompany soon. Musclesbunched in Dagger’s neck.This was the second timetoday he’d not beenespecially smart—followingthe guy into the bathroom inthe biker bar and workingtonight. He’d told Evey hewouldn’t. He should havestucktothat.Daggerthrewtheguydown

and rolledhimover,droppedto his knees on his stomachand grabbed the man’s thickthroat. Sly struggled, and inthe light from a bare bulbhanging over a business’sback door Dagger saw theman’s eyes bug out. He quitwiggling and Dagger easedup.“You need to talk fast,”

Daggergrowled.Hefeltveinsrisinginthesidesofhisneck,

felt his heart hammering inhis chest. “You sent yourbrother-in-law after ThomasBrock.”“Wh-wh-who?” Sly

managed.“Theyoungattorney.”Sly’s eyes glimmered with

understanding.“Why did you want him

dead?”“Following orders,” Sly

said.“Payingadebt.”

“Igetthat.”Daggerpressedinagainandwatchedtheeyesbug wider. “Who’s holdingyourleash,Sly?Andwhydidthey want Thomas Brockdead?”“Not just Brock. The

woman,too.Theredheadtoo.Everyoneinthatoffice.Allofthemdead.”Sly told him a little more

before Dagger pushed offhim, his blood running hot

andhurtful.Dagger loped out of the

alley.

Chapter1.15

Thecleanerhadshowedupalittleearly;Evelynfoundhimwaiting in a big gray van intheloadingzonespotinfrontof the abandoned building

next door. The space wasmarked for 15-minutes, butno one paid attention to that,notevenpassingpolice.Shethoughttherewouldbe

a sizeable crew, but it wasonlytwo,onearetiredpoliceofficer who owned thecompany, and the other azombie that had retainedenough of its intellect tofollow instructions and whohad only a little odor about

him. Both wore caps andcoveralls. Though Evelynconsidered herselfnonjudgmental, she wasthankfulfortheirattire,asthezombiewasaparticularlyoldone, and from looking at hisface and hands, he appearedtobemorebonesthanflesh.“Don’t need the air-

conditioner on tonight,” theretired cop had said as hestarted towork. “You like to

keep it cold inhere for somereason?”Wrapped in a sweater, she

sat at Gretchen’s desk,occasionally working acrossword puzzle whilelisteningtothemscrub.Itwaschilly, Thomas wassomewhere watching; maybeValwaswith him, adding tothedropintemperature.The cleansers they used

had a surprisingly pleasant

smell. She didn’t have towatch toknowwhat themenwere doing. She heard thesloshing soundof amopandthe scritch-scratching of ascrubbrush.Oneofthemhadplugged something in, not avacuum; it didn’t have thatsound. She was curious, butnotenoughtoturnaroundandlook. The zombie startinghumming or whistling, itwasn’t terribly distinct with

the soundof theappliance inthe background, and it tookher a moment to realize thetune was “Poker Face,” thepop version by Lady Gaga,notthepianoone.An hour into the cleaning

work, Crystal Gaye arrived,knocking repeatedly to beheard over everything to getEvelyn’sattention.She was pretty, Evelyn

thought. No, gorgeous, she

correctedherself.Gayecouldhave passed for CindyCrawford in her model daysof twenty years past. Gayeeven had a beauty mark.Evelyn remembered Thomashad referred to Crystal ashaving a “sparkling”personality in a conversationseveral months back. It waswhen he told Evelyn abouthis designated attorneypaperwork.

“Thomas spoke well ofyou,” Evelyn said, thinkingshe should say something.Would Thomas showhimself?Theairwassochillyshe could faintly see herbreath.“Wewent outmost of our

second year at Stanford.”Gaye smiled, revealing glosswhite teeth, too even tohavebeenbornwiththemlikethat,Evelynthought.Herlipswere

a dark red, her face lightlytanned, and her eyes large,brown,andexpressive.“TomandI…ah,wewerequitetheitem.”Evelyn waited, wanting to

know why they’d stoppedseeing each other, or to pickup any juicy romance gossipforthatmatter.ShefiguredithadtobeCrystalthatbrokeitoff.Whatmanwouldquitonsuchabeautifulwoman?And

a woman with brains too, tomake it through Stanford.CrystalGayewaswhat somefolkswouldcallthecompletepackage.Gaye looked behind her to

the sidewalk and waved. Ayoung man trotted in andpropped open the front door.“I figure Anton here …Anton, meet Miss EvelynLove,Evelyn,meetAnton…can put the filing cabinet

drawers in the back of myIsuzu. You don’t mind, doyou?ThosefilecabinetslooksoGoodwill.Iforgottobringboxes.”“No.” Evelyn’s voice was

flat. “I don’t need the filecabinets. Take the drawers.Take the cabinets.” She wasmore than certain Thomas’sbrother and sister wouldn’twantthemeither.“Well, then, Anton, if you

wouldbesogood?”He paused, looking to the

backoftheoffice.“Just work around them,”

Evelyn said, still refusing toturn around. “Just workaround them.”Shecouldstillsee the blood pool in hermind. The area by the filecabinets hadn’t been touchedby Thomas’s splatter. Antoncouldeasilygettothefiles.Evelyn returned to

Gretchen’s desk, and Gayestood in front of it, steeplingher manicured nails againstthe oak. Gaye’s smilingdemeanor had vanished, andEvelyn thought she lookedhonestlysad.“I really cared about him,

Miss Love. I always thoughtwe’d end up together, TomandI,havingourownfirm.”Evelynfilledaword in the

crossword puzzle and put

down the pen, looked up ather.“The lawgot in theway, I

guess,” Gaye said. “Got inbothourways.”They watched Anton carry

out two file drawers at thesametime.“I’mjustgoingtoload the drawers,” he said.“ThecabinetswillfallapartifImovethem.”“Strong,” Gaye said.

“Strong, sweet, and could

giveawitaboutthelaw.”Hereturnedandheadedbackforanother load. “I heard thedark fey that killed Thomasgotknifedinjail.”“Before his preliminary

hearingwasevenscheduled.”Evelyn had wanted to attendthat,wanted tohearwhat thedefensewouldsay.“Somesatisfactioninthat,I

suppose,” Gaye said. Antonwalkedpastwithanothertwo

drawers, nearly tripping onthestepatthesidewalk.“There’s more paper than

you thought there’d be,Crystal,” Anton hollered.“Wemighthavetomaketwotripswithyourcar.”“You can squeeze it all in

there. Get creative,” shecalledback.Evelynwasonthevergeof

tears again. Thomasphysically gone, now the

files…someofit,alotofit,herwork—goingoutthedoorbecauseshedidn’thavealawlicense. She should havetaken more courses, workedless,andearnedthedegreebythe end of last May so shecould have taken the bar inAugust. Thomas could havedesignated her; the paperwould be staying, the caseswould be staying. Her workwouldn’t be going out the

door in the arms of a strongyoung man named Antonwho worked for a gorgeouswomanwhousedto“bequitetheitem”withThomas.“We’ll start calling the

clients on Monday, see whowants to stay with us, whowants to seek otherrepresentation,”Gayesaid.“There’sonlyadozenopen

cases,”Evelynsaid.“Mostofthemminor.There’sjustalot

of paper. Past cases, somecases thatnevermaterialized,stufflikethat.IthinkThomaslovedpaper. Iput theHolderstuff in the red folders sothey’d stand out. JudgeVaughan was supposed tohear more of the argumentsMonday,therestofThomas’sarguments. But I sent over anoteaskingittobecontinuedtothefollowingweek.”Evelyn gave Gaye a quick

run-down of the child-custody issue involving theghoul. “Thomas was sure hewas going to win it. I wassure, too. Holder deserves tosee the kids. You shouldprobablycallhimrightaway.I told him about you thismorning, that you wereThomas’s designatedattorney.”“In fact,Holder calledme,

justalittlewhileago.Weset

up a meeting for latetomorrow afternoon.Interesting case. I’ll startreading his files right away.I’ve nothing else planned forthe weekend,” Gaye said.“And I’m familiar withVaughan; he might want tokeeptheMondaydate,soI’llmakesureI’mready.”Evelyn felt a gooddose of

relief. The total package:beautiful, smart,andeager to

stepinandhelp.Thomashadmade an excellent choicedesignating her. MaybeEvelyncouldlooktothatlawfirmwhenshepassedthebar,seeiftheymighthireher.The zombie started

whistling-humming anothertune: “Jesus Frankenstein,”fromRobZombie’sHellbillyDeluxe.“Appropriate music,”

Evelynmused.

Gaye laughed, the soundwaslikecrystalwindchimes.It carried through the office,and the zombie stoppedhumming.Aminutemore ofshuffling and scritch-scratching and the appliancewas turned off. It soundedlike they were packing uptheir equipment and buckets.“And you’re right, MissLove, Thomas always didlovepaper.Ihardlykeepany

around. Save trees and allthat. I prefer everythingdigital. Keeps my officeclean.”“The office is clean!” the

retired cop announced,tromping to the front, thezombieshufflingbehindhim.“Goodasnew.Giveusalittlebit and we’ll have all ourstuffoutofhere.”

OOOThomas appeared above

Gretchen’s desk after Gayeandthecleanersweregone.“I don’t know why I’m

here,Evelyn.”Hisvoicewasclearerthanwhenhe’dtalkedtoherbefore.Evelynthoughtmaybe it took some gettingusedto,beingaghost.Maybehe’d practiced his dictionwhen he’d hovered in thewalls, and so could talklouder and could enunciatebetter now. “I don’t know

whyIdidn’tgo—”Heletthethoughthang.“—wherever it is spirits

go?” Evelyn finished. “Iprefer to call that heaven.”Despite everything life hadthrown at her … fromchildhood on, Evelynbelieved in God. She’dpicked theCatholic faith justbecausewhenshewasachildthere was a big Catholicchurchacrossfromwhereshe

andhermotherwere staying,and she found a measure ofpeace inside it. And thoughthey moved around, therealways seemed to be a big,beautiful Catholic churchnearby. “I believe in heaven,Thomas.”The ghost wavered for a

moment. “I don’t knowwhatIbelieve,Evelyn.”Was Thomas’s soul not

ready to move on? Soul, it

had been number forty-threedown in the crosswordpuzzle. And what aboutHolder’s soul?And the soulsof the other dead-but-not-deadOTs?Evelynwasreservingallof

Sunday for church, planningon attending both morningservices at Saint Agnes. Shewantedtoprayforalloftheirsouls. Maybe she’d even gobackintheevening.

“I don’t know what I canbelieve,Evelyn.”“I believe I’m exhausted,

Thomas.”Andshewas.Eventhough her thoughts werefilledwithangstandherheartwas so unsettled, she knewsleep would come easytonight.And she knew she’dhave to practically set thealarmrightnext toherearorshe wouldn’t ever wake up.“Goodnight,Thomas.”

“Goodnight,Evelyn.”She leftand lockedup; the

glow from the streetlightspilling in through the officewindowsshowed thathe stillfloated above Gretchen’sdesk.

Chapter1.16

Evelyn spent the day at the

law school library, returningto her apartment long afterdark.She’driddenthebusfora while after the libraryclosed,andthenwentoutfordinner before riding it again.She briefly entertained thenotionofcallingforThomas,to ask how the day with hissister went. Instead, sheheaded straight upstairs,flicked on the lights, anddropped her backpack,

startled that aman sat at hertinykitchentable.“Ilikewhatyou’vedoneto

the place,” Dagger said. “Alittle more furnishings thanyour previous digs. I can seethatyou’vegoneall-out.”Evelyn’s apartment was

barelyfurnished.Thekitchenhad a table that doubled as adesk, and two chairs. Thelivingroomwasalittlebetter,witha reclinernext toapole

lamp,afutonthatpassedforacouch, and a 14” televisionperched on an upended milkcrate.Therewerenopictureson the wall, no knickknacks,nothing to give it a homeyfeelortogiveitthelookthatsomeonelivedhere.“Didn’t know they still

madeTVsetsthatsmall.”Evelyndidn’tbothertoask

howhegot in.Daggerdidn’tneedkeys.Infact,he’dtaught

her the art of picking a lock.He’d been here a while. Shenoticed her teakettle on thefront burner—she alwayskept it on the back, and anoverturnedcoffeemugonthedrainernexttothesink.The purple mass of bruise

on his cheek had gone downsomewhat, more than itshould have since yesterday.But there were otherscratches and scrapes that

hadn’t been there whenthey’dmetat theVietnameserestaurant.Twoofthefingerson his left hand were tapedtogether.“I could use a drink,” she

said.“Howaboutyou?”He raised an eyebrow.

“Toughday?”“CrystalGaye.”“I take it that’s not a

pastry.”“Iwish.Yesterdayshewas

withBoyd,Cranston&Gaye.She was hired this morningbyBrock,Davis&Davis.”Daggerwatchedher.Evelynpulledoutthechair

across fromDagger. “CrystalGayeisThomas’sattorneyofrecord, and so she got all ofhis case files, including thecustody case. Holder’s ex-wifeisrepresentedbyBrock,Davis & Davis. Want to bettheyhiredGayesotheycould

get the files? Mr. Holdercould have asked for anotherattorney or gone to anotherfirm, but dear Crystal Gayegothimtoacceptasettlementofjointcustodythatisonlyahair better than the previousarrangement. I think Thomascould have got him fullcustody.”Daggerdidn’tsayanything.“So I’ve been at the law

library all day. I’m going to

file the paperwork to getsomeofourothercasesback.Somehow I’m going to trycases myself.” She leanedagainst thebackof the chair.“But you don’t knowanything about the Holdercaseandcouldgivearat’sassabout the Holder case, oraboutanyofourcases.AndIcoulduseadrink.”“Inoticedyouhaveabottle

ofShiraz.”

She got up and took thebottle from the cabinet andbrought down two glasses.Shedidn’thavewineglasses,just small tumblers morefitting for orange juice.Evelynopenedthebottlewitha pocketknife. One of thesedays she’d buy a regularcorkscrew, but she didn’thavewine all that often. Shebrought the glasses and thebottletothetable.

Dagger took thebottle andpoured. Evelyn realized herhandswereshaking.Shesat.“Soenoughofmy

day. You worked today,right?”“Some.Mostlylastnight.”“I thought you weren’t

goingto—”Hisnarroweyes endedher

sentence.ShewantedtoaskDaggera

lot of things, but she knew

better, and so kept thequestionstoherself.He rubbedat a spoton the

kitchen table, a discoloredpiece of Formica that noamount of scrubbing woulderase. “Last night I foundsome people, the man whoheld the fey’s leash, and themanwhointurnheldhis.”Evelyn splayed her fingers

on the table, her thumbstraveling along the Formica

likeitwasaworrystone.Thisbuilding was so quiet. Nocreaks fromThomaswalkingupstairs, nothing from theofficebelow…nosoundsofworking that she once foundcomfortable. There was faintmusic; she had to focus tohear it, coming from one ofthe bars. Wynton Marsalis’srecording of “Deep in theSouth.” One of the barsplayed that particular tune a

lot.“And—”It seemed that Dagger

wasn’t going to give up hisinformation withoutprompting. “And—” shepromptedagain.Daggertookaswallowand

nodded. “Good wine,” hesaid. A few moments later:“His name was EmilioHernandez.”Evelyncaughtthe“was.”

“He wasn’t much of atalker, but with a littlepersuasion he admitted hejuiced up the fey. He didn’tknow what it was, the mix.Hewasjustgivenabottleandsyringeandwastolditwouldmakethefey‘goallapeshit.’And Emilio didn’t get anymoneyoutofthedeal;hewasjust doing a favor for hisbrother.”“Hisbrother?”

“Brother-in-law actually.SlyRedmond,whowasdoingafavorforsomeoneelse.”Evelynletoutabreaththat

teased the curls against herforehead.“The favor came down a

longchain,butattheendofitis a business man, maybeuntouchable. FranklinArnold … a man with twofirstnames.”“DearGod.”

“Soyouknowwhoheis?”“He owns some things in

the city, buildings, acorporation or two, mighteven own some localpoliticians.” Evelyn clutchedthe glass tightly. “He boughtthe building next door. He’skeeping it vacant because heneeds this one too for hisplans.Wantstoputupluxurycondominiums.”They drank the first glass

of wine and Dagger pouredthemeachasecond.“I can’t believe Thomas

waskilledoverthisbuilding.”Dagger poured himself a

third glass, finishing thebottle. Evelyn felt a littlelight-headed from the wine,butitlookedlikeDaggerwaswhollyunaffected.“IthinkThomaswaskilled

for a lot of reasons,”Daggersaid. “This Arnold fellow, I

did a little sniffing. He alsoowns the building Brock,Davis&Davisnestsin.”“That’s the law firm of

Thomas’s father. One of thebiggestinthecity.”“Arnold is buddy-buddy

with Brock and the seniorDavis, and he’s on recordagainstOTs.”“Thomas’sfather—”“Doesn’t likeOTs either, I

know,” Dagger said. “But I

doubt very much he’d havehisownsoniced.”“ButArnold…”“Yeah,Arnoldwastheone

that called for the hit onThomas.”“Canyouproveit?”“Fromacommentmadeby

a frightened ganger behind anudie bar?No.”Dagger tooka long swallow of wine. “Ican’t prove it. Not yet.” Herubbed at the stained spot of

Formicaoncemore,and thenfixed Evelyn with afrighteningglare.“Therewasa second target Thursdaynight. The fey was supposedto get Thomas … and you,probably Gretchen for goodmeasure if she’d been theretoo.”Evelyn nearly tipped her

glassover.“Me,butI—”He upended the last of his

Shiraz,stood,andbrushedhis

palmsagainsthisjeans.Evelyn felt the color drain

fromherface.Daggerwalkedtothedoor.

“Watch your back, Evey.Then when you get thatprecious degree, get the hellout of San Francisco. Pickanother city to take the barexamin.”Heclosedthedoorbehind him and trompeddownthestairs.“Like hell,” Evelyn said,

staring at the empty winebottle. “Like hell. I’m goingto get my degree and keepthis law office open. I’m notgoinganywhere.”

Chapter1.17

Thomas floated above thespotwherehe’ddied.He wanted to feel

something.Hedid—remorse,loss,anger,uncertainty,terroroverhiscondition,andevenatouch of joy to know thatthere was something beyonddeath. But he wanted to feelsomething.When hewas outonthestreetearlierinthedayhe hadn’t felt the drizzle ofrain thatpassed throughhim,couldn’tfeeltheroughnessofthe sidewalk or the sharpedges of his building. He

couldn’tfeelthesunaftertheclouds went away, or thewind that he could tell wasblowing. Crumpled upwrappers scudded along thecurbinthebreeze.He couldn’t feel the

temperature—nothing washot or cold, and he hadn’tbeenabletotouchhissister’sface when he’d showed hisghostly self and she startedcrying. He’d wanted

desperately towipeawayhertears.But more than that, he’d

wantedtotouchEvelynwhenshe’d returned late tonightand stood on the corner,looking at the dark office.He’d hovered behind her,unseen, insubstantial fingersreachingoutanddisappearinginside the pack strapped toherback.Hefeltnothing.

Evelynsaidshebelievedinheaven.Thomas wondered if this

wassomesortofhell.And, if his ephemeral

existence here was onlytemporary, he wanted toknowwhat would cause himto move on. What was hisunfinishedbusiness?There was much he had

wanted to do with his life,professionallyandpersonally.

All of his plans wereunfinished business in somesense,but somehowheknewdeep inside that onemust bethe key. He needed to knowwhat that key was, so hecould unlock that mysteriousdoortowhatevercamenextata time of his choosing. Thatway everything he hadwouldn’t be yanked awayfrom him without warning,like it had been on the night

hewasmurdered.Hard to know the future,

though.Still, he couldn’t help

feeling there was some cluehewasmissing,somethingorsomeonewhomight tell himwhatcamenext.

OOONikaRondik put down the

main section of the mostrecent edition of The SanFrancisco Chronicle and

sighedasshepushedupfromthedinettetabletofixherselfasecondcupoftea.Thestoryabout ThomasBrock’s grislymurder was more thandepressing; it was physicallyenervating,especiallysinceitwasallso…unnecessary.Damn receptionist,

probably never even toldThomasshehadcalled.The whole world knows

that magic exists, that

supernatural creatures roamthe earth. But claim to be apsychic and no one believesanythingyousay.Not even when it is a

matteroflifeandundeath.She had another vision

about the young lawyerduring the night, but therewas no sense calling again.Themanwasdead,thepolicealwaysskeptical.Besides, all she saw this

time was green-veinedgranite. The poor fellow’sheadstone, no doubt, hisepitaphwritinstone.How could that possibly

helpsolvehismurder?***

Case#2WritinStone

Chapter2.1

“Ididnothaveauselesslife,Evelyn Love.” The gargoylewas one of the moregrotesque-lookingonesinthecity. He had the face of ademon and a body thatresembled a scaly ape. Pete,thegargoyle thatguarded thebuilding where she workedand lived, was downrightcuddlycomparedtothisrock.

But just because he was ascary-looking, sentient stonecarving, didn’t meanThurman didn’t havefeelings,too,justlikeanyoneelse,humanorparanormal.Evelyn rested her hand on

Thurman’s shoulder, thegreen-veined granite smoothfrom the decades of rain andwindandfeelingcoolagainstherpalm.Shelookedoverthebuilding edge, ten stories up

from the street. “I couldn’tgetaninjunctionand—”“You have been most

kind,”Thurmansaid.Sheheldthesmallrecorder

in front of his expressionlessface, her fingers tremblingand her stomach twisting.Evelyn felt in partresponsible; if she’d beenvictorious in court shewouldn’tberecordinghislastwords. The two of them

might be celebrating with agoodmicro-brew.“My last words?” The

gargoyletwistedhishead,thesound grating like stoneagainst stone and setting herteeth to ache. “I thought anearthquakewould be the endof me, lightning, or someother act of God that I’dgrown too weak to standagainst.Thatiswhatwedo—fortify the structures we

choose as our homes. Ourpresence protects andstrengthens buildings, and Istruggled very hard to keepthisoneintact.Ididnothavea useless life. I coaxed thestone around me to railagainst the big earthquake in1906,andallthesmalleronesthatcameinthedecadesafter.That is our purpose, Evelyn,to give our magic to thebuilding we’re attached to.

Keepitsafe,thepeopleinsidesafe. It iswhywe exist.”Hepointed toabuildingdirectlyacross the street. “From thefiresthatfollowedin1906…thatwillbe theonlysurvivorfrom this neighborhood.Andallthatremainsoriginalthereis the sandstone façade.” Hesighed,thesoundlikethesurfhushing in. “I watched themrebuild that one. AlbertPissis, the architect, he kept

the façade for posterity,designedthedepartmentstorebehind it. I listened to him,directing the workers. HequotedsomeonenamedRizal,and it stuckwithme. ‘It is auseless life that is notconsecratedtoagreatideal.Itis like a stonewasted on thefieldwithoutbecomingapartofanyedifice.’Ididnothaveauselesslife.”A tear slid down Evelyn’s

cheek.Shepulled inabreathand glanced down at thesmallcrowdbeyondthecraneonMarketStreet.Ten storiesup, she couldn’t read thesigns some of them carried.Police kept them back forsafety. Christmas decorationshunginsomeofthewindows,lighted wreaths fromlampposts, the cheeryappearance seemingincongruoustoher.

There were sawhorsebarricadesonbothendsoftheblock, and she knew theywould remain throughout theweek, no doubt pissing offthe neighboring merchantswhowouldhaveaslow-downinbusiness.“Time’s up!” came from a

policeman down below, abullhorn against his face.“Comedown,Ms.Love.”Sheturnedofftherecorder.

“Ihavetogo.”“Savemybrothers,Evelyn

Love.SaveyourPete.”Evelyn sucked in a breath.

Pete wasn’t here. Like allgargoyles, he was bound tothe building he protected; inthis case her law officebuilding. The man who’dwon the right to tear downthis building was also tryingto buy the building the lawoffice was housed in, no

doubt so he could have thesick pleasure of ramming awreckingballagainstPete.She took the stairs. The

power had been shut offyesterday, and the furniturelong agomoved out, leavingonly the bones of the place.Her footsteps echoed eerilythroughthehallways.Outonthestreetthesounds

came at her in a chaoticsymphony: the crane motor

ratcheting, demolitioncontractors shouting to beheard over it, the crowdbeyondchanting.“Save the stone. Save the

stone,”camefromonepartofthegathering.“Rock him! Sock him!”

fromtheotherside.Thegrouphadgrowninthe

spanofahandfulofminutes;Evelyn put it at ninety or ahundred now. Some were

simply curious passersby outshopping.Others,mostallofthem human, protested thedemolition,buttheirnumbersincluded a ghoul in anoverlargetrenchcoatpressingclose to the barricade and apair of green-faced hags indesigner jeans. Like deathpenalty objectors outside aprison during an execution,the OT sympathizers hadcome to argue for saving the

building … and therebysaving the gargoyle attachedtotheverytopofit.ARNOLD IS A

MURDERERSAVETHESTONEGARGOYLES DESERVE

LIFEBURYARNOLD!STOPTHEHATEPEACENOTPIECESOTS HAVE RIGHTS

TOO!

But the Other ThanHumans didn’t have manyrights, Evelyn thought,lookingatthatparticularsign.And according to theCalifornia courts, gargoyleshad none. She’d workeddiligently to save thisbuilding, at the end trying asa last resort to get aninjunction to buy her moretime.Thejudgehadofferedacompromise, chisel the

gargoyle loose from thebuilding, then have the crewtear the place down. But thegargoyle’s life forcewas tiedtothebuilding.Cuthimfree,hedied.Destroythebuilding,he died. It was the same forall the gargoyles in the city,maybe for gargoyleseverywhere.“OT slayer!” a red-faced

man shouted, pumping hisfist.

“Murderer!” became achant, and Evelyn barelystopped herself from joiningin.Apoliceofficerwavedher

behindthebarricade.The crane had a wrecking

ball attached, the vehicle amonstrosity she imaginedturning into a robot in aMichael Bay film—shewished itwould, fly away toitsbaseonthemoonsoshe’d

havemoredaystoworkwith.A bulldozer sat near it, aswell as a massive tractorequipped with metal claws,andalargedumptruck.Evelyn wondered if the

gargoyle would feel muchpain. That had been part ofher argument, the fact thatgargoyles“felt,”thattheyhadsensationssimilartoahuman.Shearguedthat tearingdownthe building was tantamount

tomurder.“It’s just a rock,” the

opposing counsel told her.Andintheendthejudgehadagreed.She looked up, seeing

Thurman only as a stonyprotrusion, the details lost inthe distance and the glare ofthemidmorningsun.A bullhorn crackled, and

shemissedthefirstbitof thespeech amid the chanting of

thecrowd.“—on this spot a modern

office complex will reach tothesky!”FranklinArnoldhada face that reminded Evelynofahorse,stretchedandwitha narrow, curved nose, andtopped with a graying manetoo long to be stylish. Hewasn’thandsome,buthetriedto make himself look so,wearing expensive suits likefashion moguls strutted in.

ShedetestedArnold,herhatepalpable. She’d learned thathe was behind the “hit” thatended Thomas Brock’s life.But theycouldn’tprove it…at least not right now. Ahorse’sface,shethought.No,Arnoldwasahorse’sass.“Twenty-five stories high,

and with stores andrestaurantsonthelowerthreelevels.”“We don’t need more

stores!” This came from aprotestor with a megaphone.“Savethegargoyle!”“The gargoyle will be

pebbles!” Arnold shoutedback. “Today there will beone lessOT inmy city!”Hesaid more, but the crowdraged.The blood pounded in

Evelyn’stemplesandshefeltsmothered,wedged in by thepeople around her, all

shouting and gesturing,holding their signs higher.The noise was a crashingwave threatening to drownher, and the scent of theirwarring colognes made hergag.A construction worker

helpedArnoldupintothecabof the wrecker. Arnoldgrinned, caught sight ofEvelyn and waved to her,then flipped a finger at the

buildinghe’dboughtandhadgonethroughallthelongandproperlegalchannelstohavetorn down. He hoistedhimself into the seat, andEvelynwatchedhimworkthecontrols; he obviously didn’tneed to be schooled in thecrane’s operation. She knewhe’dboughtanddemolishedahandful of other buildings inthecityinthepastfewyears,probablyhad thrownout that

“ceremonial first pitch” withbringingthemdown,too.The machine rumbled and

the boom swung, the ballarcing up and smashingmidwayagainsttheninthandtenth floors. Now the noisebecame wholly unbearable—the protestors, Arnold’ssupportersmixedin,thecraneandthewreckingball,andthetractor starting up. Shesqueezed deeper into the

gathering until she felt herback touch the buildingbehindher.She inchedalongit until she reached thecorner, and then she priedherselfoutofthemass,whichwas becoming larger andmore agitated with eachswingof theball.Shewaitedfor the light, crossed thestreet, and found a vantagepointfartheraway.Andyetitwas still too close; she saw

theballhitthebuildingagainand again, the soundexcruciating and somethingshe expected to rememberforever. Thurman, the stonyprotrusion that had been theJose Rizal-quoting gargoylewasgone.The protestors surged

forward, barreling past thepolice.Puncheswere thrown,and Evelyn backed stillfarther away. Twin sickly

spirals of green-gray smokerose; she guessed it was teargas.All she could smellwasstone dust—the gargoyle’slast exhaled breath. Shebarely heard the sirens asmore police arrived, takingthe worst offenders withthem, finally scattering thebulk of the troublemakers,including a gossamer-wingedfey that looked delicatelybeautiful.

“He’s dead,” one of thehuman protestors said flatlyas he walked past Evelyn,dragging his sign. It was theone that read: OTS HAVERIGHTS TOO! “Thegargoyle’s gravel now,” hetold his companion, a thinwoman with a pink hairspikes.“The gargoyle’s name was

Thurman,” Evelyn said toosoftly for them to hear. “A

Norwegian name. It meant‘protected.’”Evelyn stood there for

another two hours, her legscramping. She’d done herhomework on demolition.The building had been ahundred and twenty feet tall;the other structures too closearound it for Arnold to useexplosives. She suspected hepreferred knocking it downwithawreckingballanyway.

Itwouldbelikeamankillinganother with a club—morevisceralandpersonal.Arnoldwas indeed anOT-

hating horse’s ass. No,Evelyn corrected herself.Callinghimthatwouldbetoogenerous.She watched the wrecking

ball continue its grisly workfor a little while longer,someone else at the controls;she’d seen Arnold driven

away in a limousine a whileago.Itwouldtakeatleasttwodaystoturnitallintorubble.Demolition crews alwaysstarted with the top, and asthe girders began to show,menwouldcomeintounboltthe steel so that it could bepulledapart.The tractorwiththeclawsgrabbedatsectionsand pulled them away. Thedozer was for moving thelarger chunks. It would

probably take another two orthree days to cart off all thedebris, and then another dayfor grading tomake the spotready for the newconstruction.Evelyn shuddered, a Paul

Simonsongcomingunbiddenin her head, one he’drecorded in 1965: “I Am aRock.” Evelyn favored oldmusic.ToobadSimonhadn’tgotten the lyrics correct.

Rocks did feel pain. Shehoped that Thurman’s endhadbeenquick.Thurman hadn’t lived a

useless life—but his was auseless and unnecessarydeath.Shevowedtofindawayto

stop Arnold from killingagain.ShehadtosavePete.

Chapter2.2

Thomas took a deep breathand plunged into theargument. “Your client is arock, a piece of granite, adecoration on a building. Assuch, he has no legal rightswhatsoever. He’s a thing.”His hideous point made, helowered his voice, turnedaway from Evelyn, andaddressedthejudge.“Weask

that this case be summarilydismissed, Your Honor,thrown out of court asbaseless.Infact—”“Your Honor!” Evelyn

squeezedherhandsintofists.“I argue that my client doesindeedhaverights.Thatheisliving,breathing,andentitledto—“Iagree.IfindforPetethe

gargoyle and his mostawesomecounsel,Evey.”The

judge pounded a beer canagainst the overturned milkcrateservingashisbenchandleaned back as much as thefoldingchairallowed.The “courtroom” had been

set upon the roofof the lawoffice to better accommodatePete, who had separatedhimselffromthetrimandwasseatedonafoldingchairnextto Evelyn, his feet plantedfirmly on the rooftop. The

gargoylewasonlyaboutthreefeet tall, with stunted wingsthat could not possiblysustainhisheavygraniteformin flight, even if he couldsurvive being separated fromhis building. Thomas hadplayedDungeons&Dragonsin college and thought Petelookedlikeagoblinfromthegame’sMonsterManual.Thegargoyle’s given name wasPermythius,butZaxil,andby

extension Thomas andEvelyn,calledhimPete.“You’re not helping,

Zaxil.” Thomas had beenplaying the opposing counselin the mock trial, lookingafter the interests andintentionsofFranklinArnold.Hedidn’tliketherole,buthewasbestsuitedforit,ashe’dspentlongweeksporingoverbuilding codes and laws andcouldguesswhatlegaltactics

Arnold’steamwoulduse.“Infact, Zaxil, you’re justmaking this more difficult.”He scowled at the actingjudge.Zaxil Mandala, or Z-man,

snapped open the beer he’dbeen using as a gavel andtook a sip. “Not as good asthat micro-brew you broughtupherethelasttime,”hetoldThomas. “What was thatbrand? Oh yeah, Gubna’s

Oskar Blues. That was fine,finestuff.”Back then, Thomas could

carry a six-pack up to theroof,andcouldshareit.Backthen, Thomas was stillbreathing.Thomas’s wispy form was

difficult to distinguish fromthe smoggy haze that hungover the city this afternoon.Atleasthecouldn’tsmellthecloud;inlifeThomasthought

the smog that crept intoHaight-Ashbury reeked likean old man’s fart. NowThomas couldn’t smellanything.Thomas debated sinking

throughtherooftogatherhisthoughts so he wouldn’t saysomethingtoZaxilthatwouldhurt the young man’sfeelings.Thomas knewZaxilcared deeply aboutwhatwasgoing on, but outwardly it

looked like he wasn’t takingthisseriouslyenough.Zaxil rolled his shoulders,

the folds deepening in hisbaggy ALCATRAZATHLETIC DEPARTMENTsweatshirt. Short, skinny,with smooth ebony skin andinky hair shaved so close itresembled a swim cap, helooked more like a streetpunk than the building’slandlord. The faded blue

jeans that rested around hiships and a yin-yang eyebrowringaddedtotheimage.Zaxilhad been resisting Arnold’srepeatedattemptstobuyit.“Tom,you toldme toplay

the judge. You know I’mgonna find in their favor. Ineed Evey and Pete towin,”Zaxil said. “I ain’t lettingArnoldget this building.Noteven play-acting; it ain’thappening. You should’ve

talked Dagger McKenzie uphereifyouwantedsomebodyimpartial to role-playhizzonor. I’d say Gretchen,but her creaky boneswouldn’t make it up thestairs.” He crossed his armsandglaredattheghost.Arnold had purchased the

building next door monthsago and had recentlyincreased his offer to Zaxil,intending to tear down both

buildingsandtoreplacethemwith fashionable condos.Haight-Ashbury, once a low-income neighborhood andforever remembered as ahippie hangout in the 1960s,wasbecomingadesirableandtrendyplacetolive.“And if you’d make more

money—”“We’re paid ahead to the

first of March,” Thomas cutin.

“Well, ifyou’dmakemoremoney,Icouldraisetherent,and then I wouldn’t worry.Arnold wouldn’t have a shotin hell at this place, Petewould be safe, and wewouldn’tbemessingwithnomock trial on my roof …whichisleakingovertherebythe way. I got a roofercomingouttomorrowtofixitbefore there’s seriousstructural damage.” Zaxil

drained the rest of the beerand crumpled the can. “Andifyou’dmakemoremoney Icould buy me some of thatGubna’sOskarBluesonceinawhile instead of this cheapstuff.”Thomas knew that Zaxil

owned theplaceoutright,butstillhadtopaypropertytaxesand all the other fees thatcamealongwithowning realestateinSanFrancisco.Zaxil

had blown through hisinheritance paying forupgrades required because ofcodesinordertoimprovetheproperty. Now the rentThomasandEvelynpaidkeptthe building—and therebyPetewhowasphysicallypartof it—going. If the buildingwere demolished, Pete, likethe gargoyle Evelyn hadvisited earlier today, woulddie.

Zaxil was a full-timestudent and his part-timenight job only covered hisbooks andpart ofhis tuition.Thomasknewtheyoungmandidn’t have anymoremoneytosinkintotheplace.Hewasstaring down the finalsemesterofhisundergraduatebusinessdegree, andThomashadbeenencouraginghim toconsiderlawschool…whichwould take a serious amount

ofcash.“Allright,look,let’scallit

fortoday,”Thomasconceded.“We’reallkindof frustrated.Evelyn and I can hit thebooks again.” He planned tohold another mock trial,tomorrow maybe, but thistime down in the law office,without Pete and Zaxil, andhe’d have his legal secretaryGretchen Cain be the judge.HeknewGretchenlikedPete,

but shewouldn’t take it easyonEvelyn.And Evelyn needed some

so-calledtoughlove.“Good.’CauseIgottastudy

for my test tomorrowmorning,” Zaxil said. Histextbooks—Zaxil hadpurchased real books, notelectronic files, were servingasafootstool.“Peteisgonnahelpme.”Petehadstayedoddlyquiet

through all of this …participating, and yet not.Sitting like a green-graygranite lump and watchingthebirdsperchedontheedgeof the building across thestreet.“Want me to study with

you, Z-man?” Finally Petesaid something, his voicesounding like gravel beingspreadonaroadbed.“Sure,ifI can have one of those

beers.”“I bought them for you

anyway.” Zaxil took thefolding chair Evelyn vacatedand handed the gargoyle acan.Pete held it up to his face.

“Stag. Hmmm. I did notknow they still brewed thisswill.” Nevertheless, thegargoyle opened the can andstarteddrinking.Thomas floated down into

the law office, waiting forEvelyntoclimbdownthefireescape. He thought shelooked especially nice today,shortredhaircurled,sprayoffreckles dusting her face likesprinkles on a sugar cookie,andwearinglinenpantsandaforest green cable knitsweater.He knew she hadn’tdressed nicely for the mocktrial … it had been for thegargoyle she’d visited this

morning. Evelyn had toldThomas that green wasThurman’sfavoritecolor.Thomas used to put effort

into his own appearance. Inlife he’d been six-two withthe broad shoulders of aswimmer, cornflower blueeyes, mud-brown hair, and anose that was slightlycrooked.Asaghost,hecouldfold in on himself, but hecouldn’t really change his

features, nor appear inanything other than the suithe’d been bludgeoned todeath in.What you’d lookedlike in life, you were stuckwithindeathitseemed.Evelynbreezedinthefront

door.“I’mback,Gretchen!”“Did you win, sweetie?”

Gretchen was at her roost—the big oak desk at the frontoftheoffice.ThomasrealizedGretchen hadn’t seen him

materializeat thebackof thelongroom.“Yourmocktrial?Didyouwin?”Gretchen was seventy-

three, and had a statelyKatherineHepburnmien.Shewas small though, not quitefive feet, her frame shrunkenfrom theyears.Asusual,hercanewasproppedagainst thedesk,andheroverlargepurse,which could pass for asuitcase,wasnexttoit.

“Yep, I won, Gretchen.”Evelyn gave her a lopsidedgrin. “But it was rigged. Z-man was the judge, and hewasgoingtofindinmyfavornomatterwhat.”Gretchenmadeatsk-tsking

sound. “Then maybe youought to have another trialdownhere.I’llbethejudge.Iwon’tgosoeasyonyou. I’llmakeyouworkforit.”Thomas smiled at the

comment and waited for thewomen to finish theirexchange. Several minuteslater, Evelyn joined him atthe conference table at thebackofthelongroom.“So that was a waste of

timeupthere,wasn’tit?”Shesat and tipped her face up tolook at his misty visage.Thomas hovered halfway inthetable.“I’mnotreadytogotocourtanddefendZaxiland

this building. If comeMarchwedon’thavemoremoneytofunnel hisway, this place…Z-man…well,hemighthaveto file bankruptcy. That’llmake it easy for that …that…Arnold.”“It wasn’t a total waste of

time.” Thomas had gotten towatch the breeze teasing hercurls, and when the sunshowed through gaps in thesmog, he’d seen her eyes

sparkle. “I’ve been thinkingof ways to protect this placein the event Zaxil facesbankruptcy—and that’s aworst-case scenario. We’llonly face court in a worst-casescenario.”“We have to look at the

worstcase.Icouldn’tbear towatch Pete broken intopieces. Not after what I sawthismorning.”“Look, if we can get this

building listed on theNational Register of HistoricPlaces, we’ll stand a betterchance of protecting it. Notguaranteed, but it willcertainlyhelp,and itwillputArnoldoffforquiteawhile.”Evelynshookherhead,her

curls shining like liquidcopper under the fluorescentlights. “Yeah, that’s worthtrying.ButArnoldhasgottenaround the National Register

before. The building thismorning? That had been ontheRegister.”“But it took him a solid

year to work past that,”Thomascountered.“Andinthattime,sweetie,”

Gretchen said, “this law firmwill be thriving, you’ll haveyour degree and license, andyou’ll be able to throwenough money Z-man’s waythat Pete will be safe.” She

had tottered back to jointhem. “Still and all, Evey,Tom is right. You betterprepare yourself for theworst-case scenario. Thatnasty Franklin Arnold justsmacksofworstcase.”Thomas floated toward the

file cabinet, watching asEvelyn’sprettyfacetookonasad, distant expression. Heheard her whisper somethingaboutauselesslife.

Chapter2.3

Pete helped Zaxil study untilnearlysunset,thelightfailingto the point reading wasbecomingonerous.Zaxilwasalotlikehisgrandfather,Petethought—kind andindustrious.Thegargoylehadbeen best friends with

Ezekiel,Zaxil’sgrandfather.Ezekiel’sdaughtertookoff

for an adventure in Mexicoone day and left baby Zaxilbehind. No one knew whoZaxil’s fatherwas.Sheneverreturned, though to this dayshe sent the occasionalpostcard. After a few years,Ezekielhadstoppedtryingtocoaxherback.Pete often babysat Zaxil

while Ezekiel worked. The

oldmanranaprintingshopinthis very building, producedwedding invitations,brochures, and businesscards. The advent of theInternet and all the e-publications cut into hisbusiness,butEzekielkeptthebuildingbecauseofPete,andeventuallyembracede-designand found enough success tokeep going. A fatal heartattackalmost threeyearsago

ruined things, though. Zaxilsold the computers,photocopiers, and laserprinters, andput thebuildingupforrent.Thomas Brock finally bit

and opened the law officedownstairs.PetestilllookedafterZaxil.“I saw a big Clapper Rail

thismorning,Z-man.Shewaspretty, wet with dew andperched over there, staring

straightatme.”Hefoldedthechair and laid it under thetarp, holding up the edge ofthe vinyl so Zaxil could sliphis chair under too. “They’reendangered, you know,ClapperRails.”“Seabird,isn’tit?”“You’re learning. Yeah,

rails are sea birds. They likethe marshes. But sometimesthey come into the city. Idon’t know what about this

neighborhood attracts them.Maybe all the colors on theVictorians. Maybe justcurious.”Zaxil stood at the edge of

theroofandlookedacrossthestreet.Buildingsinthisblockwerethreeandfourstories,amixofbusinessesandvividlypainted old Victorians, someofwhichhadbeenturnedintoquaint shops—boutiques,resale, one a cold-process

soap-maker.“Thinkingabouther?”Pete

knew Zaxil liked to visit thesoap-makerbecauseshehadanineteen-year-old daughter.He also knew Zaxil hadn’tworked up the nerve to askherout.“I like the neighborhood

this time of day, Pete-my-friend.”“Notasbusy.”“No. Slowing down, like

it’s takinga rest,pulling inadeep breath, regaining someenergy before the bars crankupthemusicandluretheminacross the way. Before theneon twinkles against thedark, all the pink and greenelectric snakes dancing toadvertise the treasures to befound inside, and the lonelyfolks go out to party.” Helengthened the last word:paaaaar-tay. “Looking for

spicy food and good timesand loose men and women,looking for anapproximationof love, and looking for anexcuse to spend their hard-earned money on things thatdon’t last and that don’tmatter and that they don’thave the sense God gavethem to know they don’tneed.Lookingtolistentoonemore replay of WyntonMarsalis’s ‘Deep in the

South.’”“Should be a poet, Z-man.

Some sort of writer in anyevent. You can paint withwords.”“Not like Marsalis can

paint with notes.” Zaxilshrugged and pointed to acornice where birds hadgathered.“What’sthat?”“The little blue one?

Western Scrub Jay. Daintyfellow.Ifigurehe’sgotanest

somewhere around here. HelooksabitlikeaStellar’sJay.But the Stellar has a lightblue belly and black on thesidesofitshead.TheWesternScrubdoesnot.Youseebothkindsaroundhere.”“Youenvythem?”The gargoyle shrugged.

“Maybe a little. Their wingscan take them anywhereabove the city and over thebay. My wings don’t work,

and even if they did, theycouldn’t carry me anywhere.I’mpartofthisbuilding,haveto be in contact with it tosurvive.A rotten thing, huh?To have wings you can’tuse.”“Are they endangered,

thosejays?”Pete shook his head. It

soundedlikestonegratingonstone. “Not like the ClapperRails. The jays are pretty

common. Not like my kin.My Norwegian brothers areendangered.”“Norwegian? You

Norwegian,Pete?”“TheNorwegianversionof

Pete is Peder. It meansstone.”“Thenwhat’sPermythius?”“That’s what the sculptor

calledme.Henamedmeafterhis cat. I prefer somethingclosertomyroots.Pete.”

“You really areNorwegian?AllthistimeI’veknown you and you nevertoldmethat.”The gargoyle shrugged.

“Carvedfromahunkof rockdugup inRogaland.But thatwas a long time ago. I’mAmericanized.”A car backfired out on the

street and Pete noticed thatZaxiljumped.Itsoundedlikea gun going off. But the

motorrevvedandthatseemedto relax him. This section ofHaight was considered safe,had little violence,with onlya few minor incidentsreported from time to time—pickpockets, a touch ofvandalism, but certainly notoften.Murders?Therehadn’tbeen one for a long time…until Thomas was killed intheoffice,torntopiecesbyadark fey that was in turn

killed in jail before he couldgo to court and testify aboutwhopulledhisstrings.“I heard Thurman die this

morning.RightafterIspottedtheClapperRail.”“Thurman?”“Gargoyle on Market

Street.TheoneEvelynvisitedtorecordhislastwords.”“Youheardhimdie.”Zaxil

raised his eyebrows, but ithadn’t come out as a

question.“Sound travels through

stone,” Pete answered. “Ifyou listen for it. Carefully.You have to know how tolisten. Down through thebuildings, through thebedrock,throughtheconcretesidewalks. Up to my ears.You have to read thevibrations, like you readwords on a page. Me andhim, and some of the others

in this city?Wewere carvedfrom the same granitemountain. Brothers can heareach other, you know.” Apause:“Iheardhimscream,astone-rattling scream. Beingbusted up like that, it had tohavehurtlikehell.Tookhimalongtimetodie.”Zaxil pointed to another

bird.“MourningDove.”Thenanother.

“Black Phoebe.” Petescratchedathischin.“Iratherlikeher,nicesong,smallbirdbut considered a medium-sized flycatcher.Southwestern bird primarily,but they come around here,seem to like being nearpeople.”“You know a lot about

birds.”“Iknowalotaboutalotof

things. Listen, I worry that

Evelyn could be anendangeredspecies,too.”Thegargoyle crawled over theedgeofthebuildingandtookhis spot on the corner. “IheardDaggertalkingtoher.Ican hear through the walls,you know. He said the manthat ordered the hit onThomashadwantedherdeadtoo,maybeevenGretchen.”“They’ll be okay.” Zaxil’s

brow knitted. “And so will

you. Tom and Evey, they’regoing tokeepyousafe,Pete.Iain’tlettingthisbuildinggo.Tom andEveywill come upwithsomething…maybejustassimpleasrampinguptheirbusiness,gettingmoreclients,andpayingmorerent.”“Maybe.” Pete was

watchingtheBlackPhoebe.Zaxilsattherestofthesix-

pack on the ledge. “For youto drink at your leisure,” he

said. Then he walkedbackward, toward the fireescape,pickingup theemptycoolerashewent.“Nexttimegetsomeofthe

OskarBlues,”Petesaid.Apairofpigeonslitonthe

edge of the building andwaddledtowardPete.“Oh, birds, I wouldn’t do

that,”Zaxilsaid.Like lightning, Pete’s arm

shotoutandhisstonefingers

closed around one of thepigeons.Theothertookoffina flurry of feathers. Petesquished the bird and let itslittlebloodycorpsedropontothesidewalkbelow.“Uhm … Pete … do you

reallyhaveto—”The gargoyle craned its

head around, barely seeingover the decorative edge. “Ilikebirds,Z-man.YouknowI like birds. Like to watch

them … rails, starlings,robins, Yellow-rumpedWarblers, Chestnut-backedChickadees, andevenWhite-crowned Sparrows. Butpigeons? Pigeons are notbirds. Pigeons are rats withwings and they crap all overmeat everyopportunity. Justlike the courts will crap allover me because I have norights.”“Just like Franklin Arnold

is trying to crap all over thebothofus,”Zaxilsaid.“Stopthinking about it, Pete.Evey’s gonna keep us safe.She’s sharp. I have no doubtthat if we end up in court,she’llwinforus.”He cinched his book bag

across his back and starteddownthefireescape.“I told you to be a writer,

Z-man!Writersaregoodwithwords, and good at telling

lies.”

Chapter2.4

He’d had Gretchen leave thelightsonwhensheleft,ashewanted to work late and hadno tangible fingers tomanipulate the switches.Thomas’s ghostly visionwasimproving, and though he

was close to mastering theability to see in utterdarkness, he wasn’t quitethereyet.He floated above the

conference table, which wasstrewn with papers onbuilding codes, historicpreservation, and zoningrequirements.Thewords hadbecomeablur,insectsflittingaroundbehindhis dead eyes.The pictures of buildings

were spread at odd angles,some in color, some blackand white, some old andcurled and yellowing on theedges. He thought it mightmake a neat image to turnintoajigsawpuzzle…whichhe would not be able tophysically manipulate tomakethepiecesfit.Thomas didn’t get

headaches anymore.He usedto, when he was alive, when

he concentrated deeply,stayed up late to studycasework, when he worriedabout clients andmaking therent and keeping Evelyn inthe law practice and makingsure Pete steered clear ofArnold’swreckingball.Nowhe didn’t feel … emotions,yes, thosehadnotabandonedhim. But he couldn’t feel…not the breeze that he’dwatched tease Evelyn’s hair

thisafternoonontheroof,notthe smoothness of this tablethat he used to set hisfingertips against, not hisheartbeat, not the rush ofblood inhisears,not thesunonhisfaceinthemorning.Nothing.Dear God, wasn’t I good

enoughtogetintoheaven?Thomas had drifted away

from church and all theorganized trappings when he

wentoffonhisownand intocollege. He believed inGod…ordesperatelywantedto.DearGod,whycan’tI feel

something?Thomasinsteadfocusedon

thewordsonthepages.Stop wallowing in this

morose morass. There’simportant work to do. Pete,Zaxil, Evelyn all depend onyou.Gretchen,too.

Again today Gretchenremindedhim thatheneededto keep the law office open,as she had no intention ofretiring a second time.Besides, she said, the casesthat came through the frontdoor were much moreinteresting than the seniorcitizentoursshecouldtaketofillherdays.Hecouldn’tsmellanything

either … not the scent of

Evelyn’s cologne orGretchen’s Bengay, or thevarious odors wafting out ofthetwobarsacrossthestreet,not the pine boughs hangingfrom the lampposts anddraping some of theVictorians’porches.“Ack,”hesaid.“—andtwoisfourandfour

iseight.SomethingbotheringyouTommy-boy?”Thomas saw amisty patch

congeal into the shapeof theghostthathauntedthecorner:ValentinoTrinadad.His longhair trailed away like foggyserpents.“I can’t turn pages, Val.”

That was something thatreallymadehimfeelhelplessandtrapped.“Wow. I can see where

that’d be a serious bummerfor someone like you.Hacksyouoff,huh?Alegalcatthat

surrounds himself withmounds of dead trees? Can’teven hike your leg on thestacks.”“Thanks for the sympathy,

Val.”“Anytime, bro.” The

specter floated closer, untilthe two wispy forms werepracticallytouching.The nearness unsettled

Thomas and he floated backtoward the file cabinets. “I

can’t even open the drawers,Valentino.Oh,Icanpokemyheadinthem,butIcan’treadwhat’sinthefiles,everythingpackedtogether.”“So make some more

bread,Tommy-boy.Getsomemore cases.Hire someone tobe your fingers, you know,likethegeezersdo.”“Excuseme?”“The geezers. The old

folks. The ones who live at

home and can’t do forthemselves. They hire live-ins, you know. They did inthe sixties, anyway. Mygrandparents did. Makeenough bread and you canhire one of them live-ins toturnthepagesforyou,topullstuff out of the file cabinets.Won’t make you look souseless in Evey’s eyes, youknow. Man, that chick isoutta sight, ain’t she? I saw

her in that green sweatertoday. Humming. No foamdomes there. You can’t turnpages? Man, I can’t cop afeel. I can’t shoot up. I can’t—”“That’senough,Val.”The hippie specter

shrugged and appeared toshrink in on himself. “Thembuildingsyougotpicturesof.I remembered seeing themfiftyyearsago.Theywererad

then,Day-Glo graffiti on thesides, peace signs big as aVWmicrobus, and the tunesthatcamefromthemhadyouswaying.Peoplesittingonthesidewalk, clothes a rainbow,everyone happy and mellow.This neighborhood lost a lotof its cool when the sixtiesleft.Likeabigstormcameinoff the coast and blew thecolorandcharacteraway.”“I like the neighborhood

finethewayitis.”Val glanced at the ticking

clock on the wall. “Hey, Igotta split, Tommy-boy.They’re advertising two-for-onespecialsacrossthestreet.Dudes there are going to beseriouslybuzzing,andIneedto absorb me some of that.Caretojoinme?Themusic’sgood. A lot of blues,sometimes some Dylan. Youcan see this office from the

frontofthebar.”Thomas scowled. “I’vegot

work to do, Valentino. Butthanks.”He felt glued to thisplace. “I need to researchzoningrestrictions.”“Zoning. I can dig that. In

the zone. Zoned out. Catchyou later, Tommy-boy.” Theghostfadedintothefloor.Thomasdriftedtothefront

oftheofficeandheldhisfacetotheglass.Heimaginedthat

it felt cold, the first ofDecember;itwasprobablyinthemid-fortiesoutthere.Thefluorescent tubes of light onthe bars competed withChristmas lights the ownershadstrungupinthewindows.The law firm neededmore

money for a variety ofreasons, at the top of the listtokeepthebuildingandPetesafe. But also to pay EvelynandGretchenfairwages,buy

somebetterequipment…andmaybe, just maybe … hiresomeone to turn thepagesofhislawbooks.

Chapter2.5

Evelyn was out of herapartmentanddownthestairsas the sun came up. She’ddressed in San Francisco

FortyNinerssweats,hermostcomfortable pair of runningshoes, and had her backpackinplaceandfilledtothepointthe seams were screaming.Joggingwiththeextraweightwould do her good, shethought.Shelovedtorun,buthad been too sedentary thepast few weeks, alternatelychainedtoherdeskinthelawofficetryingtocatchupwithThomas on building

legislation, in the law librarylooking for last-ditchmeasurestostopArnold,thenat her kitchen table studyingforherclasses.Soclosetotheendofherlastsemester—twoweeks to go before finalexams—she couldn’t screwup and risk her grade-pointdropping. Evelyn was inpursuit of that perfect 4.0across the board. Then she’dhave the bar exam come

February.It was just next to

impossibletofiteverythinginwith her current schedule.Sleepwasbecomingaluxurysheneededtoforego.Sheshouldn’tbedoingthis

right now. She should belocked in her apartmentstudying admiralty law,which focused on allmaritime concerns—hertoughest subject. Should be

studying. But after watchingthegargoyleonMarketStreetsmashed to pebbles, herprioritieshadshifted.She had a map in her

pocket with several spotscircled in red. Some werebuildings that had beentargeted by Franklin Arnold;all of them had gargoyles.According to Pete, many ofthe gargoyles in SanFrancisco were living

creatures—particularly theones carved of green-tintedgranite. But he warned thatnotallofthemwouldanimateinfrontofher.Evelyn intended to be at

herpersuasivebest.Normally she let a tune

play in her head and set herfeetintimewithit.Buteverytime she tried to call a songupthismorning,evenheroldstandby, “The Beat Goes

On,” all she heard was thewrecking ball slammingagainst the building onMarket Street. Her pace wasuneven, rushed whenstretchesofthesidewalkwereempty, her shoes slappingirregularly,and theweightofthe backpack throwing heroff.Evelyn hadn’t always been

such a crusader for OTs. Infact, she’d not given them

much thought in her earlyyears.Thenshewasallaboutfiguring out where her nextmeal was coming from andhowshewasgoing tokeeparoof over her mother’shead … at a time when hermotherwas still around.OTshad only been oddities she’doccasionally spotted on thestreet.But since she’d gotten

involvedwithThomas’s little

practice,OTshadcometotheforefront. She’d realized justhowbadly somesegmentsofsociety discriminated againstthe OTs, and the notion ofdiscriminatingagainstanyonecurledhertoenails.Inthebackofhermindshe

saw the wrecking ball swingagain.Two miles later she

reachedthefirstcircleonthemap, an office building with

twin gargoyles poised belowthe lip of the roof. She dugout her digital camera andtook a series of pictures, ofthebuilding, theonesnext toit,thenpointedtotheverytopand zoomed in to catch asmuchdetailsonthegargoylesas possible. They looked alittle like Pete—resemblingpictures of goblins fromchildren’s books—similarcoloration, but larger, and

theirvisageshadafierceness.She started toward the

door;she’dalreadycleared itwiththeownerthatshecouldhave roof access. While hewasn’t exactly an OTsupporter,hewasn’topposedto them, and he said Arnoldwould have to “seriously uphisoffer” toget thisbuildingthat had been in the familyfor somany decades. Evelynfigured Arnold could

eventually wear the ownerdown; money was theultimate eroding factor. Thiswasoneofthestructuresthathadsurvivedthe1906quake,when eighty percent of thecity either crumbled orburned in the fires that ragedafterwards. It wasn’tremarkable looking, exceptfor the gargoyles. Shewondered if these gargoyleshelped keep this structure

intact through all theearthquakes.She hoped they were

friendly.“Showtime,”shesaid.She

putonherhappyface,tuggedon the door handle, andstopped.She lookedonewayand then the other down thesidewalk, something nigglingat her senses.Was she beingfollowed? It had that feel toit,likewhenshejoggedhome

from class on Thursdaynights rather than taking thebus,when someone from theless-than-desirableelementofthecityfellinstepbehindherandshespeduptoleavethemin that proverbial dust. Samefeeling,andyetdifferent.Evelyn scanned the faces,

seeing two men that shethought she’d spotted afterleaving her apartment. Shewatched them out of the

corner of her eye, pretendingto be interested in aChristmas display in awindow.They were talking, one

pointing to a cell phone andgesturing wildly like he wasupset, and then pointing tothe other side of the street.They crossed at theintersection.Herimagination.She shook it off and the

feeling went away, steppedinside, and decided to takethe stairs. Nine floors, theworkout good for her. Shefelttheburninherlegsasshejogged with her knees high.Atthefourthfloorsheslowedandadoptedaquickwalk,hersidestartingtoache.Havetostart back in the routine, shetold herself, jogging to andfromclasses,thecoldweatherbedamned.

Shehadasloggingpacebythetimeshereachedtheninthfloor. Therewas a collectionof offices on this level—onean attorney’s, one aninsurance agent’s. Anorthodontist took up thelargest space. At the end ofthe hall was an accountant,and she went straight there.The owner said he’d leave akey for the roof with thiswoman.

Minutes later Evelyn wasontopofthebuilding.Itwasa flat roof covered with agritty-pebbly-gravel thatlooked like something shemight see at the bottom of atropical fish aquarium.Therewasthefaintsmelloftar,andthefinishtuggedalittleathershoes.Great, recently worked on,

she realized, and now she’dbewearing part of the tarred

roof on her favorite runningshoes. She took a few morepictures of the city from thisvantage.Itlookedcleanerandsmelled better here, and shecould see the Golden GateBridge in the distance. Shetooka fewpicturesof that—justforherself.“Hello?” she called as she

quietly approached the edge.“Hello? I’m a friend ofPete’s, Permythius, the

gargoyle on Haight. And Iknew Thurman on MarketStreet.I—”Sirens screamed, but not

close,andacracking,grating,snappingsoundthatmadeherteethhurtcamefromthesideof the building. A green-clawed hand gripped the lipof the building, and thegargoyle pulled up and over,swinging easily despite hisweight and landing on the

roofagilelikeamonkey.Theroofgroanedwiththeimpact.Evelyntookmorepictures.“Youare theoneThurman

spoke of.” The gargoylestretcheditselfstraight,whichput it at almost four feet ofemeraldgreen-veinedgranite.It had one wing, the other astump,perhapsvictimofoneof the city’s quakes. “Theladylawyer.”Evelyn almost corrected

him, but decided that sinceshe had the gargoyle talking,she’dpresson.“Itriedtostopthedemolition,but—”“You did something.” The

gargoyle’s features softened,thehardedgessmoothingandthe eyes widening. He had aroundmouthandanextendedlower lip, and she suspectedhe served as a rainspout.Hisvoicewas lyricalandpitchedlikeatenor,remindingherof

arecordingofPavarottishe’drecentlylistenedto.“Youdidsomething. And that issomething.No one else triedtodoanything.”“Therewereprotestors,and

peoplesignedpetitions.”“All theydidwasget their

pictures in the paper. Youactually did something.Thurman told us you reallytried.”She smiled and slippedoff

herbackpack,strugglingwiththe zipper because she’dpacked it so full. “I broughtbeer.Idon’tknowifyoulike—”“Ah, Oskar Blues.” The

gargoyle whistledappreciatively. “Pete saidOskar is fine. My name isBjoernolf.”“Bjoernolf.Pleasedtomeet

you.” Evelyn handed him acan. She figured she’d been

standing still long enough sothe contents would havesettled. She was right; thebeer didn’t spew all overwhen he popped the tab andtook a sip. “Pete told you itwas good, the beer, and youmentioned talking toThurman.We’re a fewmiles—”“We can talk, all of us. A

gift of the stone. SurprisedPete did not explain that to

you.”“How do you talk across

the distance?” She fishedinside the backpack andpulled out a box of wheatcrackers.“Sound travels through

stonesandconcrete.Youjusthavetoknowhowtolistentothe hum. Being carved fromthesamemountainhelps.”“Isee.”Shetippedherhead

to the far corner of the

building. That gargoylelooked to be a twin to thegoblin-like one in front ofher. “Would your …friend … like to join us? Ibroughtacoupleofsix-packs.I have crackers and somecashews, too.” She hadsplurged at the grocer’s lastnight.“Just the beer for me,

thanks.” He sat cross-leggedon the roof, and Evelyn

noticed some of the tarrymaterial sticking to his legs.“And as for Gudlaug… shewillnotjoinus.Shedoesnottalk to humans. I am not soprejudiced.”“Oh.” Evelyn squatted.

She’d played catcher on herhighschoolsoftballteamandthroughherfirst twoyears incollege; she could hold thepose awhile. “So… I couldtalk to you just by talking to

Pete, huh? He could relaywhat I said?” She wasthinkingshewouldbeabletotalk to all the city’sgargoyles, like one bigconferencecall.Itwouldsavea great deal of time. Thenotion of finding time tostudy for admiralty classflitted in the back of hermind.“It does not wholly work

that way.” He finished the

beerandcrushedthecanwitha gesture so easy, like shemight crumple Kleenex, andthenlookedexpectantlyatthebackpack. She producedanother beer. “Stone is slowandtakesitstime.Somethingsaidtodaymightnotbehearduntil tomorrow or the dayafterorafterthat.Thehum—vibrations—might travelfaster to thenorththanto thesouth. It might hold itself

steady in a place beforemoving on, encountering anobstacle that stops it for awhile.” He drank the newbeer slowly. “Indeed this isvery good, Evelyn Love.OskarBlues,Iwillrememberthisbrand.”She started … she hadn’t

toldBjoernolfhername.“So I will have to visit

every gargoyle in the city.”She hadn’tmeant to say that

aloud.Shepulledoutthemapand made some notes in themargin. She had stuffed herbackpacksofullshecouldn’tfitheriPadinsideandsohadtosettleforthis.ShescrawledBjoernolf will talk and anarrowtohisspotonthemap.Likesbeer.Nocrackers.He continued to sip the

OskarBlues.“Ijustcamehere,”shesaid

after several moments of

quiet, “to let you know thatI’m trying—meandThomas,the attorney I work for—tofind ways within historicpreservation and zoningrestrictions to stop Arnoldfrom tearing down yourbuildings.Wecan’t stophimfrombuying thebuildings…provided the owners want tosell, but we’re working topreventanymoredemolition.I can’t promise you success,

butIwilldoeverythingIcan.PeteisafriendofmineandI—”“—want to save Pete, and

therebysavetherestofus.”Evelyn handed him a third

beer and put his twocrumpled cans in herbackpacktothrowawaylater.“I want to save all of you.”Her voice held conviction;shereallymeant it.“FranklinArnold seems to hate

gargoyles, OTs in general.”She found Bjoernolf easy totalk to, like he was an oldchum she could pour herheart out to. “I’ve done a lotof researchonhim.Heownsa dozen buildings, twocorporations, and awarehouse. I think he hassome local politicians in hispocket.Andhe has plans forcondominiums. He recentlybought two restaurants near

the airport. Both had beenclosed, and he has made noannouncement about whathe’s doingwith them. And Ican’t findanythinganywherethat hints at why he dislikesOTs.”The gargoyle’s laugh

sounded like metal spoonsringing together. “EvelynLove, humans do not alwaysneeda reason tohate. Ihaveseen so many years in this

city and watched so manyemotions.When thecity firstsprouted, the Chinese wereused for labor and hated bymanyofthewhites.Later,theblackswerehatedbyChineseandwhites.Coloroftheskin,Evelyn Love.Mine is green,and that could be all thereasonFranklinArnoldneedstohate.”“Coloroftheskin,”Evelyn

repeatedsoftly.

“Let me put it anotherway.” He finished the thirdbeer andmade an ahhhhhingsound. “Gargoyles, OTs asthe humans label us andothers … OTs are the newillegalalien.”He stood, and Evelyn

joinedhim,gratefultogetoutof her crouched position. Hescrapedatthegritandtarthathad stuck to thebacksof hislegs.

“Iamthankfulyoucametovisit,” Bjoernolf said. “Youarewelcometoreturn.Ifyouwant to learn more aboutFranklinArnold,perhapsyoushouldvisithischurch.”She tipped her head in

question.“Saints Peter and Paul, la

cattedrale d’Italia ovest, theItalian Cathedral of theWest.”Itwascircledonhermap.

“Franklin Arnold attendschurchthere,withhiswife.”“How do you know that,

Bjoernolf?”“The gargoyles on the

church toldme.Theyaremybrothers.” He pointed to herbackpack. “Can you leave afew more? Gudlaug has nothad a beer in a long while.The crackers, too. Gudlauglikescrackers.”Evelyn left the rest of the

six-pack and the wheatcrackers. That still gave heranother six-pack, a bag ofcashews, and a tin ofgumdrops to work with. Herbackpack lighter, she joggeddownthenineflightsandoutthedoor,nearlybumpingintoa man on the sidewalk andswallowing an “oh!” ofsurprise. He was one of thetwo she’d spotted earlier, theonewiththecellphone.

He turned and walked inthe opposite direction,looking once over hisshoulder, black eyes lockingmomentarilywithhers.Evelyn shivered, and not

from the chill wind thatwhippeddownthestreet.Shereallywasbeingfollowed.

Chapter2.6

Evelyn jogged a few blocksand stopped to look over hershoulder, finding no trace ofthe guy she’d seen at thebottom of the fire escape orthe other man she’d seenearlier. But they were there,shadowing her; she had thatannoyinggut feeling.Nousecalling Thomas, he couldn’tpick up the phone, and

Gretchen wasn’t due in foranother hour. She calledDagger, but all she got wasvoicemail,andintheendwasglad for that. What couldDagger do? Follow her toeach gargoyle bedeckedbuilding on her list? Thatwouldn’t be happening, andshe wasn’t about to stayindoors just to be safe.Besides,Thomashadbeen inthe lawofficewhen they got

tohim.Evelynsether jaw.Tough,

shecouldtakecareofherself.But she’d nevertheless paycloseattentiontothehairsonthe back of her neck. If theyrosetoohigh,shewouldheadfor a local precinct house. Inthe meantime, she wouldmake her shadows work tokeep up with her. She ranfaster, and this time “TheBeat Goes On” managed to

tumblethroughherhead.Sheput her feet in time with it,andtheblockswiththeirpinebough decorations andwavingSantasblurred.SaintsPeterandPaulwasa

beautiful church, but Evelynhad yet to see a Catholicchurch that wasn’t in somewayimpressive.Ironically,itsaddress was 666 FilbertStreet. The church splayedacross the street from

WashingtonSquare.Alovelylocation, a lovely church;Evelyn thought she mightattendaservicehere.The heavywood doorwas

unlocked, and she tugged itopen to the warm scent ofvanilla tapers. Evelyn’sconcerns instantlydiminished;churcheshadthateffect on her. Worries weresomehowlesssignificant,andallthedemonsshefacedwere

not so dangerous. Shebreathed deep and askedherself:“Whatbringsyoujoytoday?” It was one of herlittlerituals.Immersing herself in the

lawbroughther joy,workingwithThomas,meeting a newgargoyle this morning, andnow being here, in this holybuilding. All those thingsbroughtherjoy.She found some literature

onasmalltableandskimmedone of the pamphlets.Administered by theSalesians of Don Bosco andserving the Archdiocese ofSanFrancisco, thisplacehad—since its consecration—been the cultural center andhomechurchofthebayarea’sItalianAmerican community.Inthepastdecadeithadalsobecome the home church formuch of the city’s Chinese

American Roman Catholics.The church offered weeklymasses in English, Italian,andMandarin.According to the schedule,

Father Jones was holdingconfessions until noon, sowithout hesitation Evelynpadded inside the cavernouschurchandwaited.There were only two

penitentsaheadofher,oneanundead creature she was

unfamiliarwith—notaghoul.Not a ghost, as it obviouslyhad substance and wasdressed inkhaki trousersandan overlarge Starbuckssweatshirtthathidanydetailsabouttheformbeneath.The creature—she could

not tell if it was male orfemale—had gray, deeplywrinkled skin, except for asmooth bald head thatreflected the warm lights. It

workeda rosarywith its thinfingers. Shewould ask Zaxillater; he seemed to be anexpert on the variousOTs inthecityandcouldmaybe tellherwhatitwas.She looked away, not

wanting to be caught staringat the creature.She spent theempty minutes appreciatingtheimpressivearchesandthecolorful windows. When itwasherturn,sheslippedinto

the confessional booth. Asmall wooden crucifix hungabovethelattice.“Forgive me, Father, for I

have sinned.” She said it outof habit. But she hadn’tsinned, not really, not sinceherlastconfession.She’dnoteven profanely used God’sname in speech. “I havethought poorly of a mannamed Franklin Arnold, amanImetbrieflyoutside the

courthouse and who I sawyesterday under troublingcircumstances. I find myselfat cross purposes with him,and I detest him.” That wastrue.She’dbeenwishingonlyill for the man who’dbludgeonedThurmantodeathwith the wrecking ball andwho was no doubt lookingforward to doing the samething to Pete and the othergargoylesinthecity.“Weare

taughttoforgive,butIcannotfind it inmyheart to forgivethiswretchedman.”The priest listened raptly,

andinturnshelistenedtohiswords of advice andabsolution.“Give thanks to the Lord

for He is good,” the priestconcluded.“For His mercy endures

forever,” Evelyn replied.Then she gained permission

to access the roof where shewould try to talk to thechurch’s gargoyles. Theywould be safe; according toher research, Arnold had nodesigns on buying anddemolishinganyof thecity’schurches. She hoped theirnames were easier topronouncethanBjoernolfandGudlaug.Theaccessdoortotheroof

wasnarrow, and sheguessed

the church’s maintenanceworkers were by necessityskinny. She picked her wayacross a slightly cantedsection of roof, headingtowarda lion-facedgargoyle.Balancing carefully, sheopenedherbackpack,butshestopped as her fingerstouched a can of beer. Petehad told her gargoylesfavored beer of any kind—atany temperature and at any

time of the day, but it didn’tseempropertoopenabeeronthe roof of Saints Peter andPaul.“Hello?” No response.

“Please.”She gave up andmade her

way to a gargoyle with aneagle’shead.Thesegargoyleswere amix of greens, darkerat their bases, like Pete andBjoernolf and Thurman, butpaler from the hips up, and

almostwhiteatthetops.“Hello?” She tried again.

“My name is EvelynLove. Iam a friend of Pete, thegargoyle on Haight. Today Imet Bjoernolf, and hesuggestedIcomehere.”Nothing.She looked away from the

church and towardWashingtonSquare.Theparkwas popular with bothtourists and locals and was

circledby avarietyof eatingestablishments. Her stomachrumbledatthethought.She’dnot bothered with breakfast,intending to either grabsomethingasshe’djoggedorcave and eat the gumdrops.Lunchdefinitely,she’dcirclethe park and pick somethingdifferent, a restaurant she’dnever been to. There werepeople milling in the park,Evelyn suspected there

always were. The park andthischurchhadbeenfeaturedin a few scenes in ClintEastwood’s firstDirty HarryfilmandfeaturedagainintheScorpio Killer, and the parkinBedazzled.Evelyncouldbarelyseethe

Benjamin Franklin statue inthe park from her vantagepoint.“I wonder if statues have

life,” she mused, and then

quoted Michelangelo.“‘Every block of stone has astatue inside it and it is thetask of the sculptor todiscoverit.’”She moved past the angel

gargoyle, which likewisehadn’t answered her, andheaded to the ox-headedgargoyle, suddenly realizingthe significance of thesculptures. It had probablybeen spelled out in the

literature on the table inside,ifonlyshe’dbotheredtoreadfurther.Theoxvisagelookedat the same time sad andwise, and she felt moved tovoiceanotherquote,fromthebookofEzekiel.“Isawawindstormcoming

out of the north … animmense cloud with flashinglightning and surrounded bybrilliant light. The center ofthe fire looked like glowing

metal, and in the fire werewhat looked like four livingcreatures.Eachhadfourfacesandfourwings.”The ox gargoyle turned its

headandadded:“Their faceslooked like this—each hadthefaceofaman,andontheright side the face of a lion,andonthe left thefaceofanox; eachalsohad the faceofan eagle. Such were theirfaces.”

Evelyn said: “Then therecameavoice fromabove theexpanseovertheheadsofthelivingcreaturesas theystoodwith lowered wings. Overtheir heads was what lookedlikeathroneofsapphire,andhighaboveonthethronewasaformlikethatofaman.”“—and brilliant light

surrounded him. Like theappearance of a rainbow inthe clouds on a rainy day,

suchwastheradiancearoundhim.ThiswastheappearanceofthelikenessofthegloryoftheLord,”theoxfinished.She sat next to the

gargoyle.“Yousymbolize—”“Luke, and that is my

name.The eagle is John, theangel Matthew, and the lionMark.TheyarenotsowillingtotalktohumansasI.”“Thank you for talking to

me,Luke.”Evelynpulledout

her map and wrote thegargoyles’ names on it,drawingalinetothechurch’saddress,andnotingthatLukewouldtalk.“Thank you, Evelyn Love,

fortryingtosavemykin.”Theychattedaboutnothing

inparticular forawhile—thepark, people walking by, theweather. When Evelyn feltshe had established areasonable rapport, she

brought up Arnold andwatching Thurman shatteredyesterday.“Did Thurman feel much

pain, Luke? Did he suffer?Did—”“A building is just a thing

withoutoneofus,”Lukesaid.“Ithasappearance,beautyorplainness, a purpose, but ithas no soul. We gargoylesgive buildings some of ouressence, share our hearts and

personalities,breathelifeintothe stone and protect it, helpit stand against nature’sforces. Such buildings havesouls. Callously destroying abuilding touchedbysuch lifeisanunconscionablething.Asin.Thoushallnotkill.”Sohewouldn’t answer the

question, which was ananswer as far as Evelyn wasconcerned. Thurman had felta lot of pain. “I won’t let it

happen to Pete. I can’t. I’mgoingtostopArnold.”“ForgiveFranklinArnold,”

Luke said. “For he hassinned.”“Heattendsthischurch.”The ox gargoyle nodded,

bringingtoEvelyn’smindtheimage of a bobble-head.“Yes, he does, Evelyn Love.Withhiswife.”“Young, Chinese.” Mark

joinedthem,startlingEvelyn.

She nearly slid off the roof.She hadn’t heard the lion-headedgargoyleapproach.“They are generous to this

church, Mr. and Mrs.Arnold,”Markcontinued.“But Franklin Arnold is

oblivious,”Lukesaid.“Oblivious that his wife—

Mei-li—is Other-Than-Human.” This from Mark.“She appears human, save inconfessional.There she takes

onhertrueform.”Evelyn swallowed hard at

the revelation and found ablank spot on the map toscrawl more notes.“Seriously?Sheisan—”“OT, as your kind calls

them,”Lukesaid.Mark sat next to Evelyn,

his large formdwarfinghers.“And there is humor in herform.Mei-li means beautifulorpretty.”

“Mei-liisarealfoxylady,”Lukechuckled.“Enough!” Mark scolded.

“I overstepped the bounds.Youdidnothave to joinme,brother.”“Afox?”“Leave it at your term,

Evelyn Love,” Mark said.“AnOT.”Evelyn’s mind spun. “Is

she … Mei-li … trying tostopherhusbandfrombuying

the old buildings? Is shetryingtostophimfrom—”“Sending wrecking balls

against our kind?” Lukeasked. He shook his head.“She has her own plans,EvelynLove.ForgiveMei-li,forshehassinned.”“Andwillsinagain,”Mark

said.“Tell me!” Evelyn said.

“Thoseplans.Whatarethey?Doyouknow?”

Luke nodded. “Of courseweknow.”“But we cannot tell you,”

Mark said. “What is said inthe confessional is betweenthe penitent and God. Thesanctity of the confessionalstands. We cannot repeatwhat was said inside theconfessional.”Luke’s face brightened

ever-so-slightly. “And so Ican say this: you would do

well, Evelyn Love, to thinklikeagoodpolicedetective.”Shecockedherhead.“Follow themoney,”Mark

said.“AndfollowMei-li.”Shemadeafewmorenotes

onthemap,replaceditinherbackpack, and stood, carefulnot to slip.Mark reachedouta stony paw to steady her.“Thankyou,Mark,Luke.”“You have been most

kind,”theysaidpracticallyin

unison. It sent a shiverthrough her. It was whatThurmanhadsaidyesterday.Lukenudgedherbackpack.

“Perhaps you should not beso burdened on the rest ofyourjourneythisday,EvelynLove.”Shetookouttheremaining

six-pack and the bag ofcashewsandtinofgumdrops.It made it easier to squeezethrough the narrow access

doorwhensheleft.

Chapter2.7

Time had melted with thegargoyles. Evelyn left SaintsPeter and Paul in the mid-afternoon. Her stomachsnarling its demands, shejogged across toWashingtonPark, stopping at the

BenjaminFranklinstatueandlookingbackatthechurch.Itwas evenmorebeautiful at adistance. Maybe she’d comebackthisSunday.She usually attended

services at Saint Agnes’s inthe Haight-Ashbury district.Called “the last chancechurch” by those in theneighborhood, Saint Agnesdrew gays, straights, andOTs, and Evelyn was

comfortable there. But itdidn’thavehighlyconversantgargoyles, and it didn’t haveFranklinandMei-liArnoldasparishioners.“What am I hungry for?”

Food,shedecided,scanningarow of restaurants across thestreet on the far side of thepark.Anytypeoffood,andadecentamountofit.HereyeslitonaThairestaurant,whichlooked to be the closest. She

headedtowardit,atthesametime catching sight of themanwith the cell phone. Hewaswithtwofigureswearingball caps and dark grayhoodies, their faces soshadowed she couldn’t seeanydetails.The man pointed at her,

and the two strangers startedoffonarun.Evelyn bolted, aiming

straight for the Thai

restaurant. She would dashinside, pull out her cellphone, and call DetectiveReese, the woman whoinvestigated Thomas’smurder. She cut across thegrass—shorterthantakingthesidewalk—hurtled a smallbed of gravel and deadflowers, and raced into thestreet, narrowly avoiding arusted-outDatsun.Not pausing to look over

her shoulder, she chargedthrough the restaurant’s frontdoor and skidded to a stop,nearly slamming into thecounter. Though it was wellpast lunchtime,theplacewascrowded.More than a dozentables were occupied, thenearestbyamiddle-agedmanand a blue-tinted fey inprovocativeenoughclothestosuggest she was a hooker.The odd pair looked up at

Evelyn’s sudden arrival, andthen resumed eating. Theplace smelled amazing andwas warm and colorful, thewalls a rich red decoratedwith gilded dragons andwatercolors with Thaiprintingringingtheimages.“Follow me.” A waitress

appeared at Evelyn’s elbowand guided her to a smalltableatthebackofthediningroom.

Classical music filteredsoftly from speakers high onthe walls, and the sonorousbuzz of conversations lulledEvelyn into a little security.Herbreathingslowedandshefelt the rosy rushonher facefade. She’d be safe here—aslong as she remained insidethe busy restaurant. Shehadn’tbeenfollowedintotheoffice complex where she’dmet Bjoernolf, or into the

church, and so they werelookingtocatchheroutintheopen.Catchheranddowhat?Maybejusttalktoher.ButforsomereasonEvelyn

didn’t thinkso.Their interestdidn’t have the“conversation” feel to it.Rather, it had the stalker-intent-to-do-something-badfeel.Daggerhadtaughthertoneverignorehergut.

“Tea?”“Yes, please.” Evelyn sat,

facing the door and thewindow,whichwasclutteredwith an assortment of greenplantsbutaffordedenoughofa view that she could watchforthehoodedpair.Along thewall toher right

was a large aquarium,probably a hundred and fiftygallons.Shubunkin,Orandas,andfan-tailedgoldfishswam,

seemingly in time with themusic.“The red curry chicken,

please.”Evelynsawitamongthe specials advertised on aplacardnearthecashregister;it was one of her favorites,and so she hadn’t evenbotheredtolookatthemenu.Besides, she had enough inher wallet for a “special.”Andmaybethere’dbemoneyleftoverfordessert.

“Friedriceorwhite?”“Fried,nogreenonions.”The waitress disappeared

and Evelyn reached into herbackpack for the cell phone.Detective Reese first, thenThomas, she decided.Gretchenwouldbeinthelawoffice and so could pick upthe phone. Finally, Dagger;shewanted to tell him aboutthe mysterious revelationregarding Mei-li Arnold and

get some pointers oninvestigatingthewoman.She watched the waitress

bring a plate of shrimp andrice to a man at a nearbytable. It made her mouthwater. After all the running,she was famished. Andrunning away fromsomething? That usuallywasn’t Evelyn’s style. Shetended to confront thingshead-on. But three against

one in the park? Evelynwassmarterthanthat.She found Detective

Reese’scardandflippedopenthe phone. “Great. Great.Great.”Thechargewasgone.Shelookedaroundthediningroom, no payphones; theywere practically museumpieces nowadays. She’d asktouse therestaurant’sphone.She turned and gestured togetthewaitress’sattention…

justasthetwohoodedfigurespassed by thewindow, cameinthedoor,andallhellbrokeloose.Everything happened at

once.Thefigures—onemale,one

female, judging by theirbuilds—reachedintothefrontpockets of their hoodies andpulledoutguns.Diners shrieked, some

seeking cover under tables,

somejumpingup,theirchairstipping back, plates andteapots clattering andshattering. A table fell overand a portlyman slid behindit.Evelyn’swaitresshadbeenapproaching, and she threwher hands up and screamed:“Umay!Callthepolice!”Thefiguresshoutedtoo,the

firstoftheirwordslostinthepandemonium. One of thegunmen fired at the ceiling

and the panicked dinersquieted.“No onemove and no one

gets hurt!” the smaller figureordered. Definitely awoman’s voice, but with aLatinaccent.Shepointed thegunatEvelyn.“Wejustwanther.” She pulled the trigger,andEvelyndoveforthefloor,a bullet whizzing by whereherheadhadbeenaheartbeatbefore.

They wanted her, allright … they wanted herdead! So much for herthinkinginsidewassafe.Evelyn rolled and jumped

to her feet as another bulletzinged by. The third shotcaughtherintheshoulderandspunheraround.Itfelt likeared-hot ice pick had beenplunged in, and she slammedher teeth together, stayed onher feet, and dashed for the

door in the back that shesuspected led to the kitchen.Behind her, the dining roomerupted into even greaterchaos.“Call the police!” Evelyn

hollered as sheburst into thekitchen. She heard six moreshots fired behind her, andmore screams. “Call 9-1-1.Please call—” Someone wasalready doing that, sherealized, the eldest of the

kitchenstaff.“Shut up!” she heard from

outinthediningroom.Threemore shots. “Get down,everyone!Orwe’llkill allofyou!” Itwas the female thugbarkingorders.The kitchen was cramped.

There was a large grillimmediately to Evelyn’sright, pieces of chicken andbeef on it that had beenattended by an elderly

Orientalman, the one on thecell phone. “Police,” he said.“Send police right nowplease.”A fry cooker next to the

grill had something sizzlinginbaskets,andpotsboiledonthestove.Along,aluminum-covered counter directlybehind had chickens andslabs of beef and pork on it.One of the cooks, a youngman with a hairnet over his

beard, apparently had beenchoppingatracksofribswitha cleaver. A waitress hadbeen holding a tray withsomeone’s meal on it—butthis was dropped in shock,and she fumbled for herphone,droppedit,andranoutthe back door. A busboyfollowed, both fleeing intothe alley. Evelyn registeredblursofwhiteaprons,elbows,and heels. The dishwasher, a

ghoul dressed in somethinglike hospital scrubs, turnedandstaredslack-jawed.“Run!” Evelyn encouraged

thethreewhoremainedinthekitchen. She grabbed at hershoulder, which wasthrobbing. It felt like she’dstuck her hand in warmpudding;thatmuchbloodhadsoaked into her sweatshirt.She’d never felt such painbefore. It was making it

difficult to think. “Run.”Shestarted toward thealleydoor,hoping they’d follow. “Run!Youhaveto—”“Police,” the elderly cook

continued on his phone,standingdefiantlyathisgrill.“Thai-One-On Café. Manygunsarehere.”Twomoreshotsrangoutin

the dining room, there weremore screams, though theysounded muffled now, and

the door behind her flewopen.“Mano toca!” The male

gunman.“Run!”Evelynscreamedat

thetopofherlungs.“Justget—”“Para! Stop,Ms.Love, or

Iwillkillthemall!”Evelyn froze, back still to

the man. Her knees lockedand she felt dizzy.Sheheardher own ragged breath, the

womanthugoutinthediningroomshouting:“Staydown!”followedbyanothergunshot,sizzlingandpoppingfromthegrillandthestove,frightenedvoices from out in the alley,the elderly cook still talkingto the 9-1-1 operator, andthenafaintsiren.Thank God, she thought.

Theremusthavebeenaclosepolicecar.“Alvar! We’re getting

company!” the womanhollered from the diningroom.“Justgackherandlet’sget out the back. Car’swaiting.Rápido!”“No!” Evelyn forced

herself tomove. Shewhirledon the gunman, arms up andfists out, bringing her leg uptoo, guessinghewasdirectlybehind her, and beingrewarded by landing a solidkick to his hip. At the same

time he fired, and he wouldhavehitherdead-centerifshehadn’t been spinning. Thebullet caught her just abovetheleftwrist,anothericepickdrivenin.“Awesome.”Evelynjabbed

up with her knee as shemoved close and catchinghiminthegroin,butnothardenoughtodoanydamage.Heleveledthegunasshejumpedback. Lord, the pain was

intense!Itwasgettinghardtothink. There was little roomto maneuver between all thebigappliances.Before she could do

anything else, the beardedcookrushedpastherwithhiscleaver, chopping down onthethug’sgunhand.Thegunandmostofthethug’sfingersfell to the floor, and hetottered off balance as hescreamed.

Evelyn squeezed in andkicked the thug again, herheel striking his knee andbendingitbackward.“Police!” The elderly

Orientalcookwasstillonthephone. “Much shooting.Much blood. Hurry nowplease. Someone will bedying!”“Damn straight someone’s

gonna die. You bring gunsinto my kitchen!” The

beardedcookwiththecleaverbrought it viciously downagain, and missed. The thug—stillhollering inpain—hadpulled his injured hand incloseandbarreledforwardasmuch as the space allowed,pushing Evelyn against thefryer and knocking his hoodback.HewasLatino,andhadtattoosonhisneck,apiercednose with a sparkling stud,and a pierced eyebrow. She

would never forget his rage-filledface.Evelyn felt the pop of hot

greasespittingupagainstherback, inconsequential to thepaininherarmandshoulder.One good arm, she pivotedandstretched,snatchingatthehandle of a fryer basket. Itwas heavy, filled with eggrolls,butshemanagedtopullitoutandswingithighlikeaclub against the side of the

man’s head. He’d beencoming at her again, but theblowstaggeredhimandleftacrisscross angry red patternon his face from the boilingoil.The bearded cook brought

the cleaver down again,landing another blow to theman’sarm.“Can’tyouquit?”“Mierda!” With his good

hand, the thuggrabbedathisburned face, one arm limp

from the cleaver hit. “Perrapendeja! María, necesitoayudaaquí!”Thebasketstilldrippedhot

oil; Evelyn hit him with itagain.“Yougo,girl,”thebearded

cookchampioned.The thug dropped to his

knees and she slammed thebasket on top of his head,losinghergriponit.“This ought to stop him.”

Thecookbroughtthecleaverdownon the thug’s shoulder,thebladesinkingindeepandcutting through bone. Thethug pitched forward, andwithout pause the cookstompedon thebloodyhand.The man wailed and clawedatthetilewithhisgoodhand,andthenhestoppedmoving.“Think he’s dead?” the

beardedcookasked.Evelynworkedtocatchher

breath and keep her balance.The kitchen was starting tospin.Thesirensgrewlouder.“Roscoe, what a mess

you’ve made,” muttered theelderly cook as he squeezedpast the ghoul on the othersideofthekitchen.The ghoulwas still staring

transfixed.Turning his head to

continue to talk on the cell

phonetothe9-1-1dispatcher,the elderly cook hurriedtoward the alley exit andwaved at the bearded fellow.“Roscoe,youcomewithme!Roscoe!” He paused at thebackdoor.“Roscoe…no!”The woman burst into the

kitchen, firingandhitting thebearded cook square in theforehead. He fell, and sheswungthegunonEvelyn.Evelyn couldn’t feel the

pain anymore. Numb, andfueled entirely by adrenalin,sheskitteredback,goodhandflailingandfingersbrushingafieryhotpot.Shegrabbedthehandle,grimacingagainst theheat, and brought the potaround, a bulletwhizzingoffitandricochetingsomewhere.Asecondbulletwasfiredandconnected with something.With all the strength shecould summon, she slung the

pot.Boilingwaterandpiecesof shrimp splattered thewoman.“Tramp!” the woman

hollered. “You’re dead, you—”Evelynwastoodizzytotry

anything else and felt herselfknocked to the floor by theghoul dishwasher, who hadfinally shaken off the shock.Herheadhithardagainst thelinoleum and the lights

hanging from the ceilingappearedtoflicker.The ghoul took a half

dozenrapidshotstothechestmeantforEvelyn.Theimpactstaggered the ghoul, butdidn’t stop it. Already dead,Evelyn realized the bulletscouldn’t harm the creature.The ghoul ambled forward,and the woman fired againand again, the gun finallyeitherjammingorrunningout

of bullets, Evelyn couldn’ttell from her vantage point.She struggled to her feet,slipping in the blood andgrease, falling twice beforepullingherselfupbylatchingonto the front of the stove.Shecouldn’tmovethefingersof one hand, couldn’t feelthem.“Tramp!” the woman

holleredagain.Theghoulhadherbackeduptotheonlyspot

of wall that didn’t haveshelves or an applianceagainstit.“Getoutofhere,”theghoul

told Evelyn. “In case thereare more.” It had a halting,vaguely feminine voice. “Ihavethisone.”Sirens keened, and then

stopped. Shouts from thedining room intruded, thepolice arriving.Evelyn heardsomeone holler: “An

ambulance.Weneedmultipleambulances.”“Backthere,”someoneelse

cut in. “They went into thekitchen.”“Callthecoroner,too.”Two police officers came

through the door, leadingwith guns, one reflexivelyfiringontheghoul.“Don’t,” Evelyn managed.

“Shesavedme. It’s theotherone. The one who’s

breathing.”There were more sirens,

more shouts from the diningroom. The door to the alleybanged open and the elderlycook returned, still holdingonto his cell phone. “Thankyou, operator, police havearrived.Goodbyenow.”The cacophony continued

to swirl around Evelyn. Shecouldn’t feel her feet.Mercifully,shepassedout.

Chapter2.8

Dagger McKenzie hated thesmellofhospitals.Hissenseswere keen and picked out alemon polish that must havebeenusedonthefloor,alongwith the biting odor ofantiseptics, urine, blood, andthingsworsethandeath.

He smelled a lot of bloodon Evelyn. He loomed overthe side of her gurney. Hewas six feet five, withmuscles that pushed at theseams of his leather jacket.Today he wore his jet hairpulled back in a shortponytail,sotighthethoughtitmust look painful. He knewhis long, thick sideburns hidthe hard planes of his face,but he also knew nothing

could mask the concern thatflittedbehindhiseyes.“I told you to be careful,

Evey. Can’t you ever listen?They could’ve been scrapingyou off that kitchen floor inpieces.”His scowlwasdeep,and he intended to scare her,but he softened the next.“You could’ve been killed.What good would you doyour damn gargoyles then,huh, Evey?”Hewrapped his

fingers around the rail of thegurney’smetalsideboardandsqueezedsohardhisknucklesturnedwhite.She lookedsmallandpale;

pupils different sizes,suggesting she’dpickedup aconcussion in addition to thebullets.AnIVbagwithclearliquid dripped down a tubeand into her arm; he didn’tlikethesmellofit.“Was in a ’srestaurant,

Dagger. In ’sbroaddaylight.”Evelyn’s voice cracked andthewordscameslurred.“You’re in shock, they

said.Gotyoudopedupgood,don’t they? Helluva way toavoid talking to the police.”He looked up at the wallclock.“Butthey’lltalktoyoulater.” He glanced down thehallintheotherdirection.A pair of officers, one

holdingaclipboard, talkedto

amaninscrubs,adoctororanurse.“They’regoingtotakeyou

into surgery, Evey, the ERdocs said you’re stableenough for it now. That’sserious, surgery. You lost alot of blood, a lot. Got threeslugsinyou.”“Three? ’Sfunny.Only felt

two.”“Whatwereyouthinking?”“Was ’sthinking about red

currychicken.”“Notfunny.Evey—”“Dagger, ’slisten …

Arnold’s wife. Follow themmm—”“Followthewhat?Evey?”Butshewasout.“Mr.McKenzie,wehaveto

takehernow.”Thescrubnurselookedtoo

young to Dagger, like shewas only halfway throughhigh school, not experienced

enough to be entrusted withEvelyn.“Excuseme,sir.”He reluctantly released his

grip. She pushed Evelyn’sgurney toward the operatingroom and looked over hershoulder.“You can wait down the

hall,Mr.McKenzie.She’llbein surgery a while.” Shetouched a panel on the wall,and the double doors to the

surgery suite swung open,and he saw more women inscrubs, these older andmakinghimfeelalittlebetter.Dagger watched until the

doorsclosedandhelostsightofEvelyn. “Damn it all.”Hepickedupherbackpack.He’dbeen called becauseparamedics found his nameand number in her wallet.She’d listedhimas a contactpersonintheeventsomething

untoward happened … likegetting shot in a Thairestaurant across fromWashingtonPark.Evelynhadamother—somewhere.Whenshe needed something—either money or a place tocrash—she wandered intoEvelyn’s life, wandering outagain when the hint ofsomethingbettercamealong.But Dagger had told the ERchief thatEvelyndidn’thave

any relatives. He thoughtEvelyn’s mother was worsethanhavingnomotheratall.He stopped at the

policemen and waited untilthey’d finished talking withthemaninscrubs.“This is connected to

Thomas Brock’s murder,”Dagger told the older of thetwo, assuming he was theleadonthecasebasedonhisstripes.Hepointedtowardthe

surgery suite. “Evelyn Lovegetting shot is connected. Idon’t know how.” Yet, headdedtohimself.“TheyworkOT legal cases, stepped onsome toes, ruffled thewrongfeathers. There’s a detectivelooking into Brock’smurder.”Dagger’s eyes narrowed as

he searched his memory.Evelynhadtoldhimthenameofthedetective,buthehadn’t

mether.Dagger rememberednamesbetterwhen theywereput to faces, and he was notparticularlyfondofcops.“Crap. Angel. Angela.

Reese. Detective AngelaReese.”The officer made notes on

theclipboard.“Sir—”“McKenzie.That’sallIcan

tell you. That’s all I know.”ButI’llfindoutmore,Dagger

thought.Questioning the twogunmen wouldn’t behappening. The man wasdead; themeat cleaver to theshoulder had sealed his fate.Thewomanwas in ICU, theghouldishwasherhadclawedher up pretty bad, and shewas listed in criticalcondition.“Evelyngetsoutofsurgery … you make suresomebody’s on her door.They had the stones to send

people at her in a restaurant.They could send ’em into ahospital. The gunmen wereafter her, the others in therestaurant were justcollateral.”Police weren’t stupid—

mostofthemanyway.They’dprobably already planned tohave someone on Evelyn’sroom. But Dagger wanted todrivehomethepoint.Theonewiththeclipboardtookafew

morenotes.“Mr.McKenzie—”“Later.I’moutofhere.”

OOOHe’d brought his

motorcycle because it wasfaster,allowinghimtoweavein and out of traffic. He satastride it in the parking lotandputEvelyn’sbackpackinfront of him, opened it, andstartingpawing through it.Acouple of crushed beer cans.

He shook his head—thoseweren’t from Evey, she’dbrought gargoyle bait withher today, probably loosenedsome stony tongues with thepricey microbrew. A fewstray cashews at the bottom,probablymore gargoyle bait.Evey had spent some of herhard-earned money ontoday’s venture—microbrewsand cashews. She’d beenserious about getting the

rockstochat.Her wallet was in there.

Thirteen dollars and somechange.Sheneededtogetherdegree,passthebar,andthenfind some place that wouldpay herwhat shewasworth.Dagger knew she barelymade enough to live on andhad a sizeable law schoolloan.Amapwith lots of circles

on it, a scribbly shorthand in

the margins. He scanned it,seeing names and arrows,Norwegian grn granite, andrealizing she’d actuallymanaged to meet with acouple of gargoyles. Next toLukelikes2tlk,she’dwritten:Arn’s wife OT—he dnt no.Sin.Mei-li’splans?Planswasdouble-underlined. She’ddrawn an arrow from that tolargerprint:$$$?Not much to go on, but

something. Dagger strokedhischin.Threechoices.Do nothing—he wasn’t

getting paid for this, andunlikeattorneys,hedidn’tdo“pro bono” work. He was aprivate investigator and hechargedforhistime.Or he could pursue the

Franklin Arnold angle.Dagger had already figuredoutthatArnoldhad—througha web of gang connections

and favors owed him—ordered the successful hit onThomas Brock. But Daggerhadn’t been able to prove itandquestionedwhetherheoranyone else ever could.Maybe the answer wassimplytogetridofArnold.Or,hecouldfollowEvey’s

hintaboutArnold’swife.Curiosity luredhimtoward

thatlastoption.Arnold’swifeanOT,huh?Andifhe’dread

herscribblecorrectly,Arnoldwasoblivious.WasMei-lithewife’sname?“Interesting.”And Evey had been trying

to tell him to “Follow themoney.” You almost alwaysneeded to follow the moneytofindthebadguy.He reached to his back

pocketandpulledouthiscellphone. He had Brock’s lawoffice on speed dial …

becauseofEvey,notbecauseof Thomas Brock, thoughhe’d done work for theattorney and liked him. Thenumber rang and went tovoicemail. He looked at hiswatch; after five, Gretchenwouldhavetoddledofftothebus, leaving Thomas—withinsubstantial opposablethumbs—unable to answerthephone.“All salt and no sugar.”

Daggershovedhiscellphoneback in his pocket, slungEvey’s pack over hisshoulder, and peeled out oftheparkinglot.

Chapter2.9

Thomas hovered halfwayinside Gretchen’s desk,watching Dagger open the

law office’s front door.Gretchenhadlockedupwhenshe left, thrownthedeadbolt,and Thomas had no way tounlatch it. Dagger was usingakey,andhedidn’thaveoneofhisown.Daggercamein,keystillin

hand,onaringthathadafewother keys dangling from it,alongwith a fob of a pewtercatfaceinsideaheart.ItwasEvelyn’s key ring. He was

carryingherbackpack,too.“Where’s Evelyn?” She

was supposed to havecheckedinaftervisitingsomeofthecity’sgargoyles.WhenGretchen tried Evelyn’s celllatethisafternoon,shehadn’tpicked up. Thomas hadn’theard Evelyn return to hersecond floor apartment, andheknewshedidn’thaveclasstonight.AndnowDaggerhadher keys and backpack.

“Something happened toEvelyn.”“That’s why I came by,

Tom. Evey’s in surgery.Thoughtyoushouldknow.”Thomas felt himself

dissipate, stretching like asheet of fog along the bank.“Surgery? Dear God.Surgery?”“Surgery.” Dagger said it

louder.“What happened? Did she

get hit by a car?”Fall off abuilding? Had a gargoylepushed her off a building?They probablyweren’t all ascordial as Pete. “Did agargoyle hurt her? How isshe?”“She’s in surgery,”Dagger

repeated slowly, drawing outthe three syllables of the lastword. “So I don’t knowhowsheis.Shelostalotofblood.Alot.”

Thomas’s ghostly visionblurredand theoffice lookedlike a chalk painting runningin the rain. He concentratedand regained hisman-shapedimage, the vision improvingwith it. “What happened?Dagger—”Dagger walked past him

and flipped on the policescanner.Itcrackled,afilteredvoice talked about a car fireonFulton.Daggertookaseat

at Evelyn’s desk, sat thebackpacknexttoit,turnedonher computer, and startedhittingkeys.“Whathappened?”Thomas

raisedhisvoice.“Not sure. I’m thinking

someofArnold’sgoonswentafter her. She was in arestaurant. Broad daylight.Surprised you didn’t hearabout it on the news. Elevenpeople killed, including one

of the gunmen.A bloodbath.Five wounded, includingEvelynandtheothershooter.Gangers, got to be the samegang they sent after you.Gutsy, stupid gangers whoapparently didn’t want toleave any witnesses anddidn’t think they’d haveanyone stand up to them.Waitressranouttheback;shetold police she saw a carwaiting. It took offwhen the

sirensstarted,andnoonegota license plate number. It’sconnected.”“A bloodbath. Dear God.

Evelyn.”Thomasfelthelplessand felt himself dissipatingagain. He focused. “I—I—didn’thearanythingaboutit.”“Obviously. So good thing

Istoppedbytobethatbearerof bad news. Maybe youbetterstartjoiningValacrossthe street in thebar.TVsare

goingall the timeover there.Betsomenewschannelisstilltalking about it.” Daggercontinued to tap away at thekeyboard. Thomas floatedcloser and studied Dagger’sface. Concern … that wasthere, anger, curiosity,determination. Thomas wasgood at reading emotions, askill he’d developed in lawschoolandhonedincourt.“Whathappened?”Thomas

repeated.The chatter on the police

scannerchanged,adispatchertalking about a three-caraccident on the Golden GateBridge.“I told you what

happened.” Dagger let out ahissingbreathandlookedup,irritation in his dark eyes.Thomas read that clearly.“She got shot. Three times,shegotshot.ButIunderstand

from the police that she putupquiteafight.Betweenherand some maniac cook, theykilledoneofthegoonswithameatcleaver.Thedishwashercaughttheothershooter.”“She’s going to be all

right.”“So you’ve got ESP, huh?

That one of your ghostlypowers?” Dagger returned totyping. “Because I don’tknow that she’s going to be

all right. One bullet broke aboneinherarm.Tooktwointhe shoulder, one got anartery. She lost a lot ofblood.”“Why aren’t you at the

hospital?” Thomas wassuddenly as angry at Daggeras he was worried aboutEvelyn.ClearlyDaggercaredabout her; he’d taught herself-defense, apparentlythought enough of her to

teach her a few less-than-legal skills and seemed tosometimeswatchout forher.“Whythehellaren’tyou—”“Why don’t you go to the

hospital, Tom? Why don’tyou float on over to thesurgerysuite?”“I—I think I’m stuckhere,

McKenzie, maybe forever.You know that. I mean,Valentino’s stuck, so I guessI’mstuck,too.Thiscorner,it

mustholdus.Ghostsareheldto this world by something.I’m.Just.Stuck.”“And you’re having a pity

party about it? Well, don’tworry.Iamgoingbacktothehospital … eventually. ButEvey’sgoingtobeinsurgeryawhile. Then if things workout, she’s going to be inrecoveryawhile. Iknowhowhospitals work. Theyprobablywon’tletmeseeher

untilthemorning.Ihadtogetpushyasitwas.Theyweren’tgoingtoletmeseeherbeforetheyrolledherintheOR.ButIknowhowtopush.”Thomas thought he should

feel his heart thundering. Itwould be if were living,blood racing tohisears.Andthe ephemeral fists heclenched—he wanted to feelnails digging into his palms.He imagined his throat

tightening,andhischest; thatused to happen whenever hewas horriblyworried and hisbreathwouldcomefaster.HewantedtorageatDagger,tellhim to go to back to thehospitalrightnow,tellhimtocallwhenheheardsomethingelseaboutEvelyn.Ifshedies,she’s gone forever. Thechances of her also stayingbehind as a ghost were slimandnone.

But Thomas wouldn’t beable to answer the phone ifDagger did call. “WouldyoucallGretchenforme?Gethertocomebackin?”“Forwhat?”So she can be my hands,

Thomas thought. So she cancall the hospital, check onEvelyn, take your calls. Soshecanturnonthenewsandchange the channels on thescanner and open the file

drawers and spread outpapersformeandturnpagesin the law books. He feltempty and useless andwonderedwhyhehadn’ttrulydied when the dark fey hadmurderedhim.“Look,Tom,chill.”Dagger

gave a clipped laugh. “Chill.Yeah. That’s funny. I’ll callGretchenwhenIfindouthowEvey’sdoing.Notbefore.Noneedtogivetheoldwomana

heart attack. She took it badenoughwhenyouwerekilled.Besides, she might havealready heard it on the newsandisthinkingshebetterstartchecking the classified adsfor another job.” Hecontinued typing. “Now, thisisinteresting.”“What?” Thomas floated

behind the desk and droppedpartway down into the floorso his eyes were level with

the computer screen. “Who’sthat?”“Mei-liArnold.”Beautiful,Thomas thought,

and young. Japanese orChinese,skinpalelikecream,suggesting she stayed out ofthe sun. Shewaswearing anexpensive-looking suit and apearl choker necklace thatwas probably real. “AboutEvelyn,Dagger—”“She’s in surgery.”Dagger

clicked a link and thenanother,andThomassawhimlooking at marriage records.The Arnolds were marriedalmost two years ago inSaintsPeterandPaulChurch.Anewspaperclippingshowedthat they honeymooned inChina for nearly a month.More documents flashed bythe screen,FranklinArnold’sbirth record, no such recordforMei-li;shewaslistedasa

naturalized citizen, born in1990.Thatputherattwenty-two and less than half herhusband’sage.Atrophywife,probably lured by Arnold’smoney. He followed twomorelinks.ApparentlyMei-liwas using some of Arnold’smoneyforherownprojects.“What hospital is Evelyn

in?”“San Fran General, the

traumacenter.”

Thomasknewitwasagoodone, the city’s largesthospital.“Shouldn’tyou—”“Useless me checking on

Evey at the moment. Whenyou died, did your hearinggo?”Thomas tried to make a

noiselikehewasclearinghisthroat, but it didn’t work.“Shouldn’tyoube lookingatArnold, not his wife? IfArnold was behind my

murder, he could be behindEvelyn—”“Yeah, I’m gonna look

there.ButI’mlookingat thisfirst.” Dagger pointed at thescreen, to a series of realestate transactions.Hehadn’thacked; Thomas knewDagger’s skills wereconsiderable, but hackingwasn’t in his wheelhouse. Itwasapublicrecordswebsite.“Building acquisitions. I

know. Arnold wants to buythe buildings with gargoyleson them and smash them tosmithereens,” Thomas said.“He hates OTs. Is on recordopposing OTs. I think that’swhymydadgetsonwithhimsowell.”Dagger tapped the screen.

“You’re looking, but youain’tseeing,Tom.”Thomas drifted closer, his

head halfway through

Dagger’s shoulder. He sawDagger shiver from the coldtouch.“Mei-liArnoldboughtthose.Sheusedherhusband’smoney,butthedealswereallhers.Andthedeedsarelistedsolelyinhername.”“Four of them, and they’re

clusteredinChinatown.She’sfiled forpermits to tear themdown. Looks like one isscheduled for demolitiontomorrow.”

“Gargoyles maybe. Mei-limight share her husband’scauseandwants toget ridofgargoyles. Maybe they’reboth out to make gargoylesextinctinSanFrancisco.”“Don’t think so.” Dagger

pulled out the map. “Look,Evey marked all thegargoyles in the city. All ofthem. Not a one inChinatown.”Thomas glanced between

the map and the permitsDaggerwasskimmingonthescreen.“So?”Dagger shrugged. “Evey

thought she was ontosomething with the Mei-liangle. So that’s where I’mgoing to look. When shewakesupinthehospital, I’mgonna have something to tellher.”“So you’re going back to

the hospital.” Thomas felt ameasure of relief andimagined letting out a deepbreath.“Eventually. You are hard

of hearing.” Dagger jotteddown the addresses of thefourChinatownbuildingsandlooked out the window. “Orjusthardheaded.EventuallyIwill. Apparently Evey thinksMei-li isanOT,soIwant tofind out what sort of an

OT … if she really is one.She looks awfully human tome.ButthensomeOTswearhuman skin. And I want tosee what’s interesting aboutthat section of Chinatown. Iam definitely overdue forsome of Chef Han’s scallionpancakes and Kung Paoscallops. Good thing he’sopenlate.”Thomas followedDagger’s

gaze. Itwasgettingdark, the

streetlights coming on. Thebars’ neon flickered,syncopatedwiththestringsofblinking Christmas lights.Soon they’d turn the musicup. He knew he could driftacross the street to the frontofthebar,justsohekeptthelawoffice insight; theofficeseemed to be his anchor.He’d followed Valentinoonceoutofcuriosity.Thebarwas probablywhereValwas

now. Maybe Thomas wouldgo there and see if he couldhear the news on one of theTVs—before the music andconversations made itimpossible.“Gotta go, Tom.” Dagger

turnedoffEvelyn’scomputerand slid back from the desk.“Imightstopbackherelater.Imightnot.Wantmetoleavethe scanner on to keep youcompany?”

Thomas thought he’d saidthatlastbitrathersnidely.“Chill, Tom, I’ll get word

toyousomehowaboutEvey.”Dagger’s expressionmellowed.“IwantEveytobeall right, too.” He turned offthe lights and headed out,pausing long enough torelockthedoor.Thomas watched as the

motorcyclepulledawayfromthecurb.“Evelyn.DearGod,

Evelyn.”

Chapter2.10

HeshouldhaveaskedDaggertospreadafewmorefilesouton the desk; reading wouldgive him something to dowhile he waited for newsabout Evelyn. He floatedbackandforth infrontof the

conferencetable,likealivingmanmightpace.Evelyn has tomake it. She

will be all right. She can’tdie,shejustcan’t.Thomas was worried—

hadn’t been this deep inanguish since his collegeroommatewaskilled.Part ofit was selfishness. Ifsomething happened toEvelyn,thislawofficewouldclose, and that would leave

him … leave him where?Here.He’dstillbehere.LikeValentino Trinadad had beenhere since he died on thecorneralmostfiftyyearsago.Valentino’s sole purpose forexistingasaghostseemedtobe searching for a perpetualhighbycatchingthebuzzoffdrunkardsanddrugusersthatstaggeredbycloseenough tothiscorner,orbyoccasionallyfinding some happiness

hovering around GretchenwhenshetookafewVicodin.Thomas’s purpose was the

law, and without this officehe would be whollymiserable. He would havenothing, an endless existenceofnothing.He floated through the

office, taking a last look atzoning requirements, whichhe was able to read eventhough Dagger had

thoughtlessly turned off thelights.Thomasfocusedonthepages, and when he thoughtonly about the words, theycametohim.Finallyhecouldsee in the dark! Historicpreservationwasoneavenue,buthethoughtthemoresolidroute to keeping Pete safestretched in the direction ofzoninglaws.Thomasworkedforanother

hour, alternately listening to

the scanner, which chatteredabout nothing particularlyinteresting or heinous.Whenhe believed he had hit uponan answer regarding Pete, hedecidedtocallitanight.He’d venture across the

street, to the bar that playedblues. Maybe Valentinowould be there, and hethought the ghost shouldknow about Evelyn. MaybeThomas would stay late

enough to listen to the teno’clock news. If he stuck hisheadrightinsideatelevision,he ought to hear it throughthe drunken blather. Abloodbath like Dagger haddescribed, the media wouldcoverit.Thomas passed through

Evelyn’s desk and paused.Whatever would he dowithouther?Itwasn’twhollyselfishness. He honestly

cared … cared maybe morethan a dead man had a rightto.HepassedGretchen’sdesk,

thenfloatedthroughthefrontdoor, crossing the streetagainstthelightandsensingabig Plymouth cruise throughhim. Thomas was doing his“invisibleman” routine now,translucent like frosted glass.He’d discovered that hedidn’t have to appear like a

wispy suggestion of hisformerself—thatwasjustforthe benefit of people hewanted to talk to; he didn’thavetoappearasanythingatall.

OOOThebarhadascatteringof

patrons.Itwasn’tlateenoughto be really hopping. Twotelevisions were on, bothshowing a soccer game.Uninterested,Thomasfloated

all the way to the back,looking for Val. Musicplayed: B.B. King’s “EveryDayIHavetheBlues.”Thomas agreed with the

lyrics. He was in a seriousfunk.Please let Evelyn be all

right, he thought, as hepassed through thebackwallof the tavern.Dear God, lether—Then he was in the alley

behind the tavern, throughanother building, then acrossthestreetandfloatingintoanItalianrestaurantontheotherside, one that he’d alwaysconsidered too expensive forthequality.What the hell? Thomas

kept going, all the waythrough the restaurant’sdining roomandkitchen, outthe back. He stopped in thealleyandstaredatthebackof

the restaurant. The brickswere dark, ugly, and yet hethought them beautiful …because he could see them,because he’d passed throughthem.Heedgedfartheraway,through another series ofbuildings and across threemore streets, everythingbeautiful.Heimaginedthatifhis heart could pump, itwould be full-out beating amarathonrhythm.

He wasn’t anchored to hisbuilding on Haight, at leastnot anymore. Had he everbeen? Had he only assumedhe couldn’t go anywherebecauseValentinowasstuck?Maybe his anchor had beenthe practice of law, not thelawoffice.He felt a rush of

exhilaration.Icangotothecourthouse,

helpEvelynwithcases.

Maybehecouldeven tryacase!Dear God, please let

Evelynbeallright.Getting his bearings, he

changeddirectionandheadedtoward San FranciscoGeneral. He wouldn’t needDaggerMcKenzietotellhimhow Evelyn was faring. Hewasgoingtofindouthimself.

Chapter2.11

Every city had a heart, andDagger believed SanFrancisco’s beat irregularly,Chinatownprovidingsomeofthat syncopation. The oldestand largest Chinesecommunity in the worldoutside of Asia, it coveredtwenty-four square blocks.

He favored the massiveneighborhood at night, whenthe number of touristsdropped considerably. Thearea’s history wisely sentthemtootherpartsofthecitythat were reputedly safer.Still, there was a relativelyvibrant nightlife, the colorsandthemusicenticing.Too, Dagger was well

aware thatChinatownhad itsown dark secrets. Some

Chinatowns around thecountry were experiencingso-called urban renewal, butnotthisone.Thedeclinewasevident, especially if oneknew where to look.Homelessnesswasaproblem,and the vagrants werefrequently aggressive in theirpanhandling. The Triads stilloperated, the “snakeheads”among them smuggling inillegal immigrants destined

for indentured servitude.Some of the luckier soulsendedupwithmenial jobs inrestaurants. Those not quiteas fortunate were funneledintogarmentsweatshops,andthe attractive young girlswereforcedintoprostitution.Sections were dilapidated,

and in the basements opiumdens and gambling parlorsoperated. The Tongs werepresent, hidden societies

known for their in-fightingandturfwars.Thegangsalsohad their place, chief amongthemtheJacksonStreetBoys,who’d named themselvesafter a major street that ranthrough Chinatown. Daggerhad run afoul of the JacksonStreet Boys when he wasdoingalittleinvestigatingfora downtown importer-exporter a fewmonths back;he’dcomeoutofitfine,buta

fewthe“Boys”hadnot.This area had been worse

decades ago. During thehippie years the gangsharassed tourists, sometimesassaultingthem.Itculminatedin 1977 when a few touristswere killed by stray bulletsfrom a popular Chinatownrestaurant, caught in thecrossfirebetweenrivalgangs.The incident was known astheGoldenDragonMassacre.

Things improved after thatbecause the city created anAsian crime team. Daggerwondered what they’d dubthe bloodbath that had sentEvelynintotheOR.Recently, according to the

visitors and conventionbureau, Chinatown had beenwelcomingmoretouriststhanthe Golden Gate Bridge.Dagger, rarely the optimist,figureditwasjustamatterof

time before something elseunfortunate happened in theareatohurtthetouristtrade.He eased his bike down

Bush Street, under theDragonGate. Itwas theonlytrue Chinatown gate in thecountry, as it had been builtof stone from the base to itstop,whichwascrownedwithtraditional green tile. Thebuildings to either side werelessthanahundredyearsold.

The earthquake in 1906 hadtaken all of Chinatown’swoodenstructures,exceptforthegate.He slowed and looked at

the people milling on thesidewalks. Most were Asian,but there were a fewwhites.Bytheirgarbandthecuriousway they took everything in,he could tell they weretourists. Might as well haveputa flashingneonsideover

their heads sayingVAGRANTS, HIT ME UP.Ahead, a lizard-faced manwithatailwrappedaroundanankle, a variety of OT he’dnotseenbefore,stoodinfrontof a restaurant. He wouldremember to tell Zaxil aboutthefellow.A block later he saw

anotherone,dressedinasilkshirtwith dragon patterns onthe front. He pulled out his

cell phone and snapped apictureforreference.Nearby,a pair of undead somethingsclung to a narrow gapbetween buildings. Daggerwasn’t going to get closer tofindoutwhattheywere.Chinatown had become a

citywithinacitysincethebigquake. He passed one of thetwo hospitals and a postoffice. He turned onStockton, where fewer

touristsventuredregardlessofthe time of day. The streetwas like a slice of HongKongwith authentic produceand fish markets, pagodaroofs everywhere. The sidestreets that spread from itprovided still more trueChinese character with anassortmentofherbalshops.He’d memorized the

addresses of the fourbuildings; they were ahead,

eachprovidedacorner to theintersection. One was old,two stories, the bottom anAsian grocer’s, and thesecond floor probablyapartments, lights burning inhalf the windows. From itsbeat-down look, Daggerthought demolishing it andputting up something newwould be a blessing. But theother three were inconsiderablybettershape.

The largest reached fivestories, the street level splitbetween a tattoo and bodypiercing shop and amassageparlor, the second floor hadsigns in the windowsadvertisingtaxhelpandlegaladvice. The higher levelswere residential; they hadbalconies in the front, a fewwithChristmastreesonthem,onewithabicycle,onehadadog sitting still like a statue,

maybe someone’s ceramicsproject. It looked like abeagle mix, snout protrudingthrough the grates. Daggerhadkeenvision,andhesawitblink.The other two buildings

were three-stories each, onestone and obviously old,maybe a survivor of the bigearthquake, lots of visiblecracks in the trim andbrickwork. It had been a

furniturestore;thegoing-out-of-business banner in thelowerwindowwasfaded.Theplace was dark and empty,not a single light comingfromanyofthewindows.Theotherbuildingwas the

widest, the first floor a fishmarketwith agroupofolderChineseoutfront.Asignandasetofstairstothesideofitadvertised a second businessin the basement: LO HE’S

ACUPUNCTURE. Thesecond floor had morebusinesses. Signs in thewindows, more professionalthan the tax and attorneyshingles on its neighbor,proclaimed: YE’S FINETEAS, LO HE’S DESIGNS,LOHE’S JANITORIAL,SUWING’S CATERING, andVACANCY,FORRENT.Daggerparkedhisbikeand

crossed the street to the

massage parlor, put hishelmet in its zippered carrybag, and decided to take itwithhim.A trioof teenagersin high school jackets gavehim an up and down as theystrutted by. The city had aban on smoking inbusinesses, but the womanbehind the counter in themassage parlor ignored it.The ashtray in front of herwas a mound of butts and

ashes. A haze hung justbelow the drop ceiling, andthe tiles were discoloreddirectly above her. Theplacard with services andprices was in Chinese andEnglish.Speaking fluent Chinese,

Dagger requested a “jadedhand guiding dragon,” amassagethatwouldlastaboutan hour. He paid theequivalent of two hundred

yuan, and was shown to aroom in the back; voicescame from rooms off to theside, all speaking Chinese.He’d expected a femalemasseuse, but a young,muscularmancamein,tossedhimatowel,andindicatedthetable.Dagger stripped and

stretched out, and the youngmanwent towork, using theAbhyanga method, a

technique with aromaticherbal oils. Dagger’d hadthem before—the intent wastopromotebalancewithinthebody, and they usuallyworked.“English?” the masseur

asked.“YoupreferEnglish?”“Yeah.”“Tourist?”“Never.”Daggerrattledoff

places he’d been to inChinatown, his favorite

restaurant where Chef Hanmade amazing Kung Paoscallops. “I guess I’m aregular.”“ChefHan.Yes,heisvery

good.”The man worked on

Dagger’s calves now.“Tight.”“I’mwound tight.”Dagger

listened. Music played softlyfrom overhead, not Asian,piano; he recognized a track

from George Winston’sDecember. “I heard thisbuilding was recently sold.Doyouknowanythingaboutthat?”Themancontinuedtowork

on Dagger’s muscles,hummingsoftly.“This building,” Dagger

tried again, switching toMandarin.“Itsold—”“Yes.”“ToaMei-liArnold.”

“Yes,shebuysbuildings.”“Is she going to keep this

massage parlor open? I’msurehopingso.”Daggerkepthis voice friendly and triednot to pry overmuch, andcontinued to speak inMandarin. “You’re muchbetter than the masseuse atHeavenly Ecstasy.” It was amassage parlor a handful ofblocksaway.“Yes, we are better here,

authentic Chinese massage.Spiritstogods.”In some Chinese massage

parlors, Dagger knew theclients were called gods andthemasseuses,spirits.The young man moved

higher, working on Dagger’ships now. “You have manyscars.Fromawar?”“Yeah, you could call it a

war.”“Many,manyscars.”

“So,isMei-ligoingtokeepthisplaceopen?”Dagger felt the scowl by

the way the man’s handskneadedhismuscles.“Mei-li,Ihearshewants to tear thesedown, these buildings shebuys. So, no, she will notkeep this place open. I willfind work somewhere elsesoon.Verysoon.”“That would be a shame,

tearing these down. But

maybe she’ll put up newbuildings,and—”“Ihear shewill not put up

anything. She will onlydestroy. You ask manyquestions.”Dagger let out a contented

sigh when the man startedworking on his shoulders.“Doesn’tshelikethisareaofChinatown?”He felt the man’s shrug.

“She always comes to this

corner,alwayswalks throughthesebuildings.Allhersnow.She was here earlier. Verypretty,Mei-li.Lingaveheramassage.”“Earliertoday?”“Yes.”“So, thisMei-li… you’ve

mether?”“You ask too many

questions.AndIhavespokentoomuch.”“Sorry, I likeChinatown. I

was just curious,” Daggersaid.“Inmynature,Iguess.”“Massage is finished now.

Thank you for choosing thisshop.”Themanabruptlyleft.Dagger dressed slowly and

looked at his watch. He’dbeen shorted by a half hour.He’d struck a nervewith theyoungman,notbeingsmoothenough tonight. But he’dgotten a little information,and so he’d visit the other

establishments that touchedon this intersection, puttingoff the Kung Pao scallops,maybe getting a piercing ortattoonextdoorandseeingifhecouldpickupalittlemoreabout Mei-li. He’d besmootheratthenextstop.Hegrabbed up his helmet bagand crept out into the hall,listening.Nothing.He’deventuallyfindMei-li

and talk to her directly,

though not tonight. Heneeded to learn a lot moreaboutherbeforethatmeetingtook place—and not facts hecouldpickupofftheInternet.The best information cameoutofconversations.The woman who’d been

behind the counter and takenhismoneywas gone, thoughher smoke lingered. Daggertookalookaround.Itseemedthateveryonehadclearedout.

Novoices came frombehindany of the closed doors. Hestill heard piano musiccoming from an apartmentoverhead.“Hello?Anyone here?”He

sawacigaretteburningintheashtray. The heavy scent ofsmoke interfered with himdetecting much else. Softer:“Was it something I said?”He laughed softly, and thenleft.

OOOThere had been several

peopleon the sidewalkwhenhe’dwentin,nowtherewereonly three individuals, OTs,noneofthembreathing.Theywere in various states ofdecay, one looking close tohuman, the flesh pale butintact, clothes in good repairandhairshort,asifstyledfordisplayatawake.Clearlythedead man was Chinese,

probably the other twocorpses also, but it wasdifficult to tell. They had apeculiargreentintedskinthatwas stretched tightover theirbones, and they had longwhite hair hanging behindthem like cobwebs.Onewasmissing its jaw. Their limbswere stiff, armsstretchedoutin Frankenstein poses, andDagger figured the livingpeople in the neighborhood

had disappeared when thesefellowsshowedup.They moved toward him,

hopping; apparently theycouldn’tbendtheirlegs.Dagger started across the

streettohisbike.Ifthelocalsavoided these things,he’ddoso, too.Hepausedafewfeetout from thecurband tookapicture of themwith his cellphone. He turned, and thenstopped again when one of

themspoke.“YouaskaboutMei-li.”He pivoted and walked

back to the curb, noticingthere wasn’t any traffic onthese streets.Hekept severalfeet between himself and theundeadtrio.“Mei-li.” It was the most

recent deadwhohad spoken.“YouwanttoseeMei-li?”Itsvoice was a harsh whisper,sounding like sandpaper

rubbedagainstwood.Dagger didn’t mind the

variousOTs,butsomeof theundead ones threatened toturn his stomach. This triosmelledparticularlyfoul.Oh, this is a bad idea, he

thought.“Yeah,IwanttoseeMei-li. Iwasgonnawait,butI suppose nowwould domeducky.”“She is here, nearby,” the

most recent dead continued.

“Pleasefollowme.”At least it was polite.

Dagger sniffed, detecting ahint of embalming fluidunderneath the greater smellof rot.He didn’t budge.Thisreallyisabadidea.“Follow now please, yes?”

It awkwardly turned andhopped toward the vacantfurniture store. Itscompanions ungainlyfollowed.

Dagger guessed that theyheld their arms in front ofthem to help with theirbalance. He watched them amoment, finding theirappearance at the same timedisgusting and comical. Helooked to his bike across thestreet.Gettingonitandgoingelsewhere would be a betteridea.Smells like a trap, he

thought. Nevertheless, he

walked after them. The frontdoortothefurniturestorewaspropped open. It had beenclosed when he’d parked hisbike and took his initiallooksee around.Looks like atrap.Therewasalightontoward

the back, behind a shapelyfigure. Backlit, she lookedlike a velvet cutout. But shemoved,shiftingfromonefootto the other. Dagger sniffed

again, findingonly theputridscent of the undead settlingfirmlyonhistongue.He stepped through the

doorway, thinking that thestore’s entrance had theappearance of the gapingmawofabeast.Yeah, this is definitely a

trap,hethought.ButI’ll takethebait.

Chapter2.12

Thomas saw ghosts.Most ofthem appeared as waterypatches of air, like themirage-haze that shimmeredabovepavementonespeciallyhot days. Therewere severalon the street he took towardthe hospital. They werepassingthroughpeopleonthe

sidewalks,hangingsuspendedoutside of restaurants,floating through cars thatcruiseddownthestreets.Onehovered above a taxi. A fewgathered outside of a small,street-levelshopwithasmallplacard in the curtainedwindow: “Nika Rondik,Psychic.” The name seemedslightly familiar somehow,butThomascouldn’tplaceit.With Evey hurt and his

newfoundabilitytotravel,hehadmorepressingmattersonhismind.The passersby seemed

oblivious to the spirits,engrossed in their variousconversations,andsoThomasrealized that these ghostswere in “invisible man”mode, not showingthemselves to thepublic.Butapparently ghosts could seeeach other. Thomas paused

on a corner and watchedcuriously, concentrating tomakeoutmoredetails—whatthe ghosts had been wearingwhen they’d died, theirmannerisms, any clues totheir identities and timeperiods.One had been a mime or

somesortofstreetperformer.She had on a misty jester’shat and overlarge shoes.Maybe she’d been a clown.

She looked to jugglesomething, standing under atraffic light. She caughtThomas staring at her andflowed down into a sewergrating.Therewasaghost inaSantasuit;hepacedinfrontof a department store, handraising and lowering as if herangabell.Thoughclosedforthe night, the store windowswere lit with an animatedChristmasdisplay.

Thomas counted fourteenghostsinhislineofsight.He’d only ever noticed

Valentino Trinadad hangingaroundthestretchofsidewalkinfrontofthelawoffice.Hadhe and Val been the onlyghosts birthed in thatparticular neighborhood?Thomas knew that only atrivial percentage of thosewhodiedcamebackassomeformofundead.Thefourteen

in this one block aloneseemed a significant numbergiven that. However, itlooked like these came fromdifferent eras. A ghostlywomanworealongskirtanda wide-brimmed hat thatbroughttomindfrontierdays.A man in a sailor’s uniformlooked likehesteppedoutofthe1930s.Thomasmovedon.Hadhe

not needed to get to the San

Francisco General to checkon Evelyn, he would haveapproachedthewomaninthelong skirt or the Santa ghostand chatted.Maybe he couldfind a famous ghost in themix. He pushed aside thenotion of discovering a deadElvis.HenoticedotherOTsasthe

blocks melted, though therewerenotmanyouttonight.Agreen-skinned hag in a pea

coat and high boots wasburdenedwithshoppingbags.Something that lookedvaguely trollish sat on aflattened piece of cardboardoutsideadrugstore.Hehadalarge tin cup in front of himandasignthatread:PLEASEHELP.Aman ina longcoatdroppedsomechangein.The majority of the

pedestrianswerehumans,andmost of themwere young to

middle-aged. Some had beenChristmas shopping, otherswerecomingfromorgoingtorestaurantsandbarsandweregesturing as they talked orwere engrossed in texting.Atrio of nuns in full habitspassed out pamphlets. Fromfarther down the street heheard a lone saxophonewailingthestrainsof:“ILeftMyHeart in San Francisco,”abuskercateringtoahandful

of tourists who’d emergedfromabistro.It was cold tonight. He

noticed the breath of thepassersby puff away fromtheir faces like little lacedoilies.Themist hung in theair for a heartbeat beforedisappearing. He’d nevercaredforwinter,eventhoughSan Francisco’s was actuallymild. Still, he wished hecould feel the chill and

wished his breath wouldmakethelacypatterns.Thomas continued on,

trying to pick up speed anddiscovering that he had one:slow.Nomatterhowmuchhefocused, he couldn’t go anyfaster, and so he gave up onusing the sidewalk andinstead started cuttingthrough buildings, stoppingonlyoccasionallytolookatawall clock or someone’s

wristwatch.Ithadtakenhimwellmore

than an hour to reach SanFrancisco General, whichstretched across PotreroAvenue between theMissionDistrictandPotreroHill.Thebuilding was huge, boastingsix hundred beds between itsacute care, psychiatric unit,and surgical section. And itwas going to get bigger;constructiononanacutecare

building was underway andexpected to open sometimenextyear.Thomas had been taken to

this hospital during his firstyear of law school. He’dbrutally torn his rotator cuffwhen he whacked the highboardduringadivingmishap.Hisfatherhadbeenfurious—not so much worried aboutThomas’sconditionashewasupset that his son had been

carted here. About eightypercent of San FranciscoGeneral’s patients wereuninsured or on publiclyfunded health insurance; andit never turned away thehomeless. Thomas’s fatherhad him transferredimmediately to Saint FrancisMemorial. Thomas had beentoo out of it at the time toobject.It didn’t take him long to

find the surgery department.Aghost stood in front of thedouble doors, back toThomas, head partwaythrough the glass. The ghostwastheportliestThomashadspotted, guessing the manmust have weighed at leastthree hundred and sixty orseventy pounds in life. Hiswispy image suggested he’ddied in a trench coat. Butwhen Thomas edged closer,

hecouldtellitwasalabcoat.What was ghostly

etiquette? Would it seemuntowardtopassrightby?“Excuseme,”Thomassaid.The face pulled out of the

window, and the ghostturned. The head was wide,theearslarge,andashockofhair that looked like steamrisingfloatedupfromthetopofhishead.“Andyouare—”

“I’m Thomas Brock.Errr … the ghost of himanyway.I’mhereto—”“Dr.HaroldSchwartz,”the

specter cut in. “This is mywingofSanFran—”“Nice to meet you. I need

to—”The ghost scowled.

Thomas guessed he’dcommitted a faux pasregarding spirit etiquette. Itwould be easy to sink down

through thefloorandemergeon the other side, but hedidn’twanttoberude.“Ihavestoodwatch in this

wing since 1910,” Dr.Schwartz continued. “AndI’ve certainly not seen youherebefore.Youweren’toneofmypatients.”Through the window

behind the ghost, Thomassaw a pair of nursesconsultingaclipboard.

“No. Uh, I wasn’t one ofyour patients. I only recentlydied,”Thomasexplained.“And clearly didn’t pass

along.”Pass along to where?

Thomas wondered. “Neitherdidyou.”“Obviously,youngman.”“Uh,so…youstandwatch

here?”Theghostcrossedhisarms,

andThomasgotabetterlook.

The clothes under the labcoat,whichapparently in lifewas snug and unable to bebuttoned, were old-style, theshirtcollarhighwithroundedcorners, thenecktie thin.Thetrousers were creased andcuffed above the ankle.He’ddiedinhisworkclothes.“Idoindeed.Toseeifthey

makeanymistakes.Andtheydo.” Dr. Schwartz tapped anon-corporeal toe. “Not

many.Butthey’renotperfect,these doctors. I give themadvice when they’re willingto listen. And so many ofthem are foreign. What’swrong with Americandoctors? Don’t theuniversities churn enough ofthem out? There are Indianshere, and I mean the onesfromIndia.Andthereisa—”“I’mheretoseesomeone.”

Thomas decided to go ahead

and be a little rude. “EvelynLove.Shecameinhere—”“—somehours ago.Nasty.

Nasty. Lost a lot of blood. Iwatched them give her fourunits. Or maybe it was five.Yes, five now that I thinkabout it,” Dr. Schwartz said.“Youknow, thehumanbodyonlyholdstwelve.”“Isshe…didshe…”“Make it? Yes. They

wheeled her out of here a

little while ago. They didn’tmakeanymistakes.Goodthatyou missed the messy part,the surgery. You don’t havethe lookofaphysicianaboutyou. Wouldn’t want you togetallsqueamishinmywing,and—”“Do you knowwhere they

tookher?”The ghost made a

harrumphing sound.“Certainly. To recovery.”He

gesturedwithaninsubstantialarm.“I’descortyou,but I’mbusy.Shift change is comingup, and I need to see whocomesondutytonight.”“Uh, thank you, Dr.

Schwartz.”“Anytime.” The ghost

turned and stuck his headbackthroughthedoor.Thomas never cared for

hospitals. Outside of hissurgery at Memorial, he’d

ventured into hospitals onlytoseepeopledie:namelyhismother, struck in a hit-and-run that forever colored hisfather’s view of all OTs. Hebrushed the memory awayandfollowedthearrow.Evelyn was still in

recovery.Hefloatednext toherbed,

glancingbetweenherandthegreen and blue lines andnumbers that moved and

changed on themonitor. Shelookedpeaceful, likeshewassleeping,herchest risingandfallingregularly.Butshehadanuglybruise on the sideofher face and her arm was insome sort of paddedcontraption. Still, she lookedlovely.“I’ve been doing a lot of

research,” Thomas said,coming out of his “invisibleman” mode and raising his

voice so that she could hearhim…on the chance that inher unconscious state shereally could. “Iknowhow tosave Pete. It won’t work forall the gargoyles Arnold isout to get, but we can savePete, and then we’ll go towork on the other buildingscase-by-case. You see,Arnold is stymied by zoningrestrictions. They’re strict inHaight-Ashbury, probably

because so much of the areaisoriginal,didn’tcomedownwiththebigquake.Buildingscan only be so big, andArnoldcan’tcomeinandtearsomething down to put upsomething taller that doesn’tfitwith the restof theblock.So his notion of bright andshiny condos isn’t going tofly.”Thomasfloatedtotheother

side of the bed, not wanting

to watch the lines andnumbersanymore.Hewantedto focus solely onEvelyn. “Iread all the reports. Arnoldhasbeentryingtogetaroundthe restrictions, and he can’t.He tried petitioning otherbuildingowners in theblock,in the blocks all around us,trying to get them to supporta change in the restrictions.He hasn’t gotten a singlesignature. So between the

restrictions and getting us onthe National Register, we’llbe all right. Pete will besafe.”Hepaused, listeningtothe steady beep of themachine.“Ofcourse,westillhave to pay enough rent soZaxil won’t fall intobankruptcy. But I have goodnews there, too. I can go tocourt, Evelyn.” He said thelastbitagain.Heleanedclosetoherface.

“But you’ll have to be therewith me. I don’t know ifthey’ll let me legally try acase. You’ll have to dothat … at least for the timebeing. I’ll helpyou study forthe bar. You’ll get yourlicense,and—”“Sir?I’msorry,sir,butyou

can’tbehere.”Thomas hadn’t heard the

doctor come in. She wasshort,withadarkcomplexion

and an accent that suggestedshe was one of the IndiansDr. Schwartz had spokenabout. Her smile was warm,and her eyes kind. He readher nametag: Dr. OjalAnajali.“I—I—I—”Thomaswasat

an uncustomary loss forwords.“Areyou…wereyou…a

relative?” She stuck the endof her stethoscope in her

pocket.“No.” Thomas was

surprisedthat thedoctortookhisappearanceinstride,notahint of shock on her face.“Employer, actually. Sheworks atmy law firm, and I—”The doctor dropped her

voice to a whisper. “I’m notworried that you’llcontaminate her. However, Iam concerned that you will

disturb her. Ms. Love needsrest.She’ll bemoved to ICUinthemorning,probablyforaday,thentoacutecare.”Thomas looked between

Evelyn and the doctor. “Dr.Anajali,Ihavetoknowifshe—”“Evenghosts need to obey

the visiting hour protocol.Why don’t you stop by laterin the day tomorrow?Sometime after noon would

bebest.”Thomasnoddedanddrifted

towardthedoor.“But,yes,Ms.Lovewillbe

fine.”He thanked her and

dropped through the floor,passing Dr. Schwartz on hisway out. The portly ghostwas deep in conversationwith a young physician,whoappearedtobetakingcopiousnotes.

Chapter2.13

Dagger thought the oldfurniturestorelookedcreepy.…beyond the trioofundeadthat hopped inside. Most ofthe light fixtures were gone.There’d been wainscoting,and it had been cartedsomewhere, a stripe showing

theoriginalplastermarkeditspassing.Thewalls to his leftand right had been rippedopen and some of the pipesremoved. Spools of copperwirewereinacornernearthefront.The“goodstuff”hadorwas being salvaged. On abeam overhead, he saw acharge of explosives, fartherback another one, wired butnot primed. He knew that todemolish a building you

didn’t have to blow it all tohell; you just had to takedown theparts that hadbeenholdingitupright.“Thank you for

accompanyingmyjiangshi,”the backlit woman said. Hervoicewasapurr, silky likeaproficient voice actor. “Iunderstand that you havebeeninquiringaboutme.Isitbecause I asked some of myfriendstokillEvelynLove?I

had no choice. She wasgetting close to my businessdealings, and I could notallow that. And now, youknowtoomuchaboutme.”Dagger stopped midway

into the store.Shewas abouttwenty feet ahead. Theundeadwerebetweenherandhim. “Jiang shi, that whatyou call these things? Theysomesortofzombie,Mei-li?”He heard the pout in her

reply. “My loyal friends,these jiang shi,” she said.“You have me at adisadvantage.YouknowwhoIam.Whoareyou?”Dagger thought about

replying: “A tourist,” butbeingsnidewouldn’tgethimanywhere.Hesniffed theair,still finding the strong scentof rotting flesh, but pickingupthefaintesthitofperfume:jasmine.

“I’m Dagger McKenzie, aprivate investigator.” Daggertook another step forward.The jiang shi turned to facehim; the most recent deadmanhoppedalittlecloser.“Istarted out investigating yourhusband. Seems he doesn’tlike OTs, particularlygargoyles.Andheturnedoneof my friends into an OT, aghost.Hadhimkilled.”“Franklin is not here.”Her

silky voice had developed abrittleedge.“Igatherthat.”Daggerhad

been trying to keep hertalking,lettinghiseyesbetteradjust to the gloomy interiorso he could pick out moredetails, separate theshadows.Hesawtwomorefigures,onein each of the far corners,more jiang shi judging byhowtheirarmsstuckout.Themost recent deadman

took another few hops,closing the distance toDagger. The undead stenchgrewstronger.“I also gather that your

husbanddoesn’tknowyou’reanOT.”He’d triggered her. She

stepped out of the shadows.Beautiful was the first wordthat came to Dagger’s mind.Shewas slightwithout beingskinny;allthefeaturesofher

faceperfectlikeaBarbiedoll,hair long and silky-looking,hereyesinquisitiveandangryatthesametime.Hermakeupwas flawless, but perhaps itwasn’tmakeup…maybeshenaturally looked that way.She raised her arms andpointed at him, and the fivedeadmenhopped,fasterthanhe’d seen themmove out onthe street. “Drink his qi, mychildren,” she purred in

Mandarin.“Feastonhisfleshand grow stronger. Take hislifeandmakehimsuffer.”Dagger understood every

word.She reached behind and

turnedoff the light, plungingthe immense room intodarkness.“Wonderful,” Dagger said.

“They’re friggin’ hoppingvampires.”Daggercouldn’tseeinutter

darkness,butalittlelightwasshining through the frontwindows from the lamppostsout on the street. It wasenough.Heswunghishelmetbag at the closet jiang shi,aiming high and striking theside of its head. The necksnapped, the head lolling toone side and bouncing on itsshoulder, but the thing keptcoming.Heslippedpast it,givinga

vicious side kick as he wentthat set the undead offbalance. It fell, armsoutstretched and catchingitself in a pushup pose.Daggerpressedontothenexttarget, reaching under hisjacketandpullingoutaknifehekeptinaconcealedsheath.He sliced at one jiang shiwhile kicking at another.Thenhespunanddeliveredaroundhouse kick to the one

he’djustslashed.Thoughthecreatures were rotting, hecould tell they’d beenembalmed; the wizenedorgans that spilled out hadthatscenttothem.Thecompetingawfulodors

made his stomach twist, buthe kept going. The one he’ddisemboweled flailed on thefloor; he considered it out ofthe combat. That left four.The one in the pushup pose

had managed to regain hisfeet, head still lolled to theside and eyes looking crazyandunfocused.“You all are seriously

disgusting,” Dagger said ashe whirled and alternatelyslashed with the knife andkicked. “I know Evey andTom champion OTs, undeadrights. But you undead …there is nothing right aboutyou.”He spat and jumped at

the shortest one, swingingwith as much strength as hecouldmusterandslicingdeepinto its neck. The headflopped backward, held onlyby the spine.He cut it againand the head dropped to thefloor, a moment later thebodyjoiningit.“Okay,sothat’showwedo

it,eh?Icutoffyourheadandyoudieagain.”The three remaining were

trying hard not to give himthat sort of opening. They’dretained some intelligence indeath, and one of them hadretained some martial artsskills. It was employing theThunder andLightning style,focusingon thekipunch andcrushingblock.Itmanagedtoget close and sink its teethintoDagger’scheek.The bite hurt like hell, but

worse was the dizzying

sensation that came with it.Thethingwassappinghisqi,or life essence. Daggerpushed it away andwiped athis cheek. “Now you reallypissedmeoff.”He moved faster, wishing

he’d taken off his leatherjacket, which was a littleconfining.Heslashedhardtohis right, finding anotherthroat but not cutting deepenough, pivoted and brought

the blade back with moreforce, landing a blowagainstan outstretched arm andbreaking it. The limb hunglimply and caused the jiangshitototter.Daggerkickeditanditfellback,goodarmandlegs waiving like a turtletryingtorightitself.Twostanding.“Let’s hurry this up,” he

told them.Hewanteda face-to-face with Mei-li, even

though he knew she’d leftwith the darkness—no morejasminescent.And more undead coming

from a back corner. Theremust be a stairwaysomewhere.“Oh, this is getting better

andbetterandbetter,”Daggersaid. He counted eight …nine,astheonehe’dknockedon its back was getting up.Nine was going to present a

problem. A glance behindhim confirmed that he wassurrounded. “Better andbetterandbetter.”It wasn’t a full moon

tonight,soDaggerhadtoputeffortintohistransformation.Herarelytookthispathwhenthe moon didn’t force thechange on him. It waspainful, and he thought ittookalittlepieceofhismindaway each time. His heart

beat faster, finding a rhythmthat matched Chinatown’ssecret, dark one. He felt itexpandinghis chest, pressingat the seams of his shirt, hisarms lengthening, strainingtheconfinesofhisexpensiveleather jacket. The sides ofhis shoes ripped out and hispads spread, his palmsbroadening, fingerselongating, nails turning intoclaws. Everywhere coarse

blackhair grew;hispeltwasthick and parts of it lookedsilverinthelightthatfilteredin through the big frontwindows.His face changed, and that

was the most painful part.The bones popped andmoved, rearrangedthemselves as he grew asnout.Hisearsshiftedandhescreamed against the agony.It turned into a howl as he

droppedtoallfours,slaveringjowls closing around the legofajiangshi,snappingitanddroppingthecreature,turningon the next and doing thesame. Over and over, herapidly tore into the undeadwith a viciousness theycouldn’t match. From theback of his mind, Daggerwatched the beast rage,finding it at the same timecompelling and disturbing,

and exerting control over itwhen only one jiang shiremained.Hesnappeditslegsandremoveditsarms.Dagger pictured himself a

man again and felt his bodyfoldinginuponitself,thehairreceding, claws shrinking,chest regaining its normalsize.Hefellonhishandsandknees next to the survivingundead and gulped in themalodorous air. His clothes

hung on him in tatters, andhisshoeswereworthless.The last undead glared up

athim,unabletomove.“I came here looking for

information about Mei-liArnold,” Dagger said. Hisvoice was hoarse, and histhroat felt dry. “You need totellmeaboutMei-li.IbetyouknowallaboutMrs.Arnold’splans, don’t you? I bet youknowallabouther.”

The defiance in the jiangshi’seyesfaded,andslowlyittalked.Dagger cut its head off

when he’d gotten enough,stood, and surveyed hiscarnage. He ached, like hehadbadarthritis,butheknewthe pain would pass. Hegrabbed up his helmet bagand padded toward the backcorner where he’d seen thejiang shi emerge. The scent

ofjasminewasstrongerhere.HefoundMei-lidownstairs

with two more jiang shiattendants.Shewasstrikinglybeautiful, dressed intraditional silks, but from aneralongpassed.Herskinwaspale like cream and her feetsmallasifthey’dbeenboundin childhood.One oil lanternon an old sea chest providedthe only light, but it wasenough for Dagger to see

beyondherandtotheroom’scontents.His stomach roiled.Apparentlythejiangshiliveddown here. A dozen coffin-shaped boxes lined onewall,and against the other werepiles of bodies in variousstates of decay, no doubtwhat the jiang shi had beeneating. The freshest bodieswere the most gruesome, afew were children, all wereChinese, and all had been

dressedinraggedclothes.Dagger’s pocket had

survived. He reached into it,pulledouthiscellphone,andtook some pictures. “Smileforthecamera,Mei-li.”“Youareafool.”“Probably. But I’m not a

murderer.”Daggerpointedtothe tangle of bodies.“Indenturedservants,weren’tthey? You’ve been buyingpeople from the Triad,

smuggled in. Food for yourfriends. You’re murderingthesepeople.”Mei-li smiled, the icy

expression sending a shiverdownDagger’sback.“Notmuchbothersme,”he

said. “But this … you’vemanagedtoseriouslyturnmystomach.”In Mandarin, she told her

remainingattendants todrinkDagger’slife.Hedroppedhis

helmet bag and made fastworkofthem.Sheheadedforthestairsandhecutheroff.“You trespass,”shehissed.

“Thisismybuilding.”“Call the cops,” Dagger

said.He took another pictureof her. “I’ll let you use mycellphone.”She steppedback,gestured

at the lantern.He’d expectedher to douse it but instead itburned hot and bright, much

more than the device wasnaturallycapableof.Thelightrevealed more explosivesrigged to support beams,made the remains evenmoregrotesque,andthenitgrewsobrighthefoundithurtful.“I am immortal. You

cannot kill me, and so youcannotstopme.”Atthesametimeasthelightgrewbrighterstill, Mei-li shrank. Daggertook more pictures. It was a

transformation similar toDagger’s. But where he’dgrown larger, she halved hersizeandthenhalveditagain.Her dark hair turned umberand flowed down her limbslike butter melting. Herperfect nose became a snout,her head heart-shaped, andnine tails grew. She was afox.Literally.“Fine, so I can’t kill you,”

Dagger said, putting his cell

phone away. “That’s not myplananyway.”

Chapter2.14

Dagger found FranklinArnold in his office. He’dgonetotheman’shousefirst,and a reluctant andsufficientlyintimidatedbutlerrevealed that “Mr. Arnold is

workinglatetonight.”Evelynhad mentioned Arnoldlooking like a horse. Daggerconcurred. The man’s facewasoverly longandhis longgray hair was like a mane.But where a horse’s eyesappeared soulful, Arnold’swere cold and hard likebuttons.“I received a call that said

to expect a tattered, barefootman,”Arnoldsaid.Heclosed

the screen on his laptop.“How did you get pastsecurity?”Dagger didn’t answer. He

tookalookaroundtheoffice.Thecarpetwas thickandfeltgood against the soles of hisfeet. It smelled pleasantlymusky, and he sucked in afew deep breaths, hoping torid the last of the undeadstench from his lungs. TheroomwaslargerthanThomas

Brock’sentire lawofficeandwas richly appointed. Oneleather chair probably costtwice what Gretchen’s deskhadsetBrockback.Heglidedforward, appreciating thedeep pad under the carpet,and dropped his motorcyclehelmetbagonArnold’sdesk.“How about you leave

Thomas Brock and EvelynLove alone.” Dagger didn’tpose it as a question.

“Brock’s dead, your hitmostly succeeded. And youand your wife targetingEvey? That stops. All of itstops.”Arnold glanced at the

lumpylookingbag.“Mr.McKenzie—”Daggershowednosurprise

that Arnold knew who hewas.“And there’s more to this

bargain,” Dagger continued.

“Changeyourbuildingplans.The ones with thegargoyles … leave them thehellalone.Consideritatradefor what’s in the bag andwhat I’ve got pictures of. Ican e-mail you copies of thepics, if you’d like. Pics ofindentured servants your OTwife had murdered. Pics ofyour OT wife. But I won’tsendthemtotheChronicleoranywhere else if you leave

the gargoyles and theirbuildingsalone.”“Mr.McKenzie—”“And, like I said, nomore

attemptsonEvelynLove.”“Ordering a hit? On

Thomas Brock? On his littleassistant? That would beillegal,andbeneathme.Iplaywithinthelaw.WhileImighthelp facilitate matters for afriend, I don’t personallycrosstheline.Idon’tneedto.

Look elsewhere for yourThomas Brock woes, Mr.McKenzie.I’mnotthemanadog like you should besniffing around. And theghost who holds your leashshould be looking a littlecloser to home. A lot closer,actually.”Dagger’s eyes narrowed.

Arnoldhadjusttoldhimwhohad really ordered the hit onThomasBrock.Daggerhadto

consider how and when topass that unfortunate tidbitalong.“What is in the bag, Mr.

McKenzie?This trade-off forleavingthegargoylesalone?”“A gift. You can open it

after I’m out of here. Hopeyou’re up to date on yourshots.”Arnoldnudgedthebagand

it wiggled. Something insidestarted trying toclawitsway

out.“Your wife,” Dagger

added, “is a whole lot olderthan you think she is. By afew centuries, I’m betting.And I’m also betting youknow a lot of good lawyers.Maybe one will handle yourdivorceonthecheap.”

Chapter2.15

Thomas heard the bell abovethe door jangle and sawDagger walk in and stop atGretchen’sdesk.Heslammedabilldownonit.“Good heavens! What is

this?”Gretchensetherhandsonherhips.“Howdoyougetoff, McKenzie, giving us abillforanewwardrobe?”“Not an entire wardrobe,

justaleatherjacketandapairof shoes.Doesn’t have to bepaid right away.” Daggerlooked up and saw Thomashovering above theconferencetable.“Butitdoeshavetobepaid.”Dagger strode past a still-

grumblingGretchenand tooka seat across from the ghost.“I checkedwith the hospital.Evey’sdoingallright.I’llgoseeherinalittlewhile.”

“I have to tell you,”Thomasstarted.Heknewtheexcitementwasevidentinhisvoice, and he didn’t care. “Ileft the office last night.Really left it. I went to thehospitalandsawEvelyn.Thedoctor made me leave, but Iwenttothehospital.AndI’mgoing back this afternoon.Shecanhavevisitorsinafewhours.”Daggerdidn’tsayanything.

Feeling exasperated,Thomas stared at the privatedetective, knowing the manwasn’tthatdense.“Don’tyouget it? I can go to thehospital. I’ll be able to go tothecourthouse.”Dagger sat back, his

expressionflat.Thomascontinued:“Iknow

that Evelyn is going to befine. I talked to the doctor.Evelyn is smart. She’ll pass

thebar.We’llgetmorecases.We’ll get enough money,somehow, to keep this placeopen.”Gretchen raised her voice

from the front of the room.“And apparently we need toraise somemoney sowe canpay McKenzie’s extravagantclothingbill.”Dagger related most of

whathappenedinChinatown,the story interesting enough

todrawGretchentothetable.“So, I got the story from

oneof theAsianvampiresorzombies, or whatever theywere—I have pictures ofthem so I can show Z-man.Arnold’swifeisahulijing,afox spirit, sort of like aEuropean fairy. They’reeither good or bad, thesefairies, and Mei-li isdefinitelyontheDarkSideofthe Force. Supposedly

immortal. I didn’t try to testthattheory.ShehadsomebadstuffgoingoninaChinatownbasement. Indenturedservants slaughtered. Nastystuff.”“You found her?” Thomas

leanedforward.“Obviously.”“Did you fight her?”

Thomaspointedtothebruisesforming on Dagger’sknuckles and the thick

bandageonhischeek.“Fighther?Notexactly,but

Icaughther.Handedheroverto her loving hubby a littlebeforemidnight.I’mthinkingGretchenwillseethedivorcenotice in the Chroniclesometime next week.”Dagger drummed his fingersagainst the table. “Come tothink of it, I need to adjustmybill.Youalsoowemeforahelmetbag.”

Thomas leaned forwardfarther, until hewas halfwayinto the table. “So Evelynwasright,thinkingMei-liwasbehind—”“The fox didn’t have

anything to do with thegargoyles. But I’m thinkingmaybe Arnold will lay offthem now. He has otherthingstoworryabout.”“His OT wife,” Gretchen

supplied. “Why didn’t you

hand her over to the copsinstead?”“What would it do,

Gretchen? More bad newsaboutOTs,liketheyneedthatkind of press. Let’s say ItradedherforPete…andforthecity’sothergargoyles.”Gretchen gave him a stern

look.“Mei-li was interested in

only four buildings inChinatown,whichshelegally

owns.”Daggergrinnedwide.“Thoughthatwillbeamatterfor the divorce settlement,and part of a four-gallon canofworms.Therearebodiesinthe basement, at least in oneof the buildings. Had to bepeoplethatweresmuggledin,illegals from the Triad. Shewas feeding them to her petvamps.Copsarecrawlingallover the place right now. SoArnold is gonna be busy,

working to distance himselffromMei-li…who is goingto have to disappear, at leastforawhile.”“You really think Arnold

willletthegargoylesgo…inexchangeforhiswife?”Dagger held up his cell

phone. “For keeping picturesofhiswifeoutof thepapers.Yeah, I think he’ll back off.He can’t afford to have thispublic, not the way he

publiclyhatesOTs.Ifnothingelse, it’s bought you a lotmore time to save thosebuildings.”Thomas wondered if

Daggercouldreadhispleasedexpression.“Weoweyou.”“Yeah, you do. I gave

Gretchenmybill.”Gretchen made a

“harrumphing” sound. “Andit will be a while before itgetspaid.”

Dagger pushed the chairback and stood. “Theundead … they said Mei-liwants what is under thosebuildingsinChinatown.”“Under?” Thomas floated

higher to be eye-to-eye.“There’s no subway orundergroundor—”“Someundeadarequickto

talkwhenyoutaketheirarmsand legs. They said she’slookingforburiedtreasure.”

Gretchen “harrumphed”again and returned to herdesk.Dagger took a step toward

the door. “No, Tom, there’sno subway or undergroundbeneath that part ofChinatown. I’ve been in thiscityawhile,I’mgoodwithitshistory. The densest part ofSanFran…itwasn’talwaysland. It was water, theshoreline right about

MontgomeryStreet.Thelandchanged, quakes and such,the gold rush … the towngrewuparoundMontgomeryand Washington, buildingswere set down on theskeletons of abandonedships.”“There are ships buried

underChinatown?”“Yeah.A bunch of ships.”

Daggertouchedhisfingerstohis bandaged face.

“Apparently Mei-li wantswhat is in those ships. Shecan’t get to the ships unlessshe gets rid of the buildings,and she needed Arnold’smoney to do that. Bet shedoesn’t getmuch of it in thedivorce.”Ahintofsadnesscreptinto

Thomas’s voice. “Arnoldshould fare very well in thedivorce. He has a very goodattorney.”

“Yeah, your father. Weneed to talk about himsomeday. Hey, I’m out ofhere. I’m gonna stop by andseeEvey.”“Theysaidnovisitorsuntil

sometime this afternoon,”Thomassaid.“And you always play by

therules,don’tyou,Tom?I’lltell Evey you’ll be bringingyourghostlyselfoverlater.”Thomas waited until

Daggerhadpeeledawayfromthe curb, then he floated upthe staircase, past Evelyn’sempty apartment, past thedoorwaytohis“haunt”onthethirdfloor,andtotheroof.Pete was sitting in one of

the folding chairs near theedge of the roof, studyingbirds on the tops of thebuildings across the street.The gargoyle reached to hisfeet and grabbed a pair of

binoculars.“Where’d you get the

binoculars?” Thomas driftedcloser.“Z-man found them in a

pawn shop. Said it was anearly Christmas gift.MinoltaActiva, largefront lens,wideeye cups, coated, fog proofandwaterproof.”“Whatareyouwatching?”“A grouping of Black

Phoebes.”

Thomaswaited.“Hard to tell the males

from the females, theplumage is identical. Therearesomejuvenileswiththem,feathers the color ofcinnamon. They will darkenin a few weeks, pick up awhite underbelly. I cannothear them, but I know theirsongandquitelikeit.Maybethey will come closer andsing tome. ‘Tee-hee teeho,’

they sing. ‘Sisee sitsew.’ Apair has a nest near thatchimney.”Petepointedtotheblues bar’s roof. “There is alittleoverhang,andtheyhavecemented the nestwithmud.Typical. You know,flycatchers make up thelargest family of birdsworldwide. There arehundreds of known species.These Black Phoebes havesixsubspecies.”

“How do you know somuchaboutbirds?”“Books.Evey lovesbooks,

said I could read hersanytime.Shehasquite a fewonbirdwatching.”Thomas started; he didn’t

realize Evelyn had beenbringingbooksuphere.“She said I could read

anything on her shelves. Sheeven has a stash of books inhercloset.”

“You’ve been to herapartment?”“Sure.Shehasmeinfortea

onceinawhile.”Thomas noticed the

gargoyle train the binocularselsewhere.Heputthemdownwhen two pigeons landed onthe law office’s ledge andstartedcooing.“So, you can come inside

thebuilding?”“Sure.”

“Franklin Arnold isn’tgoing to tear down thisbuilding and put up condos.He can’t get around theneighborhood’s zoningrestrictions. And I’ve startedthe paperwork—well,Gretchen is filling out theforms—to get this place ontheNationalRegister.You’regoingtobeallright,Pete.”“Good to know. But I

would feel a lotbetter ifyou

started getting more payingclients. Building needs somemorerenovations.Z-manwasbarely able to pay the roofrepairbill.Z-manneedssomemore money for school too,andtopayoffhisloans.Afterhe graduates with hisbachelor’s, he wants to getinto law school. Says hewants to be a lawyer.” Thegargoyle made a snortingsound.“Ithinkheshouldbea

writer,buthehashisheartseton law.Heprobably admiresyou.”They didn’t say anything

foratime,Petecontinuingtowatch the pigeons, whichstruttedbackandforthontheledge, lifting their tails andmaking deposits on the trim,cooing.Petestood,foldedthechair,

and placed it and thebinocularsunderthetarp.

“I could use some help inthelawoffice,”Thomassaid.“I’m at a disadvantage. Ican’topenbooks, turnpages,can’t use the Internet. And Ican’t ask Evelyn to be myhands. Or Gretchen for thatmatter.They’vegotplentyontheirplates.”Pete shuffled close to the

pigeons;theydidn’tflyaway.Boldorusedtothegargoyle,Thomasthought.

“I can’t pay you, though Icould have Evelyn get somebeer.”“That would help you get

more clients? Handle morebusiness?Mehelping?”“Ihope.”“Andmoremoney?”“That’smythinking.”“Sure. When do you want

metostart?”“How about tomorrow

morning?”

Pete’s hand shot out, hisstonefingersclosingaroundapigeon.Theother flewoff inaflurryoffeathers.Thomas watched in horror

asPetesquished thebirdandtossed it over the side of thebuilding.“Pete…why…how?”“I like birds, Tom.

Actually, I love birds … towatch them … BlackPhoebes, rails, sparrows,

Yellow-rumped Warblers,Chestnut-backed Chickadees.Butpigeons?Pigeonsarenotbirds. Pigeons are rats withwings and they crap all overme.This?”HefacedThomasandheldhisbloodypalmout,then stooped and wiped itagainst the roof. “This wasjust a preemptive strike.”Then he climbed over theedge of the roof and affixedhimself to the corner. “See

youtomorrowmorning.”

Chapter2.16

Thomas saw ghosts inChinatown.Theywereharderto see in bright light,especially on this cloudlesslate morning. They lookedlike thin, watery patches ofair,andhehadtoconcentrate

to make out the details,suspecting he appearedsimilarlytothem.Therewerea few in every block—men,women, children, even acouple of dragon-facedcreatures with long slendertails.… the first OT ghostshe’d seen. They didn’tinteractwitheachother.Theyjust wandered, and not far.Most seemed to be confinedto a particular section of

street. However, one of thedragon-faced ghosts traveledquite a few blocks, and soThomas suspected it wasanchored to a concept ratherthanaplace.Police were still on the

scene at the abandonedfurniture store. It looked likean episode of CSI: with allthe little tent-shapedmarkersset throughout the first floor,digital cameras taking

pictures, pieces of evidencebeing bagged and boxed up.Ifitwasbloody,itwasplacedin cardboard boxes; plasticdegraded DNA, Thomasknew. He’d been to crimescenes, and he could tell thecrime scene techs had beenhere a lot of hours. Policeweregoing through theotherbuildings Mei-li hadpurchased. A bat-wingedofficer carried out a

cardboard file box from thetattooparlor.Thebat-wingedcopwas theonlyOThe sawworking the scene. Mostdepartments avoided hiringthem, a discriminationThomas hoped to addressdowntheroad.He sank through the floor

and into the basement wherehe sawanamazinggatheringofghosts.Theyweresothickit looked like a cloud had

come to ground, and theytalked in Chinese … hecouldn’t understand a singleword.Techniciansworkedaround

them, bagging remains,taking photographs, andshivering—not realizing itwas the specters that wereresponsible for the drop intemperature. There werechildren, men, women, allhuman, all Chinese, and it

looked like they’d died inthreadbaregarments.“Hello,”Thomastried.Achorusofvoicescameat

him, but nothing he couldunderstand.Oneofthetechnicians—all

ofthemdressedinsomethingsimilartoHazmatsuits—heldahand toanear.Theghosts,at least some of them, weretalking in voices that thelivingcouldhear.

“Hello,”Thomasrepeated.More voices, a buzz of

Chinese words. Theirexpressions held a mix ofemotions, sadness the mostprevalent, but there was joy,too, probably at beingdiscovered and for thepromiseofjustice.Thomas sank through the

concrete floor and into theearthbeneath.He’dmasteredthe ability to see in utter

darkness, and he made outshapes—rocks, old railroadties,abroken,rustedG.I.Joelunch pail. He went deeperand spiraled outward. Therewere no ghosts down here,just dirt and rocks and theoccasional piece of railroaddetritus.Deeper. He’d lost track of

the sounds and the sensationrattled him. He heardabsolutely nothing. He’d

never heard absolutelynothing ever before. Alwaysthe sounds of the city hadcrept in, even in the quietmoments betweenconversations, or at times inthe park when he’d sat—when he was living—on abench and watched thesunset. Those quietmomentshadneverbeenwhollyquiet.The absence of noise …

was this what death sounded

like?He lost track of up and

down,disorientedbythedarkstillness. He imagined thiswas like being caught in anavalanche, the snowthundering over a skier andcutting out light, and thensound,nothingtotellupfromdown.Thomas picked a direction

and continued in it. He lostsense of time, too, but he

continued to wander, findingthe bones of small animals,the husks of burrowinginsects, a piece of rottedcanvas, a beam of rottedwood,ananchor.Hecouldn’t tellhowmany

ships were buried under thissection of Chinatown.Thomas tried inventoryingthe masts, but realized thatwasn’t helping. Some shipswould have had one, others

twoorthree,andnotonewasintact.Allbroken,hecouldn’tpicture them like jigsawpieces to arrange them andgetanactualcount.Many, he settled on. The

husks of many ships werepacked tightly underChinatown.Therewereafewskeletons, but not enough tosuggest that a ship sankwithan entire crew. And therewerenoghosts…not a soul

hauntedthisplace.Bookshadessentially turned to pulp,thoughsomecovershadbeenpreservedby thepressof theearth. Pieces of brasslanterns,cookingpots,thoughagain there were not a lot,hinting that most of theuseable itemshadbeen takenofftheshipsbeforetheywerelefttorotandbecomepartoftheground.Then Thomas found two

exceptions. He’d studiedadmiralty, and types of shipswere actually mentioned inone of his law books. Thesetwowere older, onewith thehull intact. It looked likesomething out of Pirates ofthe Caribbean orMutiny ontheBounty.He imagined thattheymust have been tall andbeautiful … and filled withtreasure, galleons orschooners.

Thick gold coins werestrewn across a wide stretchof ground, pearls thatprobably had been strungwerescatteredbetweenthem,all held tightly by the hard-packed earth and bands ofwood and iron. A chalice, agold platter, silvercandelabras, and more. Somuch more. The wealth wasstaggering, and Thomas wasmesmerizedbyit.

How could Mei-li haveknownitwashere?Thomas continued his

search, finding rottedpaintings, chunks of ivory.Imageswerecarvedon someof the pieces, looking likecameos.Mei-li knew because she’d

beenhere,Thomasguessed,avery long time ago. One ofthe pieces of ivory bore theimage he’d seen on the

computerscreen—Mei-li.Shehadn’t changed. Beautiful,with almondeyes andahighneck, the suggestion of apearlchokernecklace.Was it the same necklace

he’d seen in the Internetpicture?He would have shuddered

had he been living. Daggersaid Mei-li claimed to beimmortal, some sort of fox-spirit. And if that was true,

andifMei-lihadbeenonthisshipwhen it sailedabove thewaves, she’d try again toregainhertreasure.A veritable king’s ransom,

allthegoldandjewels,andafew odd-shaped baubles thatdespite the black cocoon ofthe earth glowed with someeldritchlight.Mei-liwouldtryagain.And Thomas, no longer

burdened by the confines of

mortality, would be aroundwhenshemadetheattempt.It took him a while to

discoverwhich directionwas“up,” and he emerged in thebasement of Lo He’sAcupuncture, which likewisewasbeinginvestigatedbythepolice. It was dark outside,and Thomas checked thewatchonapasserby:9p.m.He’d spent hours upon

hours under the earth.

Hospital visiting hours wereover by now, and so thenurseswouldnotwanthimtodisturb Evelyn. Thomas wasonetoplaybytherules.But tonight … just for

tonight he’d take a page outofDagger’sbookandactliketherulesdidnotapplytohim.Tonight he had a story to

tellEvelyn.***

Case#3HabeasCorpse

Chapter3.1

NikaRondikawokefromhervision with a shiver. It wasalwaysthesame,afoggymistclearing to a mélange ofimages, sounds, words, andsometimes smells, then anabrupt sensation of fallinginto cold water shocking herawake.Shegaspedforbreath.Another vision about

Thomas Brock’s law offices

—this one about EvelynLove. Poor girl. Nika hadread in The San FranciscoChronicle about the viciousattack on her at the Thairestaurant. But that had beensome time ago and hadn’tbeen preceded by a warningvision.Visionswerelikethat—not

always timely or helpful,even when you could makeout what they were about.

This one was a vision ofwarning,butnotofdanger—aheartpumpinghot redblood,with an irregular beat thateventually slowed, the bloodit pumped cooling. A classicsignofunrequitedpassionorstruggles of the heart.Clearly,Evelynfacedconflictand turmoil in her love life.That kind of thing would beuseful enough for Nika’spayingclients,butwashardly

urgent or concrete enough toget her an audience with astranger.Still, she felt some

connection to both Evelynandhercolleaguesat the lawoffice. She had to find outwhy.Herphonerang.“Hello,” she answered.

Whocouldbecallingherthislate at night? “Ah, cousinJavor.” That explained the

lateness of the call. “Do Iknow of a good lawyer?Well, not from personalexperience,but…yes…yes,Ido.”

OOOAlthough Evelyn avoided

the Tenderloin after the sunwent down, she made anexception tonight. She’dpassed thebar examandhadaccepted an invitation tocelebrate with friends at the

Golden Pumpkin, a trendyvegetarian restaurant—in theheartoftheTenderloin.Somesaidtheforty-square-

block district in SanFrancisco got its namebecause it was the “softunderbelly” by the bay,referring to the graft, vice,andcorruptionthat thrivedinthe area. Others claimed itwas a clever reference to the“loins” of the hookers who

prowled the streets. Evelynpreferred a differentexplanation, that cops haddubbed it the Tenderloinbecause they earned hazardpay here, which let themafford steak rather thanhamburger.The restaurant’s spring

rollsweremarvelous, aswasthelemontofu“chicken”thatshe was working her waythrough … all compliments

of the restaurant owner,who’d offered the smallwinter crop of San FranciscoLaw School graduates acongratulatory free meal thisweek.Theverdictwasstillouton

whetherEvelynwasenjoyingthe company, or ratherwhether she would allowherselftoenjoyit.Sheranherindex finger around the edgeof the wine glass. It didn’t

hum,notcrystal,butthenthisrestaurant reeked of shabby-chic with its out-of-datedecor. Goose bumps dancedon the back of her neck.Despite the convivial andZen-like atmosphere, she feltuneasy, like someone waswatchingher.ProbablyjustConstantine.Constantine sat directly

across from her, playingfootsy under the table, an

extension of the casualflirting he’d employed inadmiralty class—maritimelaw. She’d done nothing todiscouragehim thenandwasdebating whether toencourage him now. That’swhyshe’dcomeheretonight,right? To flirt back, and inearnest?Their groupwas at the far

end of the large pumpkin-orangediningroom.Thelight

from the cheap chandeliersmade Constantine’s blackhair gleam; Evelyn figuredhe’d oiled it. He was good-looking, a long, heart-shapedface graced with a five-daystubble that passed for afashionable beard. His eyeswereanunnaturalbrightblue,probably from contacts. Shethought the color suited him.His smile was his bestfeature,andithadtuggedher

to the restaurant. Therewereten others who had pickedtonight to use the free mealdeal, altogether a dozenyoung lawyers ready to takeon the world. Theirconversationswereapleasantbuzzof joboffers,workload,and future plans that mixedwiththemusicsoftlyplaying;she recognized Origen’s“Sequence of Art,” a fusionofclassicalandnewagejazz.

The placewas busy, all ofthe diners appearing humanand under thirty. She’dexpectedtoseeafewOTsinthe mix. The undead varietywas noted to cluster in theTenderloin. Maybe thereweresomeOTshereafteralland she couldn’t distinguishthem.Sometimestheylookedhumanenough.The feeling of being

watched intensified and the

goosebumpsdancedfaster.“We could go tomy place

after,”Constantinesuggested.“Youhaven’tseenmydigsinNobHill.It’snotfar,and—”Evelyn sucked in a breath.

Shelikedhim,shereallydid.She’d been entertainingtaking the friendship further.Lord knew she could use alittle romance in her life,especially now with the barexam behind her. There

hadn’tbeentimefordatesthepast few years—law schooland work occupying nearlyallherwakinghours.Constantine was easy on

theeyes.She liked to watch him,

listen to him—his voice richlike Captain Jean LucPicard’s of Next Generationfame. He smelled faintly ofsweetmusk.Butnow, sittingwithhimsocloseandoutside

the academic and legalatmosphere … now thenotion of turning theirfriendship into somethingmorewasn’thavingquite thecomfortable feel she’dthought it might. Maybecoming here was a mistake.Or maybe she just wasn’tready to addanother layer toheralreadycomplicatedlife.“I have towork tomorrow,

Con.”

The attractive smile faded.“At least you have a jobalready, Evey, though thatlittle hole-in-the-wall onHaight isn’t much of a firm.You really could do better.Hell, you graduated with afour-point-oh. You couldprobably get on anywhereyouwanted.”“Maybe.” In fact, she

probably could. But Evelynwasn’t sure she wanted to

work someplace else. Shelikedthecutting-edgelawsheandThomaswere tackling, alot of itOTwork. The caseswere varied and the clientsmore than a little interesting.But it hadn’t been lucrative.Theywerebarelygettingby.The toe of his shoe edged

higher on her leg, pausinghalfway up her calf. Thecontact—and the wine—made her giddy. “Have you

thoughtaboutBrock,Davis&Davis?Brock,Davis&Davisisdamnprestigious,Evey.”Constantine’s mention of

that law firm soured things.The lemon “chicken”suddenly felt heavy in herstomach.“Brock, Davis & Brock

paysthegoing—”“Brock?Oh.No.”Thatwas

the enemy as far as she wasconcerned.

“It’sthecity’sbiggestfirm,Evey. Celebrated, influential.I’vebeenpursuingthem.”Heloweredhisvoiceand leanedforward. “In fact, I have aninterview Monday.” Hedroppedhisgazetohisplate,and she saw him cross hisfingers.Still the feeling of being

watched persisted, butConstantine wasn’t thesource.

“I didn’t know, Con.” Herfinger stopped its coursearoundthewineglassrimandshestaredathisnose,slightlyshiny.Ahintofhissmilereturned

and he raised his head, hisvoice still a conspiratorialwhisper. “I was keeping it asecret, notwanting to jinx it,you know. This isn’t thetraditionalhiringseason,afterall. But I’m too excited, had

to tell someone … you. I’dinterned for them lastsummer, worked someweekends in the fall, andworkedallofJanuary.”“Ididn’tknowthat,either.”“Yeah, well, I hadn’t

exactly publicized it.When Iwasn’t Shepardizing theirstring cites and summarizingdeposition transcripts, Iwasn’t much more than aglorified errand boy, a step-

and-fetch-it that had coffeeordersmemorizedforthetwodozensuitsonmydesignatedfloors.”“They do have a lot of

lawyers.You’dgetlostinthecrowd.”He threwback thewine in

one long swallow andstretchedahandout to touchhers.“AtfirstI’dgetlost,andthat’s provided they’ll eventake me. I know the hours

would be awful, theassignments crap in thebeginning. That’s the dealwithbigfirms.Eightyhoursaweek or more. The moneywould be good, though.Amazing,actually.Theystartassociates at a hundred andsixty thousand. Nobody elsepays that around here, notright out of the gate. Hell,that’s as much as the bigfirms dole out to newbies in

Manhattan.”Their companions’

conversations drifted to thefore,andEvelynpretendedtobe interested in whatsomeone else was saying.Brock, Davis & Davisfavored anti-OT cases, andshe and Thomas had buttedheads with some of theirlawyers in court.Constantinewas no longer quite so easyon the eyes. He was still

talking, and she’d missedsomeofit.“—butIfigureitwillallbe

worthit…ifIcangeton.Putin the impossible hours, dothegruntwork,jumpthroughtherequisitehoops,getsalarybumps, find myself creepinghigherontheladder.”Creeping?Creep.Thatwas

awordEvelynwouldascribeto a Brock, Davis & Davislawyer.

“Ihavetogetupearly,”shesaid. “Work tomorrow.” Shepushed back and caught theattention of the others at thelong table. “This has beenlovely, guys. We should dothis again in a few months,catchup.”Theysaidtheirgoodbyesas

shestoodandsmoothedatherskirtanddroppedatenonthetable toward the tip. Therewas no such thing as a free

meal, right? Constantine gotup,too.“Evey, is something

wrong?Areyouokay?Did Isaysomething—”She shook her head. “I’m

fine, you’re fine. Nothing’swrong.” But there wassomething wrong … thenotion of Constantinecourting Brock, Davis &Davis, coupledwith the eyesshestillfeltonher.Someone

was watching her, but shecouldn’ttellwho,everyoneinthe dining room seemedengrossed with their ownmeals and companions. “Ireallydohavetogetgoing.Arain check on seeing yourNobHillplace?”He seemed to brighten at

that.“CanIatleastwalkyoutothebusstop?”“No” was on her tongue,

butshenodded.Thiswasthe

Tenderloin, after all, andthough Evelyn had an I-can-take-care-of-myself attitude,she wasn’t stupid. Herwounds from the incident atthe Thai restaurant had justbarelyhealed.“I’dlikethat.”“A rain check?”

Constantine laughed as theyexitedtherestaurant.Ithadn’tbeenrainingwhen

they’d gone in, but it wascomingdowninbucketsnow.

February was one of therainiestmonthsoftheyearinSanFrancisco.Astormcouldcome out of nowhere. She’dworn a light jacket, thetemperatures in the fifties.The rain and the late hourmade it colder, though.Theystood under the awning. Shestartedtoshiver.“Howaboutyoustaydry?”

Evelyn suggested. Shepointed south. “The bus stop

is only three blocks. No usebothofusgettingdrenched.”“Yousure?”Evelyn thought a real

gentlemanwouldhavearguedwith her. Hewould’ve takenherbythearmandforgedoutintothedownpour.“Yes, I’m sure. The

bogeymen stay indoors inweather like this.” Shesqueezed his arm. “Thisreally was lovely, a fun

evening.Goodluckwithyourinterview.” But she didn’tmean the last bit. She hopedhedidn’tgetthejob.“I’llcallyou,letyouknow

howMondaygoes.”She heard the restaurant

door close. A look over hershoulder confirmed thatConstantine had gone backinside. The sidewalk wasempty,andtherainwasangry—rat-a-tat-tatting against the

pavement. Cars cruised by,their tires sluicing up waterandmakingashushingsoundthataccompaniedthethunder.Evelyn pulled her jacket upover her head and jogged,ungainly in high heels, theneon of the business signs ablur of pink, green, and bluetwitching snakes, the musicspilling out of a bar andgetting lost in the rain andthunder.

She had one blockremaining when she realizedsomeone was following her,feet slamming against thecement.Aglancerevealeditwasn’t

Constantine deciding to bechivalrous after all. It was apencil-thin figure withburningredeyes.Inthehazyglow of the streetlights, shenoticedhehadabigsmearofbloodonhiswhiteshirt.

Apparently not all of theTenderloin’s bogeymen werestayingindoors.

Chapter3.2

“Crap.” Evelyn ran fasterdespitehershoes.Athletic,she’doftenjogged

to classes, but running wasfor pleasure, to feel the

welcome burn of exertioncrawl through her, the headyadrenalin rush. She alwaysran to something, hated thethought of running fromanything. But a man withglowingredeyes?AndintheTenderloin? She wasn’tstupid.She’drunfromthat.The bus stopwas in sight,

and that was where sheheaded.Butasshegotclosershe didn’t see anyone under

thesmall,lightedshelter,andthebuswasn’tthereyet.Waitfor it? No way in hell. Thebusinesses in thisblockwereeither closed for the night orclosed indefinitely. Ahomeless man huddled in adoorway, a half-empty bottleof something cradled in hislap.Shedidn’tslowherpacetotakeinanymoredetails.A glimpse over her

shoulder confirmed the red-

eyed man still pursued her.She could stop and confronthim, fight him if necessary;Evelyn was more proactivethan reactive. She’d dealtworsethanshegotintheThaifight. But Dagger McKenziehad taught her well—avoidfights if possible. It washealthier.Farther down and across

thestreetshesawthelightsofbars and dive restaurants

blink invitingly. Evelyndodged a few cars and cuttoward them, accidentallydropping her purse and notpausing to retrieve it. She’dthoughtshewasoutdistancingher pursuer, but somehowhe’d closed the distance.Hisiron-strong fingers dug intoherarm,pullinghertoastopin the middle of O’FarrellStreet.Ithurtlikehell.Itwasthe arm she’d been shot in

duringthefailedhitonherinDecember in the Thairestaurant. He pulled herclose,grabbingbothherarmsnowandpinningthemagainsther sides, fingers digging inharder when she struggled.Carspassedbyonbothsides,nooneslowing.Evelyntwistedsoshecould

look up his face. He openedhismouth,revealingfangs.Adamnedvampire!

Shewasn’t going to be aneasy meal. Evelyn broughther heel up, the spike of itdriving into his leg. Hegrowled inpain.At the sametimesheshoutedtoattracttheattention of a passingmotorist. She kicked againand thought she saw a fewpeople looking out thewindow of a bar across thestreet,oneabluewomanwithantennae.Shoutedoncemore,

hoping someone would hearherorcallthecopsifnothingelse.The vampire’s voice was

deep, but his words weremuffled by the rain and bythehammeringofherheart.“Please,”shethoughtshe’d

heardhimsay.Sheputallherstrengthinto

anattempt to twistoutofhisgrip, then she felt herselfdragged roughly back to the

sidewalk. The cars wereslowingnow,thegawkfactortaking hold. But not one ofthemstopped.“Help!”shehollered.“Call

the police!” She knew asmattering of self-defense,was strong, but her effortswere nothing against theunnatural steely grip of thevampire.She tripped on a raised

patch of cement and he

caught her, forcing her towalk close to the darkenedbuildingswherethenightandthe gloom might hide themfrompassersby.Hisbreathfeltcoldagainst

thebackofherneck.Despitethe deluge she could smellhim—oddly sweet, like he’dbeen dipped in basil,something to cover up thestenchofdeath.Wouldhekillher here, or in some alley?

Would her body be found?People went missing fromSan Francisco. Why the hellhad she let Constantine’ssmile bring her to this riskyneighborhood?Asiren!Shehearda siren.

Someonehadcalledthecops.She shouted again, no

words, just a sustained howlmeanttoattractattention.Shepaused to take a breath. Hewas pushing her across an

intersection.ShesawthesignfortheGoldenPumpkin,sawsomeonecomingout.Shesucked inabreathand

shouted:“Police!Callthe—”Evelynbrieflyfeltpressure

on her neck, than theblacknesssmotheredher.

Chapter3.3

She woke in a restaurantkitchen, a big towel aroundher shoulders, her purse—which someonehad retrieved—hanging on a peg near theback door. Her neck ached,and she reached her fingersup,expectingtofindpuncturewounds,buttherewerenone.She should bolt for the backdoor,grabherpurseandflee,call someone on her cellphone … or let common

sensekickinandtakeagoodlookaround.“Evelyn Love, correct?” It

was the vampire who’dkidnappedheronthestreet.His charcoal grayhairwas

shoulder-length andplasteredagainst the sides of his face.His clothes dripped on thefloor, evidence that shehadn’t been unconsciouslong. The red stain on hiswhite shirt had faded

considerably.Thestainwasamere pink suggestion now,notblood,maybearedsaucefrom something beingpreparedbyoneofthecooks.The kitchen was busy

around them. A quartet ofmen in long aprons readiedmeals—vegetarian, anassortment of vegetables, avariety of fruit, blocks oftofu,andbowlsofpastawerearranged around the work

area.Thereweredishwashers,waitresses going in and out.She took a closer look. Thewaitresses had color to themandwere breathing, certainlyappearing human. But thefour cooks were anemic-looking, all boasting ascholar’s complexion thatbordered on albino. Andwhen they opened theirmouths to talk to each other,shesawfangs.

All of the cooks werevampires.“EvelynLove—”Therain-

drenched vampire drew herattention. He was pale, hiseyes watery, and the pupilsblackpinpoints.Hiseyeshadglowed red outside. Despitehis undead pallor, he wasrather striking and looked tobe in his mid- to late-fifties.“IamverysorryifIhurtyou.Mystrength,sometimesI—”

“Damned right you hurtme.” She’d have bruises thesize of grapefruits bymorning.“But you were screaming,

wouldn’tlisten,and—”She stood, a dozen

emotions flitting through hermind: curiosity, anger, still apinch of fear wiselyremained. Anger was thestrongest, though. Almostreflexively,sheputherhands

on her hips. “Kidnapping,assault,you—”“Ms. Love, I truly am

sorry. But I am a desperateman.Itookdesperate,foolishmeasures. I couldn’t let yougetawaywithoutfirsttalking.And I couldn’t let yousummon the police.” Hepaused.“Mensuchasmyself,wedonotlikethepolice.”Men?Hewasn’taman.He

was a vampire, a blood-

sucking … she stoppedherself. Evelyn wasn’t abouttoyieldtotheprejudicesthatmany of her fellow humansheld. She defended OTs.TheirlittlefirmspecializedinOT law. She’d worked withghouls, gargoyles, and herpartnerwas a ghost.But thiswas her first face-to-facevampire.“You left my restaurant

before you’d finished your

dinner,Ms. Love, before wehadachanceto—”“So you brought me back

because of a half-finishedhunk of chicken-flavoredtofu?Isthishowyoutreatallyour customers who don’tclean their plates?” Angerwas still winning out. Shedropped her hands to hersides and unclenched herfists.“No. No. No. You left

before we could have adiscussion.The invitations toyour lawschoolclass…thatwas my attempt to get youheresowecouldtalk.Iwanttohireyou,EvelynLove.I’mlooking for a good attorney,and you specialize in—” Hepausedanditlookedlikehe’djust bit into a lemon. “YouspecializeinOTcases.”There are easier ways to

hire a lawyer, she thought.

“Look,Mr.—”“Javor.JavorVujetic.”She wondered at the

ethnicity behind his name.“Look, Mr. Vujetic. I keepregular office hours, andyoucouldhave—”“Yourofficeclosesat five,

Ms.Love.Iusuallydon’tgetout of my coffin that early.The sun and all of that, youknow.”“Wehavevoicemail.”

“Itisnotmynaturetoleavemessages.AndIdidnotwantto explain myself in an e-mail.Iamveryoldfashioned.I prefer personal contact.Besides,Iwantedyouhere,inmy restaurant. I wanted youto see that I am a respectfulbusinessman with only goodintentions.”Good intentions, my ass.

Herleftarmthrobbed.“Whatif I hadn’t accepted your

dinneroffer?”“I would have tried a

differenttact.”Hisexpressionchangedandinthatinstanthehad the eyes of a predator.Shivers shot through her.Nodoubt he had been the onewatching her in the diningroom.“I don’t shirk from OT

cases,Mr.Vujetic.”“Precisely why I want to

hireyou.”

She sagged back onto thechair and used the towel tohelpdryherhair.Atleastthekitchen was warm. It hadchasedawaythechill,andthescentsthatswirledaroundherwere superb. No wonder thevampirehadsmelledofbasil.“Allright,I’mlistening,”shesaid.“This is aboutmy brother,

Dimitar.Heisinjail,chargedwithgrandtheft,andsoheis

looking at a dozen years inprison.”“Isheavampire?”“Yes.”She suspected that length

of time was nothing to avampire, supposedlyimmortal.“My kind do not farewell

inprison,Ms.Love.Woodenshanks in the hands ofprejudicialpeople,oftenfatal,you understand. I worry that

anyguiltyjudgmentwouldbeadeathsentenceforDimitar.”“Hashebeenarraigned?”“A week ago. I asked

around and learned of yourreputation for helping ourkind.Ireachedoutrightafterthatwithmydinnerinvitationtoyourgraduatingclass—”“—so you could get me

here,” she finished. “Youshouldhaveleftamessageonvoicemail.Itwouldhavebeen

simpler.” And less painful,she thought. “If he’s beenarraigned, he already has anattorney.”The vampire nodded.

“However, I do not believethat attorney will adequatelyrepresent him. I believe youwill.”She let a breath hiss out

between her teeth. “Thisattorney—”“Ms.Wyndam-Smythfrom

Brock, Davis & Davis. Shewas assigned by the court,since my brother initiallyrefused my offer to hiresomeone for him.He is veryproud and stubborn,Dimitar,independent, and he hasn’tthe resources to pay for agood criminal attorney. ThisMs.Wyndam-Smythtookthecase…oh,what is thedamnterm…probono. As I said,mybrotherdoesnotsharemy

financialresources.”Evelyn felt the tofu

“chicken” arguing with thespring rolls in her stomach.Brock, Davis & Davis wasindeed the enemy as far asshe was concerned. She andThomas had gone againstJanet Wyndam-Smyth in achild custody case inNovember. Wyndam-Smythwas smart, but had notseemed especially

formidable, had not doneenough research or put herbest effort into that case.Maybe that was why Brock,Davis&Davisofferedherupforthisone.Thistimearoundmaybe they purposefullywantedhertolose.“Ms. Wyndam-Smyth …”

the vampire made anotherlemon face. “…her firmhasno track record ofrepresenting OTs … only

goingagainstthem.Shemadeno attempt to getmybrotherreleased on bail, did notobject to the district attorneyclaiminghewasaflightrisk.In short, I think Ms.Wyndam-Smythsucks.”Evelyn crossed her arms

andhidheramusementathisterminology. “What is yourbrotheraccusedofstealing?”“Blood.”Evelynraisedaneyebrow.

“From the blood bank. Heworks there. Worked there,”Javor corrected. “He isaccusedofstealingenoughtoqualify as grand theft. Theysay he took a few thousanddollars’worth.”“Blood.”“He’sinnocent,ofcourse,”

Javorsaid.“Of course.” She hadn’t

seen him blink once duringtheirentireexchange.

“Iwant you to prove he isinnocent.”“Isee.”“Soyouwill take thecase,

Ms.Love?”“I’dhavetomeetwithyour

brother. It would have to beagreeable to both him andme. But you said he doesn’twantyourfinancialhelp.”“His opinion has changed

since spending time in jail.Anattemptwasmadeonhim

threedayspast,andheisnowin ‘protective custody.’ Hefears for his future. Finally,heislisteningtoreason.”“We’llsee.”Evelynhanded

him the damp towel. “If heagrees to my representation,andifIagreetotakethecase,Iwon’tbedoingitprobono.”“I understand.” He tossed

the towel into a hamper onthefarsideofthekitchen,hisaimperfect.Thenhe reached

intohispocketandwithdrewapenandcheckbook,filledinan amount, and passed achecktoher.“Willthisdofora retainer? In the event youagreetodefendmybrother?”The check was for twenty

thousand.“You can tear it up if you

later decline.” He replacedthecheckbook.“ButIneedtoknowverysoon.”“IfItakethecase,thiswill

do for a retainer,” Evelynsaid. “I’ll meet with yourbrothertomorrow.”He smiled broadly,

revealing his startling whitefangs.

Chapter3.4

“Idonot trustMs.Wyndam-Smyth,andsoIwill takemy

brother’s charity and let himhire you on my behalf. I donot like being in jail. I wantto go home. I want to gohome now, please. You’lltakemycase,yes?You’llgetmehome?”Dimitar Vujetic looked

anxious and Evelyn wascertainhe’dbesweatingifhewere capable. He onlyvaguely resembled hisbrother. His pale face held

similarities, but Dimitar wasthe “Hardy” to Javor’s reed-thin “Laurel.” Dimitar’sorange jumpsuit practicallyscreamedattheseamsandthesnaps didn’t close at thewaist.Evelynguessedhiminthe neighborhood of threehundred and sixty pounds—linebackersize.Heappearedroughlyinhis

mid- to late-forties, thoughcourtrecordslistedhisageat

fivehundredandtwenty-two,borninSerbiaandnaturalizedas a United States citizen in1792—shortly after thecountry started thenaturalization practice. Hishair was black with a fewstreaks of gray, short andwith the bangs so straightacross his broad forehead itlooked like a bowl-cut. Hismustache was thick andbrushy.

“This crime I am chargedwith,Ididnotdoit,”Dimitarsaid. He took up half thebench on one side of aFormica-covered table, hishandscuffedandhookedbyashort chain to a peg in thecenter. The fingers wereplumplikesausages,thenailspointedandsharplooking.Hefidgetedconstantly.Evelynsatacrossfromhim,

noting his sad and nervous

expression. Thomas Brockhovered behind her. Thoughit was Brock’s law firm, itwas only because of her thatthey’d been able to keep itgoing—the undead didn’thave many rights, ghostsespecially, and her presencewas necessary in court to trycases.Theyneededtogetthecourts to recognize Thomasas a legal entity so he couldtry cases on his own …

something else on their longlistof“thingstodo.”Theywereinawindowless

room in the basement ofCounty Jail #2 on SeventhStreet, where those alreadyconvictedandsentencedweretypically held. The placesmelled strongly of pine-scented cleaner. AlthoughDimitar hadn’t beenconvicted, the city put manyof its undead offenders here

becausethereweretwoentirelevels of windowlesscellblocks, particularlyimportant for vampires. Itwasn’t like in the Twilightmovies—vampires sparklingwith glitter during the day—vampiresshriveledanddiedafinal time when struck byprolongeddirectsunlight.“I did not do this thing,”

Dimitarrepeated.Evelyn consulted the

folder.“Iwanttogooverthecharges and the basics,” shebegan.“Thisisafirstoffense.Yourrecordbefore thispointis clean. You are accused ofstealing in excess of onethousand nine hundred andfifty dollars’ worth of bloodfrom—”“I do not steal,” he said.

“Thou shalt not steal. And Idonotlie.”Hemadethesignof the cross, awkward with

his hands cuffed. “RaisedCatholic.By theway, that isall fiction, vampires fearingcrosses. Sure. Sure. Wecannot turn into bats, either.Otherwise Iwould fly out ofhere.”“That is good to know,”

Evelyn returned. “The partthatyoudidn’tdo it.”But intruth she did not need toknowwhether her clientwasguilty to defend him. She

continued: “Our first task isto scrutinize the prosecutor’sclaims to see if he really hasenough evidence. It is hisburden to prove beyond anyreasonable doubt that youstoletheblood.ThomasandIintend to challenge thisevidence in court, eitherlooking to get the matterdropped entirely or to win a‘notguilty’verdictattrial.”“Not guilty,” Dimitar said.

“I tell Ms. Wyndam-Smythand the judge at myarraignment that I am notguilty.ButhereIsit.Iwanttogo home, please. Get mehome.ImissmyBella.”“Bella?” Evelyn wondered

at his accent. It wasn’tSerbian, but then he’d beengone from Serbia for a fewhundred years. The scantrecordsshowedhe’dlivedonthe east coast until the mid-

1800s, coming to Californiaduring the gold rush days.Perhaps his accent was anamalgamation of dialectsfrom the various places he’dlived. Other than a copy ofhisemployment recordat theblood bank, where he’dworked for the past nineyears, therewas little else inthe file. His prioremployment listed him as aSan Francisco subway

maintenance worker from1972 to2004.Therewerenoworkrecordspriortothat.“Bella. She is my world.

Sure.Sure.Yougetmehome,please.”“Wehave to talkabout the

evidence—”Thomas drifted closer and

joined Evelyn on the bench.Hisghostlyclosenessloweredthe temperature and Evelynshivered.

“Mr. Vujetic,” Thomasinterrupted.“Dimitar,please.”“Dimitar. Evelyn is right.

We do have to address theevidence.Butbeforethat,I’dlike to know a little moreaboutyou.”Evelyn could’ve kicked

herself.Sure,she’dgraduatedwith that coveted four-point-oh, knew the law well—havingworked in lawoffices

sinceshewasa teenager,butsometimes she got sowrappedupinpaperworkandfilings that she didn’t thinkabout the “human” element.That was going to have tochange.“You want to know about

me,Mr.Brock?”“Yes.What you do,where

youlive,howyou—”“Live? I do not live, Mr.

Brock. I exist. You, more

than most people, shouldunderstand that I donot live.Though,unlikeyou,Iamableto change clothes. I cantouch, and I can smell.But Icannot cry. Inside I cry, butnotearscome.Iexist.”

Chapter3.5

The room fell quiet. The

sound of wheels from a cartclattering on the level abovefollowed by the ratchetingsoundof a cell door openingand closing somewhere,penetratedthesilence.Evelynwastheonlyoneintheroomthatwasbreathing.“Aunt Milka,” Dimitar

continued.“ShemademeandJavor like this, vampires,back home in Zarozje. Meand Javor and her two

children. Sava, the firstvampire, made Milka, andMilkahadwantedafamilytoshare her condition and bewith her through thecenturies.Shedidnotwanttobe alone.” He brought hishands in close andpattedhisstomach. “Milka, she mademelikethisforever.Andshemade it impossible forme tocry.”So what you were in life,

you were stuck with if youbecame an undead, Evelynthought.“InZarozje,Iatetoomuch.

I had a bakery and ate whatdidnotsell.NowIdonoteat,and yet I have this.” Hegrabbed a roll of fat andwiggledit.“Milka,shecursedme to be like this forever.”He leaned forward so hecouldtugonhishair.“ThisIhave…forever.IfIcutit,my

hair, it will not grow back.Myhairisdead,likeme.”“Where is Milka now?”

Thomasasked.“IssheinSan—”“Dead,” Dimitar said.

“Truly dead. Like herchildren, truly dead many,many years ago. Foreverdead. Vampires were huntedin Serbia back then. Huntednow, too, though not likethen.” He paused. “Hunted

heresometimes.Yes,eveninSan Francisco. An inmate,three, four days ago, stabbedme,buthedidnotpiercemydeadheart,andsoIhealed. Iwanttogohome,please.Theguards, they do not like meeither. But then some peoplehateallvampires.”Evelyn thought about how

popculturehadmadeteenagegirls swoon over vampires—TwilightandBuffy.

She took a turn. “Dimitar,youandyourbrothercametoAmericaalongtimeago.”“Sure. Sure. To start

anew,”hesaid.“Toavoidthevampire hunters in Serbia.”Finally he smiled. He hadonly one fang, the otherwasblunted at an angle, brokenoff.“Landofmilkandhoneyandopportunity,theseUnitedStates, my brother told me.Gold in them thar hills.

Beverly Hills. Swimmingpools andmovie stars.Texastea, eh? Black gold. GoldenGateBridge.Oh,demgoldenslippers.” A stoic expressiontook over. “I like this citywell enough. I have familyhere, my brother, somecousins. And I have friends,other vampires in theTenderloin, Mrs. Miller, theneighbors in my apartmentbuilding,andsomehumansat

the church. I am a goodman.” He paused and stareddirectly at Evelyn. “But notall the vampires in theTenderloin are nice like meandmybrother.”Evelyn opened her mouth

toaskaquestion,butDimitarcontinued.“My brother, when he

called last night he said youran from him in theTenderloin. He said that he

chasedyoudownandbroughtyoubacktohisrestaurant,sothe two of you could talk.You were not wrong to run.My brother, he is a decentman. He hires respectablepeople, thoughonly a fewofthemarehuman.Butmostofthe vampires in theTenderloin…fromthemyoushould indeed run, and runveryfast.Thosearevampiresthatitisallrighttohate.”

Thomas leaned forward.“When did youmove to SanFrancisco,Dimitar?”“In nineteen hundred

something. The years, theyblur. You should ask Javor.Hekeepstrackofsuchthings.Wemadesomemoneyinthegold rush. Javor, he investedhis share. He is very, verywealthy. He owns lots ofplaces in the Tenderloin andelsewhere.”

“Butnotyou,”Evelynsaid.“Youarenotwealthy.”He smiled broadly. “The

expression is what—I livehand-to-mouth.Alwayshave,alwayswill.Ihavealow-rentbasement apartment threeblocks from the blood bankon Ellis, not far from GlideMemorial.Thatchurch,ithasevening services, and I go,eventhoughitisnotCatholic.I give some ofmymoney to

thechurch; I tithe.Spend therest ofmymoney onDVDs,clothesfromtheBigandTallcatalog, books I mail orderfrom Edward R. Hamilton,and things forBella.Eh…Isave some for publictransportation because I donot drive. Otherwise I spendit all. My pension from thesubwaycoversmyrent.”“Pension?” Evelyn mused

aloud.

“Sure. Sure. That is whyundead like me cannot getfull-time jobs anymore Ithink, employers and thestate … they fear payingpensionsforaverylongtime.Paying two, three, fourpensions maybe all for oneperson. Only just now aretheypassinglawslimitingthenumber of pensions oneperson can get.” Dimitarlooked serious now. “My

dog,Bella.Mrs.Miller,sheismy neighbor. Javor says sheistakingcareofmydog.Shewalks Bella during the day,whenIcannotgooutbecauseofthesun.Willyoucheckonmy dog? Make sure Mrs.Millerisdoingagoodjob?”Evelyn nodded. A thought

flitted: did he keep a dog sohe could drink its blood?Don’t ask that. Don’t gothere. I don’t need to know,

don’t want to know. Thoughshe supposed she’d find outwhen she looked in on theanimal.“Mrs. Miller, you get a

spare key from her. Shewillopen my apartment for you.AndyoucheckonmyBella.”“You worked in the

subway a while back? Longenough to get that pension?”This from Thomas,redirectingtheconversation.

“Sure.Sure. Iworkeda lotof places, at night, orunderground. I can workunderground during the day,never make much money atthese places, just enough forthe DVDs and stuff and mydog. The subway? That wasthe only place I work full-timeandlongenoughtogetapension.Sure.Sure.Iworkedthere.AndIworkedinsewersalotofyears,thoughallpart-

time.The living?They don’tlike that sort of work, thesewers and subway.Most ofthelivingdonotlikethedeepdark.”“Why didn’t you go into

businesswithJavor?”Evelynwondered. “You wouldn’tneedtoworryaboutmoney.”He shrugged and the

gesturemadethebenchcreak.“I told you I ran a bakerywhenIlived.Idonotwantto

be around food now, Mrs.Love. And whatever I madewith Javor? I would havetosseditaway,asIsaid.It ismynature.”“Ms.Ms.Love.”Another shrug. “Do not

want to be around food. Justwhat I buy for my dog,Ms.Love.”“Butblood,”Thomassaid.Evelyn saw what Thomas

had done, learned a little bit

aboutDimitar,gothimtotalkand relax—he was notfidgeting near as much, andnow was swinging theconversation around to theheartofthematter.“You drink blood,”

Thomascontinued.“Sure.Sure.”“Thatisfoodtoyou.”“Sure. Sure. But I do not

need much blood to survive.Once, twice sometimes a

week is all I go out and buyfor.Hereinjail,theyprovidemebloodonceaday,asmallbag.”“And you worked at a

blood bank,” Thomas said.“Part-time,right?Fournightsaweek?”A new expression crossed

Dimitar’s face: mean, ugly,angry,suspicious.Evelynsawall of those things. She alsosaw him clench his fists, the

knucklesturningbone-white.“I do not get my blood

there, from the blood bank.Well, I do … but I don’t. Itold Ms. Wyndam-Smyththat. I told the judge that. Iexplained it all. My blood, Ibuy it from Type-O-To-Goon Geary near the AlcazarTheatre,thebloodstoreintheTenderloin. My brother buysthere, too. The prices aregood…animalblood,human

blood, sometimes feyblood … but that is tooexpensive for me, and I donot care for it anyway. Mybrother, he likes fey blood,though. They also carrycorpses and assorted bodyparts for the ghouls andzombies. It is all regulated.They have a businesslicense.”“Is that the only place you

went to buy blood for

drinking?”Thomasasked.“Sure. Sure. But I know

what you hint at. There areother places in theTenderloin, places where theliving people go to get theirblood drained, to get highfrom the experience,euphoric. Some say it givesthema sexualbuzz.Someofthe living people go to thoseplaces looking to be made avampire.Butthoseplacesare

notlegal,Mr.Brock,nothoseplaces are not. People, theycan die in those places. Andthose looking to become oneof us … it does not alwayswork. The police, they raidthose places when they findthem.Idonotgothere,andIdonot thinkmybrothergoesthereeither.Weobeythelaw,Ms. Love, Mr. Brock. Werespectthiscountryandallofitsmany,manylaws.”

“Tell us more about thebloodbank,”Thomascoaxed.Dimitar tugged on the

chain, and the post in thecenter of the table wiggled.“The blood bank I workedat… it supplies hospitals. Itiscloselyregulated,thebloodcarefully tested and typed.Not like at Type-O-To-Goand other such stores. Thosestores never test the blood.They just buy it from those

who roll up their sleeves.They are not required to testit.Forus?Forvampires, it isnot necessary to screen thepints we drink. Blood isblood.Butbadbloodleavesafunnytastesometimes.”Evelynintendedtowriteall

of thisdownthemomentsheleft here. Thomas hadsuggested she not take notesduring the first meeting, justrely on hermemory,make a

judgment on whether shewould take the case, andscheduleasecondmeetingtofollowupformoredetails.“At the blood bank,”

Evelyn nudged. “What wasyourjobthere?”“I worked in the lab at

night,fournightsaweek.Butsometimes three. It dependedontheschedule.Theyalwayskept me under the full-timemark so I would not qualify

forinsuranceandbenefits.”“So you have had lab

technician training?” Evelynpressed.“No.”“Then what, precisely, did

you do in the lab?” Thomasleanedhalfwayintothetable.“Your employment recordsaystechnician.”This time when Dimitar

shrugged the bench groanedominously. “I am a taste-

tester, Mr. Brock. But theblood bank, I do not thinktheywantthehospitalsorthepublictoknowthat.”Evelyn sucked in a breath.

“You taste blood? For thebloodbank?”“Sure. Sure. That job …

that was the reason I onlybought a pint of blood fromType-O-To-Goonceor twicea week. I was taste-testingenough to keep me filled.

See, all those tests they runon blood with microscopesandwhirr-machines, they arenot perfect. Sometimes, Ms.Love, sometimes a donor isso recently exposed tosomething that it doesn’tshow up in the blood rightaway—at least through theusual testing methods. Yousee,thosetestsandthewhirr-machines do not pick up theearly-early diseases, which

cangetpassedalong throughtransfusions. But I can pickup the early-early diseases.My palate? It is so refined Iam better than all thosemachines and microscopes.Notallvampireshavesucharefinedpalate.Iamabitofanexception. Perhaps my yearsinthebakeryhelped.So,likeI say, I was testing somuchbloodIneverhadtobuyalotfor myself. I was the only

vampire working at thatblood bank. They had a fewzombies, though, in thecleaningcrew.”“And you tested every

sample?”Evelynasked.“Sure. Sure. Just a

teaspoon’s worth is all I’dneed to check. I’d usuallyfind bad blood a couple oftimes a week. And the badstuff?Theyletmehavethat.Idrank it on site, never took

anyhome.Mostoftheblood,though, most coming in wasgood and safe for thehospitals. And before youask,no,Idonotknowifotherblood banks in other placesusevampiresfortaste-testers.And, no, I did not ever saythat blood was bad just so Icouldhaveit.Idonotlie.”Evelyn sat back. HIV was

still prevalent in SanFrancisco, and she guessed

that was primarily whatDimitarwas talking about. Ifsomeone had just beenexposedandhadgivenblood,standard testing methodsmightnotrevealthat.“HIV.”Thomasvoicedher

thoughts. “You test forHIV-taintedblood.”“And hepatitis B and

hepatitisC,too.Thosearethemost common blood-bornepathogens, Mr. Brock.

Bacterial contaminations too,though not so often. Buteveryonceinawhilea…oh,what do they call it …component. Sometimes a‘component’ will becomecontaminated duringcollection or processing, andit isn’t caught until someonereceivesatransfusionandhasa reaction. I taste for all ofthose things. I keep peoplefrom getting sick with bad

blood.”“Wow,” Evelyn said.

“Importantwork.”“So I did not do this thing

theysay.Ididnotstealblood.Why would I need to, Ms.Love? And why would I?Thou shalt not steal.” Againhemadethesignofthecross.“My boss, Ginny Sams, shewantsmeclearedsoIcangoback. She came to visit meyesterday. You talk to her.

Shewill tellyouIdidnotdothisthing.”Evelyn consulted the

papers in the folder. On thefloor above, a wheeled cartclatteredbyagainandanothercell door ratcheted open andclosed.“Fahim Yar’Adua, one of

the evening shift labtechnicians, documentedblood missing on threeconsecutive shifts that you

worked. He claims he sawyou stuffing pints in yourbackpack on one of thosenights and slipping out theside door. He’s the one whowent to the police.” Evelynclosed the folder. “That’sbasically the extent of theevidence. That, and a policesearch of your apartmentyielded a dozen empty pintcontainers stamped with thebloodbank logo.”The report

also said there were nofingerprints found on thecontainers, something shefound suspicious but did notmentiontoDimitar.“FahimYar’Aduatellslies,

Ms.Love.Idonot.Andthosecontainers? Someone puttheminmyapartment.Ithinkthewordisplanted,yes?”“I believe you,” Evelyn

said.Shereallydid.“Soyouwilltakemycase?

Iwillletmybrotherpayyou.Iwant togohome. Iwant toseemyBella.AndIwantmyjobback.Ofall the jobsI’veheld in San Francisco, I liketastingbloodthebest.”“Yes, we will take your

case,”Evelynsaid.Sheshookhishand.Itwascold.

Chapter3.6

Thebusdriverwassomesortof troll, wedged in tight andhead rising above all thoseseated behind him, spikedridge of hair teasing theceiling.Forallofhisbulk, itlooked like he’d have a hardtime turning the steeringwheel, but he managed itdeftly.Hewoveinandoutoftraffic, proving to be an

expertatnegotiatingthebusystreets.Evelyn and Thomas sat

halfway back. Thomas, theonly obvious OT passenger,waswellawarethattheotherriders’ stares were dividedbetweenhimselfandthetroll.Two tough-looking menseated at the back werenervously eying him. Hetoyed around with driftingtheir way to see if he could

spook them because theywere so insensitive, butdecided that wouldn’t helpthe imageofOTs in thecity,and it might get him tossedoffthebus.“At least this is easier on

the office expenses, eh?”Thomas gave Evelyn his fullattention. They’d only beencharged one fare despiteEvelynagaintryingtopayfortwo. Apparently ghosts

weren’t recognized as realpassengers on either the busline or the trolley—maybebecause they couldn’tphysically put money ortokensinthebox.“Atwo-fer,youknow.”“I’d think we should be

able to get the chargesdismissed,” Evelyn said,changing the subject to thecase. Thomas liked herpassion for law and their

clients. “I’d really like to goto trial, good experience andpublicity. But dismissalwould be the best route fortheclient. It’sa firstoffense,and Dimitar has no record.Get theD.A. or the judge todrop the charges and spareDimitar the stigma of apermanentcriminalrecord.”Thomaskepthisvoicelow.

Other conversations weregoing on around them,

includingrepeatedmentionofa ghost on board. “It’s notgoing to be that easy. Itshould be, given the firstoffense charge. Keep it offhis record, that’s the wayyou’dthinkitwouldgo.Thenhe should be able to get hisjobback…oronejustlikeit.But I’ve a bad feeling aboutthiscase.”Evelyn’seyebrowsrose.Thomasthoughtshelooked

cute when she was curious.He floated closer until herface filled his vision. “Look,itshouldbeeasy.Andwecantake a stab at dismissal, butit’ll have to be through thejudge. The D.A. will dig hisheels in. Iknowhim.MannyRizzo’s been assigned thecase. He’s all-out againstOTs.Itwouldn’thavebeena‘grand theft’ matterotherwise. Most first-time

chargeslikethisusuallycomeacross as misdemeanors.Under Penal Code 487, amisdemeanor charge iscertainly allowed. Or theD.A. settles beforearraignment, asking forcommunity service, theftcounseling,and lookingforapromise in writing to repaythe victim. Even thoughDimitarclaimshe’sinnocent,taking a misdemeanor plea

gets him home fast. Besides,themisdemeanor route savesalotofcourttimeandiseasyon the city coffers. Butaccording to the paperwork,Rizzowentstraightforgrandtheft.”“Why? What does Rizzo

haveagainstOTs?”Thomas saw his hazy

reflection in thewindow andthought that when heshrugged his shoulders it

looked like fog rising fromariverbank and settling backdown again. Still, the twotoughs watched him,whispered, and pointed. Awomanin theseatdirectly infront of the pair pulled outhercellphoneandsnappedapictureofThomas.“I suppose we could do

somedigging,findoutwhereRizzo’shatecomesfrom.Butthat isn’t going tomatter.At

least not right now. Not forthis case. What matters isattacking the evidence assoonaspossible,anddigginginto this supposed witness.Dimitar’s case has been fast-tracked because of pressurefrom Rizzo. We have aninitialappearancenextweek.”“We can go for a

continuance, since we justsignedon, butDimitarwantsto go home. He’s going to

support a quick trial. Wecould request another bailhearing,Isuppose.Trytogethim home thatway.” Evelynran her fingers through hershortredhair.Thomas thought it

shimmered like liquidcopperin the sunlight that streamedthrough the bus’s windows.Did she know that he wasstaring at her?Did sheknowthatshewasbeautiful?

“Orwecouldgive thisourfullattentionandplowahead.The evidence is light. Wehaven’t had a chance to lookatthewitnessyet.”“Javor thinks his brother

willbe staringdownadozenyears if we can’t break theevidence. A dozen years.”Shewhistled.“That’salotoftimeforsomepintsofblood.… blood that I’m certainDimitar didn’t take.You can

just tell. Our client really isinnocent.A lie detector test?That’dhelp,wouldn’t it?Notadmissible in court, but itcould help. Unfortunately,our client doesn’t have abeatingheart.”Thebusroundedacornera

little tooquickly, andEvelyngrabbed the edge of her seatwithonehandandhuggedherbriefcaseclosewiththeother.The troll laid on the horn,

stuck his head out thewindow, and hollered: “GetyourcaboutofthewayorI’lleat you!” Then everythingsettledbackdown.“You know, there was a

case I read about recently.Rightinourbackyard.Aone-time executive with theHaight-Ashbury Free Clinicsgotsevenyearsinprisononagrand theft charge. Hedefraudedthenonprofitoutof

nearly eight hundredthousand.Hepled itout, twofelonycountsofgrandtheft,ahalf dozen counts of taxevasion, agreed to repay allthe money, plus back taxesand fines all totaling about amillion.Itwasbasicallywell-organized embezzlement.Seven years for about amillion dollars, and Rizzo isgoing for a dozen yearswithour vampire client for a few

pintsofblood.”“I like the sound of that,”

Evelyn said. “Not the dozenyears,the‘ourclient’part.”They got off at the stop in

front of the Glide MemorialChurch.“Not the best

neighborhood,” Evelynmused. “But the Tenderloinsomehow looks safer in thedaylight.”They hadn’t walked a

dozen yards before Thomasrealizedthetoughshadgottenoff at the same stop. Theswarthy-lookingpair sprintedpastthem,jumpedinfrontofEvelyn, and the stockier onepulled out a sap and slappeditagainsthishand.“Thatcaseyouwas jawing

about on the bus,” he began,thwacking the saprhythmically. “You need tobe dropping it, pretty lady.

Likerightnow.”“Or you aren’t going to

staypretty formuch longer,”theothergrowled.“Youdon’tneedtobedefendingnodamnvampire. Let him rot in jailfor a while. Healthier foryou.”“Yeah.Healthier.”Thesap

beat out a faster meter.“Unless you want to see ifyou can end up a ghost likeyourpartnerthere.I’dhateto

have to ruin that Cover Girllookyougotgoing.”If Thomas were living he

knew he would’ve felt theblood rush to his face, hisheart pump in a combinationoffearandire,andhewouldhavesteppedbetweenEvelynand the thugs. His chivalryhad not abandoned him, andso he placed himself in frontofher,manifestingasvisiblyaspossibleandputtingonhis

bestterrifyingface.The thugs looked to be in

their mid- to late-twenties,heavy stubble on their faces,darkeyes.Perhaps theywerebrothers. They were bothwearing jeans and blackjackets. They laughed andstepped through him, thestockyoneraisedthesapandthen instantly was drivenbackonhisrump.Evelynhadkickedhiminthegut.

“I’m tired of this!” shehollered,bringingherfootupagain in a roundhouse moveand connecting with thesecondman, her heel drivingintothefleshofhisthigh.Hedidn’t drop, but the blowstaggeredhim.Thomas floated above the

trio,keeninglikeabansheetoattract attention, hopefully ofa passing cop. There wasnothing he could do

physically.Hefeltuseless.“I’m tired of running,”

Evelyn spat and she swungher briefcase at the stockyfellowwhowas trying togetup. The edge of the casecaughthiminthejawandhisheadsnappedbackandhitthesidewalk.Hegroaned.She followed through, and

Thomasknewifhewaslivinghe’d be gulping in air insurprise. She slammed her

left foot down on the handholding the sap, placed herright foot on his stomach inan effort to keep him down,andswungthebriefcaseinanarc to keep the thinner thugback.“Done being nice, lady!”

Thethinnerthugreachedintoasidepocketandpulledoutaknife.Without pause, Evelyn

pushed off the man on the

groundandusedthebriefcaselikea shield,gripping itwithboth hands and slamming itagainstthethinone,knockingtheknifeoutofhishand justas the blade had snappedopen. “Yeah, well I’m donebeingthreatened!”“H-h-hey!” the thin guy

sputtered. “We’re just givingyou awarning.”He skitteredback as she swung thebriefcase again. “Just being

polite.”“Polite, my ass! And no

one tellsmewhat case I canorcan’ttake!”Thomas was shocked by

herlanguage.Hesawthatherfacewasred—nodoubtamixof anger and exertion. Heknewshewasanavidrunner,buthewasunawaresheknewself-defense.Hewasproudofher,alittleworried,butpridewaswinningout.Therewere

peopleonthesidewalkacrossthe street, and Thomaskeened to get their attention.“The police,” he shouted.“Callthepolice!”Theystaredamoment,thenkeptwalking.“Thepolice!”There were more people

coming out the GlideMemorial Church behindthem,andhesawonewomanwith an ear bud phone,tapping it and talking

furiously. Another man wason a cell phone, and a thirdwas holding a cell phone upand taking pictures with it.Two in the group werecheeringEvelynon.Thestockythughadfinally

managed to get up. Shoulderto shoulder now, the pairfaced Evelyn, crouching,ready. Thomas’s attentionwas divided between Evelynandthepeoplecomingoutof

the church … a minister inthegroupnow,judgingbythedark clothes and collar. Herushed toward Evelyn,shouting and waving. Thehalf dozen parishionersfollowed,onethicksetwomanpumping her arm in the airand hollering: “Let’s getthem!”Evelyn dropped her

briefcase, bent at the knees,spun, and caught the stocky

thuginthekneewithanotherside kick. “And as for awarning … I’ll give you awarning!Leavemealone!”“Women!” The thin man

made a move to bend andretrieve his knife, but shekickedoutagain.“Let’s get out of here,

Chuma. Now!” The thicksetmanglancedathissaponthesidewalk and apparentlydecided to leave it. “C’mon,

Chuma.”The two whirled, feet

poundingover thecement.Ahandful of people—touristsjudging by their attire andcameras—were headingtoward the church. Thefleeing men barreled intothem, knocking three to thesidewalk before continuingtheir mad dash. They wereout of sight moments beforeThomasheardasiren.

The parishionerssurrounded Evelyn andquestionsbuzzed.“Areyouallright?”“Wow, you’re hot!” This

fromateenageboy,whowasgivingheranappreciativeupanddown.Theministerpickedupher

briefcaseandhandedittoher.“Areyouhurt?”“Hurt?”Thewomanwho’d

beenpumpingherfistshoved

in close. “She ain’t hurt,Reverend, she’s awesome.What’s your name, honey? Iblog for The Recorder. I’dliketointerviewyou.”Thomas hovered above

them, looking so wispy thathewasgoingunnoticed.“ThemLibyanshadaghost

with ’em,” the teenage boysaid. “The hot chick scaredtheghostawaytoo.”Thomas hovered a little

higher.Theminister put his hands

on Evelyn’s shoulders.“Would you like to comeinside?”Hegesturedwithhisheadtowardthechurch.A police car pulled up at

the sidewalk and two femaleofficers got out. Thomasbriefly considered joiningEvelyn and making a reportto the police. But ghostsweren’t recognized as legal

entities, so he stayed hidden,watching one pull out aclipboard and start in on thequestions. More in thegathering took pictures withtheircellphones.“Givehersomeroom,”one

oftheofficerssaid.Theotherretrieved the sap and knifeandbaggedthem.It was the Tenderloin, and

there were bigger fish toworry about than a pair of

thugs who came out on thebad end of a tussle, Thomasknew. He doubted that thehoodswouldbecaught, eventhough the officers appeareddiligent and courteous, andhandledeverythinginunderahalf hour. They tookstatements from some of theparishioners and invitedEvelyn to come by theprecinct and look at mugshots.

“Later,”shesaid.The small crowd finally

dissipated, the cops pulledaway, and Thomasmanifestedalittlethickerandjoinedher.“Like I said, Thomas, not

thebestneighborhood.”“AndlikeItoldyou,I’vea

badfeelingaboutthiscase.”

Chapter3.7

The apartment buildingDimitarcalledhomeappearedolder than it probably was.All the wood trim was inneed of a sprucing. Whatpaint remained was crackedand curled and looked likefish scales that had dried inthesun.Mrs.Millerwashome,and

Dimitar had called from the

jail to let her know hisattorneys were coming.Thomashadn’tconcoctedanymental images of thevampire’s friend, but wasneverthelessalittlesurprised.Mrs. Miller, who did notvolunteerher firstname,wasin hermid- to late-seventies,petite, and dressed to thoseproverbial nines, completewith a hint of makeup. Sheworeatweedsuitwithacalf-

length pencil skirt, polishedblackshoes,andhadherhairarrangedinabun.Onherhip,partiallyconcealedbyhersuitjacket, was a holstered gun.What Thomas knew aboutfirearms could fit in athimble, so he didn’t knowwhat kind it was, other thanbig.“There’s riff-raff in the

neighborhood,” Mrs. Millerexplained,obviouslycatching

Thomas and Evelyn lookingat the gun. “Smitty here—”she tapped thegun,“—keepsthebadelementaway.”“GoodthingIdidn’thavea

Smitty a half hour ago,”Evelyn whispered. “Iwould’ve brought him out toplay.”Thomas noted that Mrs.

Miller didn’t even raise aneyebrow at his ghostlyappearance,justusheredthem

in,handedEvelynakey,andadded: “That’s the only keyI’ve got. If you need one,you’llhavetomakeacopyofthat.Dimmywantsmetotakecare of Bella, so I have tokeepakey.Hardware store’sa block and a half down thestreet.Mattworksatthebackcounterandhe’llmakeyouacopy.”Shegavethemasternlook.“Andifyou’llbegoingin and out on any regular

basis,youtakerealcarewiththedoor.Don’twantthatdoggetting out and somethinghappening to her. Dimmywouldhaveaconniption.Yougetthatkeybacktomewhenyou’re all done. I’m innumberfour.”Sheturnedandtookafewsteps,thenstoppedandlookedoverhershoulder.“Andyoutwobetterbedamngood lawyers. You getDimmyoffthatstupidcharge

and back home where hebelongs,understand?”The interior of the squatty

apartmentbuildinghintedthatit had been beautiful at onetime;thetrimdarkhardwood,still retaining some of itspolish, with brass fittings onthe fluted milk glass lightfixtures and along thebanister. The floor washardwood too, but it waspitted and worn, saggy in

some spots; and the carpetrunner that led down thecenterhalldidnothingtohidethedips.“What does it smell like?”

Thomas hadn’t meant to askthe question aloud.He’d lostall sensation—he couldn’ttouch, taste, smell, and thelack of those senses madehimfeelempty.“Fusty,” Evelyn

pronounced. “But there are

hints of pleasant things—vanilla, maybe candles orincense burning behind oneof these doors, and I thinksomeone is cooking chicken.Mrs. Miller was wearingsomenicecologne,alittletooheavy on it. Oh—” Shesniffedsoftlyandloweredhervoice. “I smell pot.” Softer,and Thomas had toconcentrate to hear her: “Mymom was into it when she

hadsomemoneytoburn.”Onthestrollherehe’dtried

to talk about the men who’djumpedher, abouthowshe’dmanaged to fight back. ButEvelyndidn’twanttodiscussit. “Later,” she’d said.Thomas knew when to backoff, but the faces of the twomen simmered behind hisincorporeal eyes. Why didthey want Evelyn off thecase? Why did they want a

seemingly harmless vampireto go down for theft?Later?Yes, he and Evelyn wouldcertainly be talking about allofthislater.They took the stairs down.

There was only oneapartment in the basement.The rest of the lower levelwas taken up by a smalllaundryroom,astoragearea,andthefurnace.“Wait a moment, okay?”

Thomas floated through thedoor ahead of Evelyn. Hewanted to make sure therewasn’t anything particularlygruesome … given theneighborhood and that theman who rented thisapartmentwasavampire.Heheard Evelyn key the lockbehind him, obviously notwillingtowait.Bella came out from

aroundatallshelf,hairraised

along her back and growlingmenacinglyatThomas.“Goodlord,whatisthat?”Evelyn laughed as she

entered, flipped on the lightswitch, and closed the doorbehindher.“Thomas,thatisachin, a Japanese chin. Notwhat I’d pictured a big manlike Dimitar owning. Ihonestly figured Bella wasgoingtobeabassethoundorsomebigmutt.”

Thomas guessed the dogtipped the scales at six orseven pounds. It had a broadhead, wide-set eyes, a shortmuzzle, and feathery tufts ofhair hanging from its tail,belly, and ears. It was blackand white, looked to beprofessionally groomed, andwas obviously upset by theirpresence.Evelyn knelt and made

cooing sounds. After a few

moments,BellaletEvelynpatthe top of her head. “Gooddog,” she said. “Good Bella.Wouldyoulikeatreat?”The dog brightened at that

word, and Evelyn stood andpicked up a box of LiverSnapsfromthekitchen table.Thomas hadn’t noticed thetreat box. Evelyn had an eyefordetails.Thedogsatuponherhaunches,wavedherfrontpaws,andacceptedthetreat.

Thomasfloatedthroughthedog. He noted that theapartment was clean andsimple, and the windowswere high and boarded over.Anairfreshenersatonanendtable,anotherona lowshelf,abovewhichacrucifixhung.“What does this apartment

smelllike?”heasked.He heard her suck in a

breath.“Well,itsmellsalittlelikeJapanesechin.Butitalso

smells like apple-cinnamon,likeapiewasrecentlybaked.Itsmells…wonderful.”Thomas continued his

visualexploration.Thelivingroomwas large and includedthe kitchen. A Formica-topped table stacked withmystery novels divided thearea.Ataglancehecouldtellthat the books werealphabetical by author, thentitle, and an open notebook

showed that Dimitar was intheprocessofcataloguingthecollection and making littlenotes about which ones he’denjoyed the most andintended to read again.Morebooks were on shelves thatlined two of the walls, alsoalphabetized, with gapswhere Thomas suspected theones on the table would begoing. A forty-two-inch flatscreenTVhungononewall,

the DVD player on a smalltable beneath it. Open doorsledtoabedroom,whichhadadouble-wide coffin on aplatform, and to a bathroomwithanoverlargetub.Thomas took a more

critical look around whileEvelyncontinuedtofussoverthe tiny dog. The furniturewas sparse—an oversizedrecliner and a loveseat, thekitchen table had only two

straight-backed chairs—everything in good repair;and the carpet lookedrelativelynew.Thestovewasspotless, like it had neverbeen used, the microwaveeither. He poked his headinside every cabinet andappliance. One shelf in therefrigerator was filled withleftovers in “GoldenPumpkin” bags, “for Bella”scrawled in marker on the

outside. Another shelf heldtwo six-packs of Pepsi andthree pint bottles of bloodwith the label: Type-O-To-Go, B-negative. Nothing inthefreezer.Thecabinetsheldplace settings for two,CorningWare,andtherewereonly two cooking pots.Maybe Dimitar had agirlfriend or hadMrs.Milleroverforamealnowandthen.Thereweredozensofsmall

cans of dog food in thecupboard, all arranged bytype and expiration date:beef, chicken, pork, salmon,and two twenty-pound bagsof dry dog food under thesinkwiththelabel:LAMB&RICE FOR TENDERTUMMIES. In anothercabinet, Thomas saw anassortment of doggy dentalchew sticks, dog shampoo,and a variety of dog

grooming products. On thefloor in front of the stovewereceramicwaterand foodbowls with “Bella” paintedon them in fancy script. Thegarbage can was the stylewith a closed lid and theswingingflap.Therewasn’tacrumb of anything on thefloororcountertops,andinalowercabinetwasabunchofcleaning products, all inperfect rows. There was the

faintest layer of dust,however, over every surface,no doubt because Dimitarhadn’t been here to clean.The cabinet above therefrigerator was filled withapple-cinnamon airfresheners—againallinrows.The vampire was OCD,

Thomasdecided.He floated into the

bedroom and found moredog-relateditems.Inaddition

to the double-wide coffin toserve Dimitar, Bella’s bed, alargefluffypillowencasedina bone-print slipcase,occupied a corner of theroom. Thomas thought thepillow looked comfortable.Next to it was a cratemoundedwith dog toys. Thecloset was filled with casualclothes, arranged by color,and all carrying the Big &Talllabel.

“Belladoesn’thaveamarkon her,” Evelyn announcedfromtheotherroom.So Evelyn had thought,

perhaps,thevampireusedthedog’sbloodforsnacks.“He loves the dog,”

Thomas called back. Man’sbestfriend?Inthiscaseitwasvampire’s best friend. “Hewouldn’t do anything to hurtthatdog.”Therewas apictureon the

bureau of Bella. Otherpictures were of peopleThomasdidn’tknow,someofthem black and white and,from the style of clothes,lookingtobefromthe1940s.There were a lot of pictureshanging on the bedroomwalls. No mirrors anywhere.HesawthreemorepicturesofBella,thelargestinanornateframe that appeared to be anantique.IfDimitarhadowned

adogbeforeBella,therewasnoevidence.The bathroom revealed an

assortment of men’stoiletries,allstampedAVON.TherewereadozenboxesofBlack Suede soap-on-a-rope,adozenbottlesofpeppermintbubble bath, eight bottles ofshampoo, and all of it neatlyarranged in rows… Dimitarboughtinbulk.Thomasfeltawave of sadness crash

through him. The bathroomreminded him of his lawschool roommate, who alsobought inbulk,andwhoalsowasavampire.Was it a traitofvampires?An Avon catalog on the

back of the toilet had MRS.MILLERprintedon it, alongwith a phone number.Thomas memorized thenumber. He’d always beengood at memorization, but

he’dgottenevenbetterlately,ashecouldn’twriteanything.But if he needed to call herlater he’d have to getsomeoneelse topunch in thenumbers.Back in the living area, he

saw Evelyn looking throughthe books. “He readsmysteries and romancesprimarily,” she said. “And alittlesciencefiction,butonlyfrom the masters—Gene

WolfeandRobertHeinlein.Itlooks like everything isalphabetized. The DVDscover the gamut: comedies,drama, action. There arehundreds. I’m not going topoke through them, but theylook alphabetized, too.” Shewaved an arm gestured to aliving room closet she’dopened.Itwasfilledfloortoceiling

withDVDsandVHStapes.

“According to the policereport, eight empty vinylenvelopes from the bloodbank were found in thekitchen sink, three on thecounter, and one on thenightstand in the bedroom,”Evelyn said. “That bothersme.”“Bothers me, too. In fact,

I’m a little disappointed inSan Francisco’s finest,”Thomas said. “It is obvious

that the blood bags wereplanted and thatDimitarwasframed.Our client is a cleanfreak, and there’s noway hewould’ve left anything likethat out on a counter. Hewould have thrown them inthe garbage or maybe in arecycling bin. And ifMannyRizzodidn’thavesuchahateon regarding OTs, hewould’ve realized Dimitarwassetup.”

“Why?” Evelyn asked.“WhysetupDimitar?”“Why, indeed?” Thomas’s

incorporeal fingers touchedhis chin. “Why wouldsomeone want to frame ourclient? And why doessomeone not want us todefend him? What hasDimitar done to so ticksomeoneoffthatthey’dgotosuchlengths?”

Chapter3.8

Evelyn got a copy made ofthe apartment key andreturned the original to Mrs.Miller. “I want to do somechecking on the witness,Thomas, see what I can findontheInternet.IwanttopokearoundandseeifDimitarhasanyenemies.”

“I’mstickingaroundhereabitlonger,”Thomassaid.“I’llheadback toHaight-Ashburylater.Watchyourback.”“Icantakecareofmyself.”

She gave Bella one morehead-pat.“But,yes,I’llwatchmyback.”Thomas listened to her

footsteps on the stair. Therewas nothing else in theapartment he wanted toinvestigate.Hejustwantedto

bealone.“Vampires.”He wasn’t thinking about

their client, Dimitar, thoughhe knew he should be.Instead, he was thinkingabout the first vampire he’dmet—HaroldFarrar,orHarryas he’d asked to be called.Harrywas twenty-eightyearsold,hadonlybeenavampirethe past four of that, andcame in answer to Thomas’s

post looking fora roommate.Thomas had just entered lawschool and opted for anapartment rather than toremaininthedorms.Betweenhis father’s money and thescholarships, he could havesurvivedwithoutaroommate,but he’d always been thrifty,and the apartment had twobedrooms.Harry had looked a little

likeHarryPotter,brownhair,

glasses,boyishface,butabittaller than the moviecharacter and a shade on thepudgy side around themiddle. Thomas would havesaid“no, thankyou,”ashe’dfully expected to take on aliving roommate. But Harrywasaffable.Thomashadseenhim around campus—atnight, and usually in thecompany of a pretty girl ortwo. Apparently Harry had

sensed Thomas’sapprehension.“You don’t have to worry

about me swiping yourgroceries. I can’t eat them,”Harry had said. “And Ipromisenottobite.”For whatever reason,

Thomas liked Harryimmediately, and it didn’ttake long before they werefast friends, as both had aninsatiableappetiteforthelaw.

Harry had been a politicalsciencemajor,thinkingabouta career in government. Buthe’d visited the Tenderloinwithfriendsthefirstsemesterof his senior year, imbibed alittle too much alcohol, andended up in one of thoseillegal places Dimitar hadhintedat.Theresult…Harrybecame a vampire. He’ddriftedaround theTenderloinfor the next three years, in a

perpetual pity-party funk.Then he got his act togetherafter working with acounselor at GlideMemorialandreturnedtotheuniversity,finished his bachelor’sdegree, enrolled in lawschool, and answeredThomas’sadvertisement.They took some night

coursestogether,andThomaslearnedtolookatthecampusthrough the eyes of an OT.

HeandHarryevendiscussedopeningapracticetogether.“We’d cover it twenty-

four-seven,” Harry had said.“You take thedaycases,andI’llhandlenightcourt.”Most of the law students

and professors took Harry’spresence in stride, and someeven “embraced the Other,”as they’d called it andactively sought him out forsocial activities. But there

werestudentswhodidn’tlikeOTs… and some of themwent to extremes to showtheirhatred.“Some people hate all

vampires,”Dimitarhadsaid.Thomas knew their client

wasunfortunatelyrightonthemark.He tooka last lookaround

their client’s apartment andnotedthatBellahadcurleduponherpillowandwasasleep,

little feet twitching as if shewas caught up in somemarvelous doggie dream.Maybe Harry had metDimitar during his years intheTenderloin,throughGlideMemorial. Maybe Thomaswould ask Dimitar about ittomorrow.Thomas floated out of the

building. He’d never reallytoured theTenderloinbefore,not up close. He’d driven

throughitafewtimes—whenhe was breathing, borrowingone of his father’s cars, buthad never stopped. He knewthat theareawasat the sametime a tourist trap and theworst neighborhood in SanFrancisco. The place wasknown for its drug dealers,addicts, unbalanced streetpeople,andprostitutes.Itwasalso known for being one ofthemostdiverseplacesinthe

city. Every ethnicity wasrepresented, particularlyVietnamese, who in the pasttwentyyearswereresponsibleforalotoftheclean-up.Andthere was a significant OTpopulation.A few blocks from the

apartment building, Thomaswatchedsomesortofhaginaknee-length dress strut by,maybe a hooker. A creaturethat looked like agoblin, but

had a prehensile tail, wasperchedonastreetlight,handcupped over his eyes andscanning the street as iflooking for something. Twoghoulsstoodoutsideatrendy-looking sandwich shop, onepointing to something on themenu taped to thewindow—allof these inaddition to theregular and somewhatraggedy humans passing by.A trio of dog-headed men

caughthis eye.Theywere inblack leather jackets, liketheywerepart of somebikergang.Theyjostledtheghouls,threw back their shaggyheadsinlaughter,andenteredthesandwichshop.The Tenderloin was

colorful;he’dgiveitthat.Thomas decided to travel

back to the office in “stealthmode”ashe’dcome to thinkof it, rendering himself so

transparentthatonlythemostobservant soul would spothim, looking likeamirage,amisty patch above thepavement.Thestreetsandthesidewalksweren’tclean—fastfood wrappers and cigarettebutts littered the edges.Crumpledpiecesofnewsprintscudded along in the slightbreeze. He wondered whatthe place smelled like. Hecouldonly take in itsmyriad

sounds: the shush of traffic,music rolling out carwindows, a live jazz bandplaying somewhere nearby.He could still differentiatebetween live and recordedmusic.Itwasgettingclosetodinnertime. He imagined thescentsfromthevariousethnicrestaurants were minglingwith the odors of everythingelse.He felt incompletewithout

all of his senses, not feelingthe coarse brickwork againsthis fingertips, earlier notsmelling the scent ofEvelyn’s perfume that shealways wore, no longer ableto taste the sweetness of afresh orange, his favoritefruit. If only he’d known his“life” was going to turn outthisway,hewouldhavepaidmore attention to the details.He would have appreciated

all the little sensations thatmadetheworldamazing.Andhewould have asked Evelynout for more dinners… andnottodiscusscases.His route took him past

Glide Memorial Church.He’d heard it called a“spiritual oasis” and knew itwas big into communityassistance programs. Thomasslipped through the building,seeing a dozen people—each

of them sitting alone on thepews.The onlyOTs present:a trio of women ghostskneeling at the altar in thefront.Thomas hovered behind

them, wanting to chat withanotherspirit,butdecidednottodisturbthem.Themusicinthe big chapel was soft, andcanned, “Amazing Grace.”He passed by a placard thatlisted times for free meals,

counseling, health services,and job training. Supposedlythe city’s most popularminister preached here andnews accounts reported thatpeople would line up aroundthe block to hear him. Hadthat been the fellow who’dtriedtocometoEvelyn’said?Past the church was a

stretch of brick apartmentbuildings and cheap hotels,then the Alcazar Theatre

loomed, the most ornatebuilding within severalblocks. Thomas had alwaysappreciated San Francisco’sarchitecture, and the oldbuildingwasByzantinestyle,originally built for Shrinersclosinginonahundredyearsago.He traveled across Sgt.

John Macaulay Park at thecorner of O’Farrell andLarkin, taking little note of

the children on the colorfuljungle gyms, and pausedoutside the Mitchell Bros.O’FarrellTheatre.Itwassaidthat the city’smost gorgeousfemale strippers workedthere. Thomas rememberedHarry talking about the fleshpalace’s Green Door ShowandKopenhagenRoom.HemissedHarry.A few hours ago Dimitar

had said: “Vampires were

hunted in Serbia back then.Hunted now, too, though notlike then. Hunted heresometimes.Yes, even in SanFrancisco.”Harryhadbeenhoundedby

a group of OT-haters oncampus … verbal tauntsmostly, but sometimes therewere foul e-mails anddisgustingFacebookpostings.It escalated during the finalsemester of law school. In

fact, that was the yearThomas’s world went downthecrapper.

Chapter3.9

It was first semester ofThomas’s final year in lawschool.Theairwascrisp,anditwasquiet.Thomas,Harry,andoneof

the girls trying to beHarry’sgirlfriend…Margie,thatwasit…walkedacrossthegrass,barefoot, just having gottenout of the Thursday nightPoliticalAsylumandRefugeeLaw. Thomas’s toes werecold,but thegrasswas thick,andhethoughtitfeltgrand.“Explain to me about the

relationship betweenAmerican law and gender-related claims to refugee

status,”MargiesaidtoHarry.Thomas slowed his step

and lagged behind a dozenyards. He was enjoying thesilence andwas disappointedMargie,whoremindedhimofa lily—tall, with sun-bleachedlonghairandalongneck—had to break it withsomeinaneprattlemeantonlyto draw Harry into aconversation.He sawMargieslip her arm around Harry’s

andleaninclose,thevampireobliging her and discussingrefugeeissues.Thomas smiled. He knew

Harry had his undead heartset on an English lit gradstudentwho’dstoppedbytheapartment a few times.Whatwas it aboutHarry that drewgirlslikesugarattractedflies?Thomas was better looking,six-two and with the broadshoulders of a swimmer—a

champion diver, actually—cornflower blue eyes, mud-brown hair, and was only afew pounds overweight. Hisnose was crooked, though.Certainly more imposing inhis appearance than Harry.And it wasn’t that Thomasdidn’t have dates. He wentout with fellow law studentCrystal Gaye on occasion. ItwasjustthatHarry—“What the …” Margie

screeched.In an instant Margie and

Harry were swarmed. Theshadows had hid the ganguntil the trap had beensprung.Thomas charged forward,

butwasgrabbedfrombehindand jerked back off his feet.Three sets of hands diggingintohisarmsandpullinghimback. He struggled andcraned his neck from left to

right, trying to see who heldhim.“Whatthehell?”Washethe victim of some collegeprank? An impromptuhazing?Margie broke free and ran

screaming. In the light thatspread out from the parkinglot ahead, Thomas saw herpulloutacellphone.Faintly,he heard her call for thecampuspolice.Thenshewasoutofsight.

Blinking, the details cameclearer.Fivemen inStanfordhoodie sweatshirts were onHarry. The ones holdingThomas wore hoodies, too,buthemanagedtogeta lookat two of their faces. Herecognized them from abusinesslawclasshe’dtakenthepreviousyear.“Hold him good,” one of

Thomas’s attackers said.“Don’tlethimloose.”

Thomas struggled harder.This wasn’t a prank or ahazing. This was somethingfar worse. Thomas’s chesttightened and he fought forair. He kicked backward andlanded a blow againstsomeone,andwaspunchedinhissideinretaliation.“Let me go!” Harry

shouted. The five pushed thevampire to the ground androlledhimonhisback,justas

the three holding Thomasforcedhim tohisknees.OneofthemgrabbedahandfulofThomas’s hair and aimed hisfaceforward.“Eyes open, vamp lover,”

one of the men hissed.“Watchthis.Stakehim!”“No!”Thomashowled.Harry managed to knock

one of themen off him, andthe hood flew back. Thomasgot a good look at his face.

Another turned and shoutedsomething, and Thomascouldn’t make it out, but hesawthatman’sface, too, justenough in thedim light fromtheparking lot.Hecouldputnames to four of theattackers.“Let him go!” Thomas

shouted, gyrating but unableto break free. Then hechanged his tactic. “Help!Police!” There were campus

police always on patrol, andthe parking lot was near.Maybe he could catchsomebodygoingtoorfromacar.“Help!”“Say goodbye to your pal,

vamp lover. Stake him!” theattacker repeated. “Get himquick and let’s get out ofhere.”Thomas saw one of the

men pull out a stake, usinghis feet to hold Harry’s arm

down. Another produced amalletandknelt.The sound was sickening,

the dull thud of the malletagainst the stake, a shrillinhuman scream that camefromHarry.“Stop it!” Thomas was

pushed face forward into thegrass and whacked on theback of the head. He heardthemallet hit the stake againandagain,andhehimselfwas

struck again. He heard hisown harsh breathing andsmelled the damp earth. Thegrass was cold against hisface.Harrywasn’tscreaminganymore. Thomas foughtagainst a wave of dizzinessand pushed himself to hisknees.Hecouldn’tstand, toowoozy from the blow he’dtaken, but he managed tocrawltohisfriend.Feet slapped across the

grass,thenacrosstheparkinglot. Themen—eight of themall together—hollered andcheered, whooping like theirteam had justwon a footballgame. They raced to the faredge of the parking lot,weaving around cars, andThomaslostsightofthem.Harry was dead—truly

dead; his corpse shriveledinto a desiccated husk asThomaswatched.

There were two othervampire stakings on campusthat night, though nowitnesses came forward inthoseincidents.The experience forever

changed Thomas, though thedepth of that change wouldnot be realized for severalmonths.Thomas gave a description

of the assailants to campuspolice,thentothecitypolice.

He’d only gotten a goodenough look at four of them.The quartet was found,charged with first-degreemurder, remained mum ontheir accomplices, and thematter eventually went totrial.ThomaswastheD.A.’sstar

witness, and he sat throughtheentireproceeding.Margietestified, too, though she’donlygottenabrieflookatone

ofthem.Thomas’sfather—Reginald

Brock of Brock, Davis &Davis—defended the quartet,in spite of Thomas’s pleasthat his father stay out of it.The elder Brock wasexceptional in hispresentation,meticulous.TheD.A.,thoughearnest,wasnotin Reginald Brock’s league.Brock repeatedly citedCalifornia Penal Codes 242

and 245, the definition ofassaultandbattery—awillfuland unlawful touch that isharmfuloroffensive.“That is allmy clients can

be charged with, YourHonor.” The elder Brock’sconcluding words wereburned into Thomas’s brain.“My clients cannot becharged with murder, as thesupposed victim in this casewas already dead. Harold

Farrar had died years ago inthe city’s Tenderloin district.That he had subsequentlyrisen as a vampire isimmaterial. Vampires aredead, Your Honor. And youcannot murder someone whois already dead. A deathcertificate is on file for theman.He’d never bothered tohave it rescinded when hebecameavampire.”Reginald Brock won that

day, driving a permanentwedge between father andson. The quartet was insteadfound guilty of assault andbattery under Penal Code245, assault with a deadlyweapon—the penalty forwhich rangedanywhere froma year in county jail and a$10,000 fine to four years instateprison.But the elderBrockhadn’t

been content with that, he’d

pressed and pressed andmanaged to successfullyargue self-defense; that thestudents fearedfor their livesin thepresenceofavampire.The students were expelledfrom the university, but theyavoided jail time. And thenhe’dgloatedtoThomasabouthisvictory.Thomas never accepted

anotherdimefromhis father,andthey’dnotspokenagain.

“Wewillwin this case forHarry,” Thomas said as heshook off the uglymemoriesand drifted back toward theheart of theTenderloin. “ForDimitar,” he correctedhimself. “We will win.”TrafficpassedthroughhimashepointedhimselftowardtheGolden Pumpkin. Heintended to hover arounduntil the sunwent down andDimitar’sbrothersurfaced.

Chapter3.10

Pete looked over Evelyn’sshoulder as she clickedthrough various links on thecomputermonitor.“Interesting,” he

pronounced. He had a littletrouble reading some of it,especiallythesmallprintand

thestuffinblue,buthedidn’twanttoadmitthat.Pete normally perched at

the top of the old three-storybuilding,hangingoutovertheedge.Hehadtobeconnectedto the building, but latelyhe’d kept that connection byputting in some hours insidethe law office helpingThomas, turning pages andriflingthroughfilingcabinets,sometimes surfing the

Internet. Pete actually likedthe work, a good change-upfrom simply fortifying thebuilding by his presence andwatchingthebirdsontheroofacrossthestreet.Heespeciallylikedplaying

on the computer. Butsometimes he didn’t want tobetoldwhattodo.“Bringmethe files under ‘D,’ and grabvolume two on civil libertieswhileyou’reatit,”or“Ineed

you to make a call for me.Just punch in the numbersand hold the phone to myface.” Because Thomascouldn’t touch anything, hewasusingPeteashisfingers.Petepreferredputzingaroundthe officewhen Thomaswaselsewhere.“Hey, Evey, try that one.

That link.”Hepointed to thethird entry down that said:VAMPIRESONTHERISE?

andEvelynobliged.The link opened to a copy

of a news article, the printtiny, and he was about toswallowhisprideandsuggestshe increase themagnification,butshestartedreading aloud. Pete liked thesoundofhervoice.“Villagers in Zarozje,

Serbia, are getting theirgarlic, crosses, and stakesready, on guard for Sava

Savanovic, the country’smostinfamousvampire.”Sheleaned back. “Sava. OurclientsaidthatSavamadehisauntintoavampire,andthenthe aunt bestowed the curseon her own kids andnephews.”“The family that slays

together stays together, eh?”Petemadeatsk-tskingsound.Gargoyles had relatives too,of a sort, brethren that had

been carved from the samesection of rock. Some ofPete’srelativeswereonabigCatholic church a few milesaway. They kept in touch bysending vibrations throughthe ground. “Keep reading,Evey.Iwanttohearmore.”“Zarozjeisaremotehamlet

sitting between thick forestsandmountainslopes,andthisarticle, dated about a monthago,saysSavahasawakened,

had been staked about ahundred years ago but hascome back now as a ghost.Tourists are visiting the tinyplace,andtheghost-sightingshavebeenaboontothelocaleconomy.”“Too bad the ghost

sightings in this office aren’ta boon to our economy. Goon.Readsomemore.”“A local council has

warned all the villagers to

carry garlic with themwhenevertheygooutatnightand to nail wooden crossesthroughout their homes tokeep vampires at bay. Someclaimthemeasuresaremeantmoretoattractvisitors,asthehamlet is in an especiallyimpoverished region thatbordersBosnia.”“So… this Sava…might

be real? Not that it hasanything to do with your

case, but it’s hooked me.That’dbeoneoldvampire.”Evelyn shrugged. “I don’t

know about the vampireturning intoaghostpart.ButI bet Dimitar was beinghonestaboutSavastartinghisfamily’s … condition. So,yeah,I’dsayatonetimeSavawas real. From what I cantell,vampireswereabigdeal—andoccasionallystillare—in theBalkans.Dracula from

Romania. Vampire talestriggeredwidespreadhysteriacenturies past, and peoplewho were accused of beingvampireswere executed, sortof like this country with itsSalemwitchtrials.”Pete made a whistling

sound. “Try that link. There,that’s it.” The article was inmuch larger type. “So thisSava Savanovic is a legend,and there are no visual

accounts. But apparentlytherewereastringofkillingsinthatareaonlyalittlewhileback, villagers milling theirgrain on the Rogatica River.And over here in the sidebaritmentionsthatvampiresfledEurope for the United Statesin the seventeen hundreds.Andlookatthis,saysthatoldmill collapsed amonth or soback, about the time theSava-the-ghost sightings

started.”“What are you two poking

into?” This came fromGretchen Cain, who’d beensorting through paperwork ather desk at the very front ofthe office. She snapped uphercaneandmadeherwaytoEvelyn’s desk. “What’s gotyoutwosoabsorbed?”Evelyn toldherabout their

vampireclient.Gretchenrolledhereyes.“I

findtheseOTswhocrossourthreshold an interestingbunch,”shesaid,reachingouta finger and pretending totweak Pete’s nose. “I likedthatghoul,Mr.Holder, and IputupwithValentinodriftingintocopabuzzwhenIhaveto take my Vicodins. Butvampires?”Herfacegatheredinto a point. “They can betrouble,Evey,soyouneedtowatchyourself.I’msurethere

are some halfway decentblood-suckersinthiscity,andTommy told me about hisvampire roommate from lawschool.But—”Pete watched the elderly

woman. He’d never seenGretchen with such a sourlook.“But you be extra careful.

Sure, they don’t sparkle likein the teenybopper-angstseries, but some of the

movies portray ’em right.Ever see them Underworldpictures?”“The turf wars with

vampires and werewolves?”Evelynlaughedassheclickedonanotherlink.“Isawoneofthem. Too gooey for mytaste.”Gretchen tapped her cane

on the floor. “There’s turfwars in San Francisco, too,sweetie. Just like in

Underworld. Don’t you getcaughtupinone,hearme?Ifyougogettingyourselfkilled,this practice’ll be closing itsdoors.Andwhoelseisgonnahiremeatmyage?Youthinkaboutthat.”Evelynsmiled.“Gretch,it’s

a grand theft case. And ourclientisinnocent.”“They’re not all innocent,

Evey.SomeoftheOTsinthiscity are just as foul as bad-

minded humans.” Gretchentoddled back to her desk.“I’m heading out. You lockup when you’re done, allright?”Evelyn nodded. “Pete,

here’sareportfromavillagerwho livesnear that collapsedmill on the river.He says heheard strange sounds comingfrom the forest, but he doesnot fear the vampire-ghostbecauseherespectsSavaand

does not make fun. He saysthe people of Zarozje should‘embrace the Other.’ Nowthat’s a termwehear aroundhereonceinawhile.Hesays‘embrace the Other’ and callin the tourists, that if theRomanians can profit fromthe Dracula legend with thebig castle in Transylvania,theyshoulddothesamewithSava.”Pete walked around to the

frontofherdesk.“So…howdoes all of this history stuffhelpyourcasewithDimitar?”“It doesn’t really help the

case, it just helps me. Iwantedtogetabetterlookatwhere my client came from.Besides, I couldn’t findanything useful on FahimYar’Adua,thewitnessagainstourclient.IguessI’llhavetogo talk to him face-to-facetomorrow.” She stifled a

yawn. “And now I have tohead out. My stomachdemands dinner, and I wantto go to the revival at St.Agnes’slatertonight.There’sa boxof crackers next to thefridge, and a couple of six-packs. Don’t drink it all,though,please.I’mnotgoingback to the store for a fewdays.”Shereachedtoturnoffthecomputer.“Hold up there. If you

don’tmind,I’mgoingtodoalittle more of this Internetresearch,allright?”Heeasedhimself onto Evelyn’s chairas she headed toward thefront door, and he adjustedthecontrolstolowertheseat,careful to keep one foot onthe floor. The furnitureprobably counted as part ofthe building, but he didn’twanttochancehisconnectionto it. “I’ll shut it downwhen

I’mdone and turnoff all thelights this timebefore I headbacktotheroof.Promise.”She said something to him

before she left, but he didn’tpay attention. Another linkcaughthiseyeandheclickedon it. Pete was thankfulThomas had invited himdownintothelawoffice.Thiswas much more interestingthan watching birds andpassersby all day.Andwhen

he was done with this bit ofresearch, he’d get a beer outofthefridgeandtryhishandat that computer solitairegameordownloadafreetrialof World of Warcraft. Eveydidn’t have anything butsolitaire on this computer.Maybe she’d object toWarcraftcloggingupsomeofthememory,butPeteknewitwas better to apologize afterthe fact than ask permission

andriska“no.”Yeah, thiswasmuchmore

interesting than watchingClapper Rails and squishingpigeons.“Hmm … what’s this?”

Pete moused over anotherlink.Hewascarefulwith theequipment, as he knew hisstone hands were heavy andthat the law firmdidn’t havea lotofmoney toworkwith.Evey couldn’t afford to be

buying new computerequipment. She needed tospend the money on rent sothelandlordcouldpayallthefees and for buildingrenovations. Keeping thebuilding safe keptPete alive.“Now this is reallyinteresting. Too bad Evey’sgonefortheday.”Hedrewhisfaceincloseto

the screen and read until hisvisionblurred.Helookedout

the window. The street wasmurky,definitelyaftersunset.Pete didn’t bother looking atclocks, as time really hadlittle significance. He couldcall her. Thomas had taughthim how to use the phone.But he worried he mightinterrupt her during therevival. That wouldn’t bepolite, acellphonegoingoffduring the service. Hecouldn’t call Thomas. The

ghostdidn’thave—norcouldheuse—acellphone.ButDaggerMcKenzie?Dagger was on speed dial

on Evey’s phone. Button #3.Pete swiveled in the chair,again careful because of hisweight,stretchedtothephoneand touched the control forspeaker so he didn’t have toworryaboutthehandset.Daggerpicked itupon the

fifthring.“Evey?”

Pete cleared his throat.“No. Uh, it’s me,Permythius.”“Pete?” The surprise was

evident in Dagger’s voice.“YoucallingmeforTom?”“Uh, no. Listen, Dagger,

they’re working on a case,EveyandTom.”“And you’re being Tom’s

fingersagain,right?”Petepulledaface.“No.”Therewasatappingsound,

probably Dagger drumminghisfingersagainstsomething.“I’m eating dinner Pete, andit’sgettingcold.”“This case Evey took …

youknow,shegotshotwhenshewaspokingintoacaseinDecember. Shot and in thehospital.”Peteheardasharpintakeof

breath.He knewDagger hadasoftspotforEvelyn,andsohe was playing the “Evey

card”tohisadvantage.“She’s picked up a new

case,withavampireand—”“Damn, Evey. Doesn’t she

know that vampires can be—”“—dangerous, I know.

Listen.” Pete gave him anabbreviated explanation ofDimitar Vujetic’s situation.“She’sgotmeconvincedthatDimitar’sagoodguy,andshethinks someone doesn’t like

him and so had him framed.But Evey’smissing an anglehere. Tom, too, I bet. I justfound out a little tidbit thatmight have something to dowithallof this. Icanshowitto Evey when she gets intomorrow. And when I doI’msureshewillcheckitout.But I’d hate to see her gethurt again. The Libyans canbeasbadasthevamps…orworse.”

“Damnit,Pete.”“Evey’s headstrong,

Dagger, and I know shewillgive it a look. Somebody’sgot to give it a look. I’mthinking—”“Doyouknowhowtowork

e-mail?”Pete growled softly. Did

the P.I. think he was stupid?“Of course I can work e-mail.”“Then send me this so-

called dangerous tidbit ‘thatmight have something to dowith all of this.’ I’ll checkintoit.”“Tonight?” Pete edged

forward and moved themouse so it opened Evey’sHotmail account. “Will youcheckintoittonight?”The gargoyle cringed

slightly when he heard theexhalationofbreath.“Yes, Pete. I have nothing

better todotonight.Can’tdoittomorrow.I’monaclient’sdimestartingatnoon.”“So you’ll go to the

Tenderloin tonight? Good,”Peteadded.The line went dead and

Petehit“send.”The gargoyle pushed away

from the desk and lookedtowardthelittlerefrigeratoratthe back. One or two beerswould hit the spot before he

downloaded that free trial ofWarcraft.

Chapter3.11

Dagger McKenzie knew the’Loin. Where others avoidedthe neighborhood,particularly its roughestsections, he outright enjoyedthe place and usually found

an excuse to visit at leastevery otherweek.And so hehadn’t minded that Pete’sInternetresearchledhere.Hedid mind, however, thatthere’d been no talk ofcompensation. Dagger hadtaken on a few too manyfreebiesforthelittlelawfirmonHaight.Andasmuchasheliked to help Evelyn, therewerelimits.He’dstopbytheofficeinthemorningandtalk

to her about getting paid forthis evening’s jaunt. Heusually billed two hundredandfiftyanhour.He’dquoteherfiftylessthanthat,afavorforafriend.Daggerdwarfedthehooker

who’d pressed herself upagainst him. She was pretty,Asian, and her round facewas tastefully made up. Thetop of her head came to thecenter of his chest, and she

looked up and smiledinvitingly.“Showyouagoodtime?”“I’dlikethat,”Daggersaid.

Intruth,hewould.She’dbeapleasant distraction, and nodoubtanhourofhercompanyin this neighborhood wouldnot be expensive. “But nottonight, sweetheart.” Shefrowned and drifted towardanothertarget.The hookers were out in

number, and Dagger couldseeovertheirheads.Hestoodsix feet five, and tonight hewore his jet-black hair looseand grazing his broadshoulders. With thicksideburns too long to bestylish and musclesthreatening to burst thesleeves of his denim jacket,he knew he had the look ofex-military.Aroundhere thatappearance would make the

unsavoryelement think twiceaboutmessingwithhim.Dagger stopped in front of

theIslamicTempleonGeary,halfway between Jones andLeavenworth Streets. Thebuilding was gorgeous,modeled after the AlhambrainGranada,Spain.He’dbeeninside the originalmore thana few years back, and hefound this one just asimpressive… though a little

outofplaceinthisblock.TheOTswereout in force

tonight, too.Hespottedafeywith gossamer pink wingsthat he’d be tempted toapproach were he not on amission. Maybe some othertime.Hememorizedher faceand caught awhiff of her asshepassedby,sequinedmini-skirt sparkling in the lightsfrom the temple. She waswearingEsteeLauder’sWhite

Linen. Dagger had amazingsenses, and he was familiarwith the fragrance, as aprevious client had himshadow a woman whoworkedacosmeticcounterinUnionSquare,andshealwaysworeWhiteLinen.A few goblins bunched

together outside a bar a fewdoors down, chattinganimatedly. One of themcaught Dagger looking and

flipped him the finger. Thenthey sauntered away andaround a corner. A ghoulshuffled along across thestreet, the humans on thesidewalk granting her awideberth. Conversations andmusic rolled out of theopened doors and carscruising by, urban clamor heignored.A dozen feet to the north

Dagger saw some imp-

looking creature appear tosell drugs to a raggedy-looking teen. Two beat copspausednearby, and thenkeptgoing. Dagger knew thatjuries didn’t prosecute thesmalloffensesfromthisarea,and so the law didn’t wasteits time and only went aftermoreegregiouscrimes.Which made the case

against Dimitar Vujeticinteresting.All this fuss over

adozenpintsofblood.There was no sign of the

particularOTsDaggerlookedfor, and this should be theright street for them. Hespotted tourists. There wassomethingabouttheareathatdrew them—the clash ofluxury hotels, five-starrestaurants, massage parlors,headshops,andstripjoints.Alittlesomethingforeveryone,hemusedasheleanedagainst

the temple and let the timepass.Herememberedreadingan article in the SanFrancisco Examiner thatlabeledthisarea“Hellatyourdoorstep.”It wasn’t that bad. Not

anymore.Fortyyears ago…Dagger

wouldhaveconsidereditthatbad.Inthe’70sthe’Loinwasthe poorest area in the city,theresidentsbarelyekingout

livings,stretchafterstretchofvacant and boarded upbuildings, rats skitteringaround in broad daylight. Inthe middle of that decade,close to half of the city’sreporteddrugoverdoseswerehere, and a quarter of all itshomicides.Itstillhadawaytogo,but

things had improved—theresidents banding together towork for change. Dagger

hoped it didn’t improve toomuchmore. Itwould lose itscolorandflavor.“Whatcha lookin’ for,

mate?”Theimpdrug-peddlerhad made a circuit of theblock and approached. Hewasalittlething,maybefourfeet standing on his toes …which were gray and clearlyvisible against the dirtysidewalk.February,hedidn’tseem to mind the cold. His

voice was high and tinny.“Somethin’ maybe I cansupply?”Thecreatureworeachild-sized trench coat, andmade a move to open it.“Good prices. I bet I’ve gotsomething—”“Nothingyouhaveinterests

me,” Dagger said. Hewrinkled his face. The impsmelled like spoiledbananas.“Get out of here … wait aminute.” He squatted so he

was face-to-mug with him.The thing’s odd odor hungheavy in his nostrils.“Nothing I want except,perhaps,information.”The imp made a clicking

soundwithhistongueagainsthistinypointedteeth.Daggersaw himself reflected in theimp’s wide eyes.“Information is expensive,”theimpreturned.Dagger reached into his

backpocket,pulledoutafiftyandpressed itonto the imp’spalm.Heknewbetter thantopull out a wallet and risk itbeing snatched. Daggerwouldaddthefiftytothebillhe’d give Evey in themorning. “I want to knowwheretheLibyansare.”The imp screwed his face

into a painful-lookingexpression. “Oh, I don’tknow anything about any

Libyans.” He withdrew hishand and went to thrust thefiftyintothefoldsofhiscoat.Dagger’s arm shot outlightning fast and his fingersclosedontheimp’swrist.“Ithinkyoudoknowabout

theLibyans.”A trioofhumanwomen in

tight, sparkling dressesstrolled up, arms linked andawkwardlytipsy.Agaggleofyoungmen inArmy fatigues

followed.Daggerwaiteduntilthe entourage was well pastthem.“If you’re selling anything

on this particular street, youknow about the Libyans. Iheartheygetatakeonalltheaction.”The imp swallowed hard.

“There’s not enough moneyintheworld,mister.”Dagger squeezed tighter

and the imp cringed and

buckled. “Where can I findthem? I’m not going to askyouagain.”“Th-th-that’s good,” the

imp returned. “Good thatyou’re not going to ask meagain.BecauseI’mnotgoingto tell you.”Then he twistedandslippedDagger’sgrip.Hetookoffrunningtothesouth.Daggerstoodandwatched.When the imp was out of

sight, Dagger leaned back

against the temple again,listened to the whine of aclarinet, a street performer ablock or so away. The faintclink of a tambourineprovided the syncopatedmeasure. He looked at hiswatch and waited a fewminutes, and then he turnedand followed the imp. He’dpurposely let his quarry sliphisgrasp.Dagger’s sharp senses

separated the dried sweat ofbeggars who clung to a gapbetween buildings, theassorted smells that waftedfrom restaurants servingdinner to early patrons, andthe battling perfumes of thehookers. He honed in on theimp’s unique rotten-bananaodor and unerringly trackedthe creature to a strip clubtwo blocks away. The placewas called Hair of the Dog.

He let out a laugh—soobvious it had escaped hisconsideration!He’dbeenpastit before, but never inside it.Dagger’s tastes were usuallya tad more upscale. Hesniffed and registered thebiting odor of urine at thebuildings corners. Severalsomeones had marked theirterritory.Heopenedthedoorandlet

anotherwaveofodorsassault

him. The greasy food beingserved at the bar was thestrongest, the spices at thesame time exotic andunpleasant. Everywhere wasbeer,andthefloorwasstickywith it. Cigarette smokelingeredontheclothesof thepatrons, and there was anassortment of men’s andwomen’s colognes to battlewiththescentsofsomeofthecustomerswho’dclearlygone

dayswithoutbathing.Daggermanaged to keep fromgagging.The interior was dimly lit

by neon tubes that wrappedaround the main room andalongthebaseofthestageinthe middle, on which twooverly skinny humanwomenin G-strings undulated whileclinging to brass poles. Lavalamps were perched on eachofthedozensmalltables,the

colors twisting in slow,dizzying patterns. All of thespeakerssatonthefloor,andsothesongsthatspewedfromthem sent vibrations upthroughthesolesofDagger’sfeet. “Play That FunkyMusic” was the currentselection.He took a quick head

count. Except for the two“dancers” and threebartenders, the occupants

were all men: thirty-fivepatrons—agoodnumberforabar given that the sun wasstill up. Only a dozen of thecustomerswere human. Fourghouls sat at a table near thedoor, munching on fingersthat looked like French friesinabasket.Anothertablehadthree other undead seated atit. They were neither ghoulsnorzombies,buttheyhadthetaut,paleskinandemptyeye

sockets of the departed.Maybe he’d Google theirdescription later and find outwhattheywere.A troll sat on the floor

against thefarwall,probablyno chair large enough toaccommodate hisconsiderable rear end.Ahalfdozen gold-skinned fey werepressed up against the stageand shoving money at thedancers.Theydidn’thavethe

graceful-looking wings thatthe females of their speciesdid. Wings too small tosupport them in flight,Dagger figured. Theremaining OTs consisted ofeight men with Germanshepherd dog-like heads andfurry hands, along with therotten-banana-smelling imp,whowasatthefarendofthebar apparently talking up astormtooneofthem.

The imp had led DaggerstraighttotheLibyans.The average San

Franciscan would think themen lycanthropes who’ddecidedto“wolfout”despitethelackoffullmoontonight.But then the average SanFranciscanwouldbewrong.Theycalled themselves the

dog-headed, and Dagger hadclashed with one of them afewyears backwhenhewas

tailing a woman whosehusband believed she wascheating.Shewascheating…with one of the dog-headed.Daggerhaddonehisresearchon the case. The dog-headedtraced their origins toWestern Libya and still heldto a heritage that stretchedbacktobeforetheSaharawasformed. They could well betheoldestOTsontheplanet.Supposedlybirthedthrough

dark ritualsconductedon theWadiMattendush,whichwasnow a dry riverbed, the dog-headed had remained hiddenuntil hunter-gatherers andnomadic pastoral farmersdiscovered their communityaround 1,000 BC. Libya’smessak, or plateau region,was peppered with rockcarvings of dog-headed mendragging rhinoceroses andother large beasts. More

carvings were found byarchaeologists working atsitesovertheAlgerianborderatTassilin’Ajjer.Daggerhadbeen in the area many yearsago, searching for someone.He’d seen the carvings,though at the time he’dknown nothing about therace.Dagger’s own roots

reached back to that part oftheworld, but hewasn’t one

of the dog-headed. Daggeropened his cell phone andcalled the law office. Petepicked up on the fourth ring.Dagger heard the sounds ofswords clashing in thebackground and ominousmusic, probably a computergame.“Pete, Google something

for me. Google ‘Hounds,’‘Tenderloin,’ and ‘recentactivity.’E-mailmewhatever

you find that looksinteresting.” He closed thephone without waiting for areply. Then he growled fromdeep in his throat, thrust hishands in the pockets of hisjeans, andheaded toward thedog-headed the imp wastalkingto.“All salt and no sugar,”

Dagger said. “This probablywon’tgowell.”

Chapter3.12

Thomas noticed ghosts onO’Farrell. They’d not beenvisible when he’d made acircuitoftheblockearlier,orperhaps he hadn’t beenlooking close enough then.Therewerefour.Twolookedto be couple, a man andwoman in garb from the

1800s.Theywerelinkedarm-in-arm and glided throughoblivious passersby on thesidewalk. The wispy pairpausedinfrontofabarafewdoors south of the GoldenPumpkin, faces halfwaythrough the front window.Theothertwo—oneprobablya hooker from the skimpysuggestionofclothes,andtheotheramaninabusinesssuitclutching an ephemeral

briefcase, sunk into thesidewalk when they caughtThomasstaringatthem.He’d not spoken to many

ghosts since his murder.Valentino Trinadad, ofcourse, the ghost who livedon thecorneroutside the lawoffice. But Valentino hadappeared when Thomas wasstill alive, and they’d struckup a friendship then. Therewas a ghostly doctor in a

hospitalthathadbeenhelpfultoThomasinDecemberwhenhe checked on Evelyn aftershe’dbeenshot.ButThomas,while curious, felt areluctancetoapproachspirits.He didn’twant to intrude ontheir “lives” … or perhapsrecognize himself as acontemporary. Maybe it waslike the elderly who refusedtovisitseniorcentersbecausethey didn’t want to admit

they’dgottenold.Hefloatedthroughbarsand

boutiques and paused in aheadshopoperatedbyabustygreen-skinned hag. One walllooked like a slice out of the1960s with psychedelicposters that probably poppedunder a black light. The hagtook casual note of him, andthen busied herself arrangingwaterpipesonashelf.Eventually he reached the

Golden Pumpkin. The hoursonthewindowlistednoonto10 p.m. Monday throughThursday,3p.m. tomidnightFridaythroughSunday.It wasn’t quite sundown,

andsohetraveledthroughthebuilding top-down first, fivestories, the top floor wasemptyandsheetsofcobwebsdraped from the rafters, thenexttwostorage—hestoppedhimselffrompokinghishead

into the various crates andboxes, the second floor hadthree good-sized apartmentswith tenants elsewhere at themoment … and not of thevampire variety, as therewasn’tacoffinorboardedupwindowanywhere.The restaurant had a

reasonablecrowd,mostofthediners human, though therewere six goblins on boosterseatsataroundtablenearthe

saladbar.Serverswentinandout of the kitchen through aswingingdoor.Whatdoes this place smell

like? Probably amazing,Thomas thought, judging bythe array of various dishes.Theemptyfeelingintensified.He listened to the clink ofglasses, gentle laughter, andpleasant conversations.Whatdoeseverythingtastelike?Hewas incomplete, a suggestion

ofaman,onewhocouldhearandthinkandinteract,but—Twodog-likemeninblack

leather jackets shoulderedtheir way out of the kitchen,ending Thomas’s morosedescent. He had time toregister their narrowed eyesand the angry way theirsnouts curled, and then theywerepasthim,threadingtheirway through the tables andout the front door. They

weren’twerewolves, Thomashadseenoneofthose.Rather,they more resembled two-legged German shepherddogswithhairyhands.…liketheoneshe’d spottedoutsidethe sandwich shop earliertoday.Thomas followed, taking a

short cut through the dinersand passing through thewalland out onto the street. Thedog-likemenhadlong,quick

strides, and Thomas did hisbest to keep up, but quicklyfell behind. He rose higher,following them visually, andthenlosingsight.Thomas spotted them

again, still shoulder-to-shoulder, still in blackjackets, but their dog-visageshad been replaced by humanfaces. He hurried towardthem… as much as he wascapable of hurrying. It was

thesamepair thathadriddenthebusandwentafterEvelynin front of Glide Memorialand had warned her off thecase. At the end of the nextblock they entered anotherrestaurant. He drifted in thatdirection,disappointedthatatbesthetraveledhalfthespeedofalivingman.Werehestillbreathing, he could havestayed even. He’d been anathlete.

He reached the nextrestaurant, a German placewith Bavarian dishesadvertised on a placard outfront, just as the pairemerged, again with dogheads. Neither spottedThomas, but he was in“stealth mode,” and theypointed across theintersection and tookoff at ajog, ignoring the red trafficlight. The thin one flipped a

finger at a taxi driver wholaidonthehorn.Thomasmanaged tobarely

get inside the nextestablishment they visited, avintageclothing store, just intime to see themwhirl awayfrom a clerk at the counter.Theyrushed throughThomason their way back outside,and he glided after them,finally giving up four blockslater when they appeared

humanoncemoreandhelostthem.He’dhopedtheywouldhave stopped at one of theirapartments, or stayed in onespotlongenoughsohecouldcatchupandlearnmoreaboutthem. He wanted to turn theinformationovertothepoliceand get some justice forEvelyn. More than that, hewanted to know why theydidn’twantEvelyn todefendDimitar.

Frustrated, he pointedhimself toward the GoldenPumpkin. The sun had set.Time foraconversationwithJavorVujetic.He wished he could have

gone through the restaurant’sfront door and glided acrossthe dining room. Instead,Thomas had drifted aroundthe back. A waitress stoodnext toaDumpster, ahumanin her early thirties, smoking

and looking at her watch,tapping her foot. She waswaitingforsomething.Afewmoments later a man in achef’s apron came out therear door. Thomas’s visionwaskeen,able toseeinutterdarkness, and so even withthe shadows he noted thepaleness of the man’s skinand that his chest didn’t riseand fall. A vampire; Evelynhad said the cooks—at least

in the evening—werevampires.Thetwoembraced.“You’re late.” This from

the woman. “And now I’mgoingtobelateformyshift.”The vampire’s answer was

to smother her lips. The kisswent on for a while, andemotions flitted throughThomas—jealousy andenvy… he couldn’t touch awoman,shamethathewasso

voyeuristic, and suddenlyrevulsion. He was in therealm of TMI: too muchinformation.The woman placed her

hands on the side of thechef’s face and extricatedherselffromthekiss.“Please,Jerry,pleasetakejustalittle.”The vampire—Jerry—

shook his head. “Javor doesnotpermitthishere.Javor—”“Just a little.” She pulled

his face down to her neck,and the vampire obliged her.The woman made a purringnoise, her eyelids flutteredclosed, and she smileddreamilyasthevampiremadea soft slurping sound.“Jerry…Jerry.”Thewomanswooned and the vampirecaught her and held heragainst the brick, raised hisface and wiped the bloodfromhismouth.

Hedidn’tlookquiteaspaleas before, or was thatThomas’simagination?The woman tugged the

collar of her uniform up andtook a few deep breaths.“Yougobackfirst.”Thevampirekissedthetop

ofherheadandwentintothekitchen. Thomas waited forseveralminutesmore, seeingthewaitresspulloutalightedcompact and check her face

and her neck, smooth at herskirt, and arrange her curls.Thewaitress entered throughthe alley door, announcingthat she was tardy becauseshe’dmissedherbus.Thomasspentthenexthour

hoveringinthekitchen.Ithadadropceiling,andhefloatedthere, poking his headhalfwaythroughitandspyingonthecrew.Therewerefourvampires in thekitchen staff,

two ghoul dishwashers …washing by hand, nomachine, and an assortmentof human waitresses. Thechatter centered on politics,music, the city’s recent banon public nudity, and finallyonDimitar.“Do you think Javor will

give in?” This from one ofthecooks.A ghoul dishwasher shook

her head. “Never.Not Javor.

He hired a good attorney forhis brother. He will spendmoreon the attorney thanhewould have on protectionmoney. Javor is about theprinciple.”Theghoul’svoicewas scratchy and soundedforced, remindingThomasofa previous client he workedwith:EmmanuelHolder.“Ithinkheshouldgivein.”

Thisfromthewaitresswho’dhad someblooddrained.She

sashayedintothekitchenandwith a flourish placed anorder in front of the closestchef. “Javor is rolling inmoneyandproperty.Whynotcave and give the Libyanstheirshare?Sincethedamneddogs have expanded theirterritory, everyone else onO’Farrellshellsouttothem.”The dishwasher sat down

her drying towel. “It is theprinciple, Kit. The Libyans

don’tneedtomuscleintothisneighborhood. Javor hasdrawn that so-called line inthesand,andI’mwithhim.”“Me, too,” two of the

vampirechefssaidinunison.The waitress shook her

head. “Damn good thing forall of us, then, that theLibyans are picking onJavor’sbrotherratherthanonone of us. But I’m keepingmy options open. Any of us

gets set up for something,gets beaten because Javorwon’tpay…I’mhigh-tailingitoutoftheTenderloin.ToldJavor that a little while agowhen he called. He’ll be inlate tonight, said he wasstopping by the jail to visitDimmy.”The chefsweremeticulous

in their preparation of eachdish, arranging the foodartisticallybeforehandingthe

plates to the waitresses. Theconversationsspunwhiletheyworked, and Thomascontinuedtosoakitin.“Besides,”oneofthechefs

said,endingthematter.“Whyshould we pay protectionmoney to the Libyans whenwe don’t need protection?”Hesmiled,showingsparklingwhite fangs. “Maybe theLibyans should be payingus.”

“How about them FortyNiners,” the other ghouldishwashersaid.“Theymadetheplayoffsthisyear.”

Chapter3.13

The impscooted for theexit,glaring atDagger and sayingsomethingthatwaslostinthebarclamor.

Eight dog-heads in theroom that he had noticed,three directly in front of himat theendof thebar.Daggertook in their scents as heclosed the distance. Theysmelledofsmokeandalcoholand the streets. The largesthad a crooked ear, and hestepped to the fore, nosequivering as he wasundoubtedly taking inDagger’s scent.Thatwas the

one Dagger wanted to talkwith privately, the packleader.He growled and Dagger

raised his lip in response.“Just want to talk,” Daggersaid. “Got an office?Orwillthealleydo?”Theman’shairmelted like

hotbutter, the snout receded,andahumanvisageappeared.“We don’t serve your kindhere.”

“I can quote Star Wars,too.”Daggerscowled.“Don’tconsider me really ‘here’then. I’m just passingthrough.” He paused.“Dagger McKenzie. I’m aninvestigatorlooking—”“—for trouble.”This came

fromaseconddog-head,wholikewise did the meltingroutine and in an instantappearedwhollyhuman.Thisone was younger and had a

handsome chiseled face, theeyesslightlyhooded.Dagger studied the face a

moment; he’d seen it briefly,in the e-mail materials Petehadsenthim.Thedog-head’sname was Fahim Yar’Adua,and suddenly everythingmade crystal clear sense.Fahim, theD.A.witness,hadsetupDimitarVujetic.Wasitpartofaturfwar?“You should leave, wolf.

Only purebreds are allowedin thisplace.”The thirddog-head didn’t bother with ahuman visage, and so thewords were harder to pickthrough, sounding guttural.Maybe alcohol blurred them,Dagger thought. A line ofdroolspilledfromhissnouttothe floor. “Leave before yougethurt.”Dagger grinned. “How

about nobody gets hurt and

youtellmewhyyousetupaharmless overweight vampireto take the fall for stealingblood.” He directed this toFahim,andhesawtheman’shard expression break for asecond. “We can settle thispeacefully. How about wetalkoutside,whereit’salittleeasier to hear. This discomusic is so… so yesterday.Hurtsmyears.”Fahimopenedhismouthto

reply, but the pack leadertook another step forward.Daggernoticedthattheman’shumanearwasalsomissinganotch, and he had a scarrunning down the side of hisneck,uglyandcrookedlikeitcame froma fight. “This hasnothing to do with you,McKenzie.TheTenderloin isours, all of it, and this bar isourterritory—”“—clearlymarked.Ipicked

up on that out front. Smellslike you’ve pretty wellmarked thewholeplace.”Hesniffedandmadeasourface,andthenhesteppedasidejustas the leader drove his fistthrough the air whereDagger’s stomach had been.Itmighthavebeenamistake,coming in here, taking thisapproach.“Fight!”oneofthegirlson

the pole hollered. “Dog

fight!”Thepackleader’sdog-head

returned,fastasa lightbeingswitchedon.Thatwasoneofthe differences between theHoundsoftheTenderloinandDagger’s ilk. Dagger’schange was more gradual,andhehadn’tbeenbornwiththeability.It wasn’t a full moon, and

so Dagger had to put someserious effort into his

transformation. It waspainful, like being pulledthroughaknothole.Hisheartbeat faster, finding a rhythmthat matched the musicpulsing through the floor:appropriately “Le Freak” byChic. He dodged anotherblow from the pack leader,but took a kick to his rightknee from a heavy-set dog-head. Dagger hadn’tanticipated a fight in the

middle of the bar; rather hadfiguredhe’dbe“takingitoutback” with one or two ofthem. It was rare for hisexpectations to be provenwrong, and this time he’dhave bruises—or worse—toshow for his lapse injudgment.He felt the change

expandinghis chest, pressingat the seams of his shirt, hisarms lengthening, straining

the confines of his jacket, asnake exploding its skin, hispalms broadening, fingerselongating, nails turning intoclaws.Coarseblackhairgreweverywhere. His pelt wasthick and parts of it lookedfuchsia and blue reflectingtheneonlights.Patrons whipped out cell

phonesandsnappedpictures.“Dogfight!Fight!”“Fifty on Okar! I’ve got

fiftyonOkar!”“I’ll put twenty on the

werewolf!”Dagger’sfacechangedtoo,

andthatwasthemostpainfulpart.Heswipedforwardwitha paw, his razor-sharp clawscutting through the shirt ofoneofhisattackers.Dagger’sfacial bones popped andmoved, rearrangedthemselves as he grew asnout.Hisearsshiftedandhe

screamed against the agony,even as he pummeled theclosestdog-head.Thescreamturned into a howl as hedroppedtoallfours,slaveringjowls closing around the legof Fahim, biting hard, andwatching the man drop andcrawlback.Fromacornerofhismind,

Dagger watched the beastrage,findingitallcompellingand disturbing. He wasn’t

wholly in control of himself,andwhenhespokehehadtorepeat himself for the wordstocomeoutclearenough.“Whysethimup?”“Because it was easy,

wolf.”Thiscamefromadog-headbehindDagger.“So very easy.” The pack

leaderhowled,andtwoofhisfellows swooped in andstarted kickingDagger.Theydarted in and out, all eight

taking turns. “We don’t careabout a fat vampire. It’s hisbrotherwesendamessageto!And there’ll be moremessagesafterDimitar.”Oneofthedog-headsdoing

thekickingadded:“Wedo itbecause his rich brotherwon’t pay! We send a goodmessage.”Dagger lashed out at the

lead dog, his claws rippingthrough designer jeans and

finding the flesh beneath.Blood sprayed in an arc.Morecellphonesflashed,andhethoughtheheardsomeonecalling the police. “You’reexpanding your territory! TothebusinessesonO’Farrell.”“Duh! One day all of the

city will be ours! One day!”Theleaddogballedhishandsinto one big fist and broughtit down on Dagger’s head.Theblowwas strongand for

a moment the room’s neonspun.Daggerfeltlikehewasfloating in one of the bar’slavalights.“Butfornowit’sjustallof

the Tenderloin, right?”Dagger crouched and shotforward,openinghisjawsandclosingthemsohardontothecalf of one of his attackersthat he heard a bone snap.The dog-head yelped anddropped, and one of the

dancerspulledhimback.“Forty on Kalu? Anyone

takefortyonKalu?”“The Tenderloin, all of it.

Andeveryone in the territorypays!” the pack leadersnarled.“Everyone!”“Why Dimitar?” Dagger

repeated. He wanted to keepthem talking, needed to hearthem clearly admit to theframe.Therecouldnotbeanyroomforinterpretation.“Why

frameDimitar?”“The fat vampire?”

Another one howled. “Likewe said, we framed Dimitarbecause we could. Becausewe could. The stupid, fatvampirehasnoclue.Hedoesnot know it is about his richbrother. And that is just thestart,wolf.WewillpickapartJavor’s family until he pays.Everyonepays!”“You’ll pay!” This from

yetanotherdog-head.“You’llpaywithyourlife.”Dagger’s mind whirled.

TheHoundsknewbetterthanto strike at Javor directly.Threatening loved onesalways worked better andcould avoid a direct all-outwarHounds-versus-vamps.“Dog fight! Dog fight!” a

patronshouted.“Dogfight!”“AhundredonKalu!”Patrons clapped and

cheered.“Fight. Fight. Fight.” The

chant was a wave that brokeovertheroomandhammeredagainst Dagger’s eardrums.An image came to hismind,from the movie Rocky. Hesaw himself as the cowcarcass Sylvester Stallone’scharacterpounded intoat themeatlocker.Overandoverandover.

Chapter3.14

Pete had managed to get histrollshamantothirdlevelandfigured out that “berserking”let himcast spells faster.Hischaracter—Grimsnot, Petehad named him—couldregenerate and was seriouslykick-ass. But it was just thefree trial, and if he really

wanted todo somethingwiththe game, which he noticedhad some addicting qualities,hewould have to buy a full,downloadableversion.Maybehe’dask for thatas

partofhissalary.Andmaybeif the law firm really gotrollingEvelynwouldbuyhimacomputerandhisowndesk.He closed down the game

and decided to tackleDagger’s request for

information on the recentHound activity in theTenderloin. Probablyshould’vedone it rightaway,but there were some beaststhat needed slaying in thegame, and then a quest tofollow. Good thing Petedidn’t pay attention to theclock. He suspected maybehe’ddevotedalittletoomuchtimetoWarcraft.Geez, that wholeMists of

Pandaria thing lookedawesome.HeGoogledvariousangles

ofHoundsandSanFrancisco,discarding some sites andbookmarking others, printingout a few pages, andwondering if his nextcharacter should be a shape-shifting druid with dog-likeabilities.Thatmightbecool.“Interesting.” Pete

stretched a hand toward the

phone and touched the #3. Itrang several times beforegoing toDagger’s voicemail.“This is Permythius. Youthere? Yo, Dagger, youthere?”Maybe the private

investigator hadgone to bed.Itwasblackaspitchout.Thebars across the street hadclosed down. Evelyn hadcome back from her revivalquite some time ago. She’d

jogged up the steps, run abath, and then, he figured,she’dcalleditanight.“Dagger? Well, hey, I’ll

just leave a message then.I’ve found out some thingsabout your Hounds. Allrecent rumors.Gonna send itthroughe-mail.”Pete clickedthe button again, and thencalled up Evelyn’s Hotmailaccount.Heselected thefilestosendtoMcKenzie,reading

themasecondtime.The Tenderloin’s Hounds

tracedtheirrootstoLibyaandother parts of Africa. In thelate1700stheysettledinNewYork,andagroupof fiftyorsixty later provided themuscle for Tammany Hall’scorrupt politicians. TheUnitedStatesArmy recruitedthe Hounds during the waragainstMexico, andafter thefighting concluded, they

moved into San Francisco.Even though the unit hadbeen disbanded, the Houndswore their uniforms andpatrolled the streets,persecuting Mexicans andLatin Americans trying tobuildliveshere.In early 1849, they named

themselves the Regulatorsand started collectingprotection money from cityresidents, saying theyneeded

“wages” for keeping SanFrancisco clean and pure. Itescalated. They robbed fromstores and threatenedmerchants … neverphysically hurting those theysought money from. Theybecame experts at extortion,and learned how to threatentheir marks by going afterfamilies.That summer things went

too far, and the Hounds

attackedaChilean settlementwithin the city. The mayorcalled for volunteers, andmore than two hundredcitizens—many of themwho’d been targeted in theprotection racket—took uparms against theHounds andcaught many of them. TheHoundswerestashedinajailon an abandoned ship in theharbor, a trial was held, andall of them were heavily

fined. A handful of themwere given prison sentences,two of them marked for tenyears of hard time. Butcorrupt politicians managedto free them, and they’d leftthecityforatime.They were back in force

now,intheTenderloin.Pete typed a note on the

bottom: “Dagger, watchyourself. I know you’re onemean &^$%^*#@.” The

gargoyle used a series ofsymbols in case Evelynskimmed the e-mails sent inthe morning. He didn’t wanther to see profanity. “Theyhave a pack mentality. Andwhile it looks like they favorextortion over physicalviolence, I wouldn’t put thatphysical violence past them.Theycouldhurtyou.”He hit “send,” got up and

took another beer out of the

fridge, and settled in foranother session withGrimsnot, the kick-ass trollshaman.

Chapter3.15

ThankGodJavorVujetichadcaught her out on the streetand that she’d subsequentlytaken his brother’s case! She

had a law school loan torepay, and their little firmneededmoreclientsandmoreincome. She turned the loanpayment schedule face downonher kitchen table, shovingit out of her mind for themoment.She’dwriteacheckthis afternoon when she gotback,makesure sheput it inthe mail by the end of theweek. If they ended upkeeping the entire retainer,

she’d get ahead on thepayments and get somebreathingroom.Evelyn felt a little guilty

about taking last night off toattendthechurchrevival.Butsometimes a good servicebuoyed her, which it had.She’d even put an extra fivein the plate that was passedaround.Thismorning her earworm

was“ItAin’ttheWhiskey,”a

GaryAllen song she’d heardon the radio while surfingchannels as the coffeebrewed, and she couldn’t getit out of her head. Normallyshedidn’tlikecountrymusic,favoringoldiesrockwhensheran. But this morning it wasall “Whiskey.” She set herfeet in time with the beat,which she’d tricked up anotch in her mind, andheaded down the stairs from

her apartment and up thestreet.Itwasdrizzling.Shedidn’t

mind running in the rain,since it wasn’t a downpour.She had good shoes andwasdressed for it. The cooltemperature would keep herfrom overheating on hereight-mile trek, and she tiedher hoodie tight to keep herhair dry. Maybe she shouldhave stopped down in the

office and chatted withThomas first, let him knowwhatshewasupto.But thenshe might have ended uptalking awhile, and she had,as the sayingwent, places togo and people to see. Shewanted to catch FahimYar’Adua at home before hewas up and about and doingwhatever.ShewentnorthonAshbury

untilshecametoWaller.This

early in the morning, shehadn’t expectedmanypeopleout on the sidewalks, butthere were restaurantsadvertising 6 a.m. specials,and so she slowed her paceand jogged in place when abus from some senior centeroffloaded a gaggle of blue-haired ladies. She nearlyjoined them, the scents offriedeggsandbaconwaftingouttheopeneddoormadeher

salivate. But she pushed onand headed left when shereached Masonic Avenue.The drizzle tapered and thenextmilemelted.Shefeltthecell phone vibrate in herpocket, but shewasn’t goingtoslowandanswerit.A right onto Geary

Boulevardandshelengthenedher stride. The damp hadseeped through her sweats,but she felt warm

nonetheless, the burnspreading up from her legs.Evelyn recognized that shewas an adrenalin junkie, andrunningwasherdrug.Shedidher best to feed the habit acouple of times a week.Geary becameO’Farrell, andshe started to notice moreOTsonthesidewalk.Goblin-like creatures, a green-skinnedhag,andaghoulthatpolitely stepped aside as she

joggedby.She’dencounteredseveralghouls sincegoing towork for Thomas, and everyone of them had beenrelatively pleasant. One hadeven saved her life during ashootout in a restaurantkitchentwomonthspast.Just past Larkin, Evelyn

tooka rightonHyde,havingmemorized the directionsfrom checking her iPadbefore she left. Café

Hurghada beckoned withwondrous smells, and shealmostsurrenderedtothem.“Onlya fewmoreblocks.”

Evelyn spotted Ellis andturned again, slowing to awalk and checked thenumbers on the businessesandapartmentbuildings.650.That was it. She slippedinside. The small lobby waswarm.Thelonebenchbytheelevatorswasempty.Shesat,

put her hands on her kneesand breathed deep and even,partofhercool-downroutine.Then she unzipped her

jacket, pushed the hoodieback, and fluffed her hairwithherfingers.She’dtakeafewminutestodryoff…andto think. She’d intended tomull over the possibilitiesagain on her way here, butthat hadn’t happened. Thestreets were always too

interestinganddistractingandthe song had kept playing inherhead.Why had Dimitar been set

up? That was the milliondollarquestion,wasn’tit?Who planted the blood

bags?What would Ginny Sams

have to say? The director ofthe blood bank was next onEvelyn’s jogging route. Andshould she go back and talk

toDimitarlaterthismorning?Open the possibility ofpleadingtoalessercharge?Anavidreader,Evelynhad

plenty of mystery novels inher apartment, as well as anassortment of policeprocedurals—EdMcBainwasherfavoritegenreauthor,andshe’d acquired a coupledozen of his 87th Precinctpaperbacks through eBay.What would McBain’s

Detectives Steve Carrella orMeyer Meyer think of thiscase?They’d think that Dimitar

had made an enemysomewherealongtheline.She’d found Yar’Adua’s

address on the Internet.He’dmoved fromanefficiencyonGearyacoupleofmonthsagoto this little-more-upscalebuilding on Ellis. He didn’thave a Facebook or Twitter

account, and a search ofpublic records had revealedthathewastwenty-eight,andhad moved to this countrywith his parents fromWaddan,Libya,whenhewasa small boy. He was single,and a graduate of IllinoisValleyCommunityCollegeinOglesby, Illinois, moving toCalifornia seven years agoand spending the past fourmonthsworking at the blood

bank. His previousemployment consisted oftelevision commercial rolesfilmedforasmallcompanyinthecity.Yar’Adua was on the

fourth floor. She took thestairs up, pressed her ear tohis door, and caught thestrains of “Unbreak MyHeart.” He was home, andawake. She tapped on thedoor.Thecellphonevibrated

inherpocketagain.Fahim Yar’Adua’s smile

waswide andwhite, and hisbright green eyes wanderedupanddowntocheckEvelynout.Hewasbarefoot,wearingjeans and a 49ers T-shirt,thick gold chain around hisneck, hair short andwet likehe’d recently stepped out ofthe shower. He was good-looking, though bruises fromarecentfightorfallmarredit

—a large one on the rightsideofhisface,andmoreonbotharms.“Well hellllo there,” he

said. His voice had a goodtone.“I’mEvelynLove,and—”His friendly expression

vanished and he shook hishead and started to close thedoor. Evelyn was fast andcaught her foot in it. “Look,Mr.Yar’Adua—”

“D.A.toldmenottotalktoyou, least not without himaround. You want to talk tome,setsomethingupthroughhim.”“Please, just a couple of

questions.”Yar’Adua sighed and

openedthedoorafewinches.He didn’t move, clearly notwanting Evelyn to come in.She noticed that he favoredhisleftleg.

“You told police you sawDimitarVujetic—”“—steal blood. And so I

reportedit.”“Did you and Mr. Vujetic

—”Adeepersigh.“I’mnotan

OT-hater,Mrs.Love.”Ms.,Evelynstoppedherself

fromsaying.“I got alongwith him.We

weren’t friends, butwewerefriendly enough. Worked

with him for the past threemonths. Hated to snitch onhim.”“Butyoudid.”“Yeah,Idid.”“You’renotfulltimeatthe

bloodbank.”“Not many people are full

timethere.Theykeepalotofus justunder the limit.Savesthemoninsurance,youknow.Besides, part-time lets mekeep my schedule open for

film work.” He flashed thesmile again. His teeth wereperfect,andEvelynthoughtifthey were any brighter she’dneedsunglasses.“DidyouandDimitarever

argueor—”The smile disappeared.

“Mrs.Love,Ireallyshouldn’tbetalkingtoyou.Ifyouwantanything else, you’d bettercall the D.A.” He lookeddown at her foot and she

pulled it back. He shut thedoor and she heard the lockturn.She did the mental

calculations. Part time at thebloodbank,FahimYar’Aduawould earn at best $30,000ayear,accordingtosalariessheresearchedon the Internet.Aone bedroom apartment inthis building rented for$2,360 a month—or roughly$28,000 a year. He’d been

paid a flat fee for thecommercials: $2,600, whichshe’d learned with a phonecall to the productioncompany.Didn’t looklikehewasearningenoughtoaffordthisplace…andpayassortedliving expenses. Gold chainaroundhisneck.Detectives Steve Carella

andMeyerMeyerwouldhavesaid, “follow the money.”They’d probably think that

Fahim Yar’Adua had beenpaid to frame Dimitar. Thatwas certainly what Evelynwas thinking. Yar’Adua hadaccess to the blood. Hecould’ve stolen thebags, andmaybe he found a way intothe vampire’s apartment andplantedthestuff.

OOOTwo miles later, Evelyn

jogged up to the entrance ofthe blood bank. She stood

inside the entrance,watchingthe rain come down againstthe sidewalk. It was steady,and cars passing by on thestreet had windshield wipersgoing.Another half hour before

the blood bank opened.Evelynpressedherfacetotheglass door, hoping to see asecretary or someone elsemoving around inside. Shetapped on the door, but no

one showed themselves. Hercell phonebuzzed again, andthistimesheansweredit.“Gretchen.Hi.”“Where are you, sweetie?”

Gretchen’svoicecameacrosslike tin wind chimes. “Cameinearlytoday.Beentryingtocallyou.”Gretchen must have been

thetwocallsshe’dmissed.“Sorry,Iwasworking.”“Well, you better work

yourself back over to theoffice.”“Inalittlewhile,Gretchen.

I’m waiting for the bloodbanktoopen.IwanttotalktoGinnySams.”Gretchen made a clucking

sound. “Mrs. Sams is here.Sitting at my desk. SomeRizzofellow—”“MannyRizzo—”“That’s it, with the D.A.’s

office.He’sonhiswayover.

Wait, there he is. Just pulledup.Thomassaysyouneedtobe here for the pow-wow.Your vampire client’s goingtogetoutofjailtonight.”Evelyn let out a hissing

breath and closed her phone.“Mycase,”shesaid.“This ismycase.Mydamncase.”She ran the miles back to

the office, the chill Februaryraindoingnothingtocoolhersimmering temper. This was

hercase,anditappearedthatThomas had found a way tosettle it out of court or hadcome up with some pleaagreement.Hercase!Evelyn scolded herself for

not stopping in the officebefore her morning run.Thomas might have sprungthe news on her then. Shewished she would haveanswered her cell the firsttimeitbuzzed.

But if wishes were fishes,she’dhaveeveryoneofthemin the harbor served in amound on her dinner plate.Her side ached from theexertion, and the welcomeburn wasn’t as pleasant asensation as usual. Her feetpoundedagainst thesidewalkand the passersby and thebusinesssigns,theoccasionalOT…allofitbecameablur.She turned up the volume

on her mental “It Ain’t theWhiskey.” And was out ofbreathbythetimeshemadeitbacktotheofficeonHaight.

Chapter3.16

Manny Rizzo and GinnySams sat on one side of thetable, Evelyn and Gretchenon the other. Thomas sat

cross-legged, floating off tothe side. Dagger McKenziewas at the very back, inEvelyn’s chair, next thefridge, a can of beer heldagainstthesideofhisswollenface.It looked like the private

investigatorhadbeenthrougha war. There wasn’t a spotvisible thatwasn’tbruisedorbloody, and his clothes werein tatters. His lower lip was

purple,andhisnosewasatanuglyangle,clearlybroken.She’d rushed right to him

when she came in, but hewaved her off and mouthed“later.” The look in his eyestoldhernottoargue.Gretchen pressed a button

on the small recorder in thecenter of the table. “Mr.Rizzo and Mrs. Sams havealready heard this a fewtimes.”

Evelyn listened: discomusic, glasses clinking,punches thrown … and anadmission of setting upDimitar Vujetic to get hisbrother to pay protectionmoney.Evelynplayeditagain,and

satback,closedhereyes.“My office will be

dropping the charges againstMr. Vujetic later today,”Rizzo said. “Normally we’d

have this meeting at thecourthouse, but I figured thiswould be easier, and I wasgoing to be in theneighborhoodanyway.”Evelynknewbetter.Manny

Rizzowasheresothepeoplein theD.A.’sofficewouldn’tsee or hear him settling thematterwithanOT—Thomas.Rizzo was a good-lookingman, chiseled features, andsandy-blond hair that put

togethercouldwinhimaspotin GQ. But had a smarmyaura, and to her his smiledidn’tseemgenuine.He continued: “And the

police have launched aninvestigation into Houndactivity in the Tenderloin.They’ll be doing a sweep.Hopefully some of themerchantswill come forwardto testify.And hopefully thistime theHoundswill do real

jailtime.”“Not like in the city’s

past,”Gretchenadded.Rizzo straightened his tie.

“With all the chargesdropped, Mr. Vujetic willhaveacleanrecord,andMrs.Samssayshecanhavehisjobback.”“A gem,” thewoman said.

Shetwirledatightbrowncurlaround her index finger.“Dimmy is one of our best

employees. I told Mr. Rizzohere right away that Dimmywas innocent.AndI’mgoingtofireFahim.”“Afterhe’sarrested,”Rizzo

said.Evelyn cast her gaze at

Dagger. It was painfullookingathim.“Daggergottherecording.”

Thomassuppliedtheobvious.“Pete’s idea, actually, sentDagger out last night on a

hunch.”“Pete?” Rizzo raised an

eyebrow.“One of our assistants,”

Evelynsaid.Rizzo pushed back from

the table and stood, reachedacross and shook Evelyn’shand.Shefoundthegripfirm,thefingerscalloused.Perhapshehadamanual-laborhobby.“I’m just so happy this is

working out,” Sams said.

“Thankyou,Mrs.Love.”“Ms.”“Ms.Love.Thankyou,Mr.

Brock.” Sams nodded to theghost.“I’llpickDimmyupatsunset, all right? Get himbacktoworktomorrow.”Rizzonodded andheld the

door open for Mrs. Sams astheyleft.Evelyn peeled off her

soaked jacket and let it hangon one finger. The drip-drip-

dripwastheloudestsoundinthe room. She’d rehearsedlinesonherwayhere, thingsshe intended to tell Thomas,that this had been her caseand he’d been out of line totie it all upwith a neat littlebowforher.Shekeptsilent.Drip-drip-drip.He’d done nothing wrong,

andithadn’tbeenhimwho’dsolved it all … it had beenDagger, because of a

suggestionfromPete.Ithadbeenteamwork.“You have a bill for us,

Dagger?”sheasked.Daggernoddedandpointed

toGretchen.“It’s a rather large one,”

Gretchen said, lowering hervoicetoawhisper.“We’ve got the funds to

pay it.” Evelynwasn’t goingto return any of the retainer.Looking at McKenzie, she

knew the fee had been well-earned.“GoodthatDimitarisafreeman.”“Vampire,” Gretchen

corrected.“I’ve got some regrets,

Gretch.”Thesecretaryreachedouta

hand and touched her.“What’swrong,sweetie?”“I was looking forward,

youknow, togoing to trial. Icould’ve won it. And it

would’ve been some goodpublicity for us,” Evelynadmitted. “Might haveattracted more clients, whichweneed.Andmaybe—”The bell jangled and the

door opened. A troll duckedand squeezed through.Probably eight feet tall, withshoulders half again thatwide, green-tinged flesh, andlong hair pulled back in aponytail. Evelyn thought he

could do stand-in work fortheIncredibleHulk.“Ineed a lawyer,”he said,

his voice rumbling andsettingthetilesinthefloortotremble. “I heard youse guyswasgood.”“Thebest,”Evelynsaid.Gretchen hurried to

welcomehim.OOO

The celebration the nextweekendatJavor’srestaurant

occurred after dark, forobvious reasons—after therestaurant closed for thenight, in fact. Thomas didn’tmind—afterall,asaghost,heno longer kept regular hours.Besides, this way the grouphad the place to themselvesand thecompleteattentionofthe wait staff, not thatThomas could share in thegourmetfare.It was a small group. Just

Thomas, Evelyn, andGretchen from the office(Pete could not leave theiroffice building, of course),alongwithDagger,whowasdoing his best to consumeThomas’ and Pete’s share ofthe gastronomical delights aswell as his own. They werejoinedbyDimitar,Javor,anda middle-aged womandressed in a peasant blouseand colorful skirt, a bandana

holdingbackhergrayinghair.When she had first arrived,Javor had introduced her tothegroupashiscousin,Nika.“Pleased to make your

acquaintance,” said Thomas,stepping forward from thegroup.Hestarted toofferhishand, then drew it back,embarrassed. “Er, sorry. Iforget I can no longer shakehands.”Nika smiled. “No offense

taken, Mr. Brock. Spiritualconnections are too oftenoverlooked in favor ofphysicalones in thisworld. Iampleasedtomeetyou,too.”Javor’s brow furrowed.

“You two have not metbefore?”Thomas shook his head as

helookedhardatNika,tryingdesperately to scan hismemory for any priorencounter. Through his

roommate, Harry? Nothing.He turned to Javor. “Shouldwehave?”Javor’s eyes skittered

between the two of them.“Nika’s the one whorecommended your firm,Mr.Brock. She recommendedEvelyn Love to be Dimitar’sattorney.”“Oh,” said Thomas, “so

you’ve met Evelyn before.”He turned to Evey as he

spoke, but her face was amaskofconfusion,too.Nikalaughed.“Onlyinmy

dreams, Mr. Brock. Only inmy dreams.You see, I am apsychic.…”Gretchen interrupted.

“You’re the one whocalled … the day beforeThomas’…murder.”Nika’sfacehardenedasshe

looked over at Gretchen.“Yes, that was me. I really

wishhe’dreturnedmycall.Itwasmoreimportantthanyoucanimagine.”Thomas could see there

was some kind of tensionbetween the twowomen.Notime for thatat acelebration.Before Gretchen couldrespond,heinterjected:“Nexttime you call, I promise tospeak with you as soon ashumanly … or other-than-humanly…possible.”

“And I, in turn,promise tocall only if it is a matter oflifeanddeath…orundeath.”“Er, well,” stammered

Thomas, “that makes it hardto say that I look forward toyourcall.Doesn’tit?”Nika gave a guttural

chuckle which showed herfangs. Like the rest of herfamily, she, too, was avampire.“Lookingforwardismy business, Mr. Brock.

Mind you heed that when Icall.”

***

Case#4DoggedDetermination

Chapter4.1

Gretchen stopped short,reflexively gripping her canetighter,asshecaughtsightofthe confrontation in the alleybehind the building housingThe Law Offices of ThomasBrock,wheresheworkedasaparalegal and receptionist.Even though she consideredherself quick-witted andenergetic for her age, a

seventy-threeyearoldwidowneededtokeepaneyeoutfortroublebeforeitgottooclose.“Ain’t nothin’ in the

Constitution says I have tohave an address.” Sad Sadie,the homeless woman wholived in a Sub-Zerorefrigerator box in thealleyway, squinted her darkbrown eyes—almost as darkas her weathered, dirt-encrusted skin—and pointed

agrimyfingeratapatrolman.“And I don’t have to paytaxes if I don’t make anyincome. Cash money fromcollecting and returning cansisarefundofthedeposit,notincome.That’safact.”Gretchen recognized the

young patrolman as PhillipLane, an honest and earnestyoung fellow who Thomashad helped with some freelegal advice from time to

time. Because of that, andbecause he was one of SanFrancisco’s finest, he hadtaken a special interest inprotectingthebuilding,alongwith Gretchen and Evelyn.Phillip looked warily atSadie’swagglingfinger, thendown with more genuineconcern as a low growlemanated from ground level,wherethewhitesnoutofwhatlooked to be a small

AmericanBull Terrier pokedout from the tattered hem ofSadie’sfullskirt.Thebrightlycolored, flowery print of theskirt was faded and stained.Thank heavens it coveredSadie’s legs, which werebound tobeat leastasgrimyas her grizzled face andgnarly fingers and hadprobably not been shavedsincethefirstGulfWar.“I’m not here to collect

taxes … or to get youraddress,ma’am.”Sadie shook her head

abruptly to one side, lookingaskance at the polite,determined young man.“Then why’d you say youwere takingmy dog?Barneyain’tdonenothingtonobody.Government can’t takenothin’ without due process’cept taxes.And I don’t owenotaxes.”

The dog’s low growl grewdeeper with his mistress’levelofaggravation.The patrolman glanced

down at the dog, whose fullhead and shoulders had nowpokedoutofSadie’s skirt. “Ididn’t say I was taking yourdog.…”“Barney. His name is

Barney. Use people’s nameswhenyourefertothem.”Lane rolled his eyes as his

shoulders slumped. “Barney.Sure,Barney.But,ofcourse,he’snotaperson.…”Gretchen flinched as

Sadie’s brow furrowed andshe stomped her combat-boot-laden foot hard, thenusedhergrimyfingertopokePatrolman Lane in the chest,punctuating each word withanotherpoke.“Dogs ARE people! They

loveyouandprotectyouand

comfort you. They haveSOULS.NotlikethosedamnOTs running around the city,scaringmostfolkoutof theirwits and eatin’ the rest. SanFran ain’t been right sincethem freaky-mean Other-Than-Humans started takin’over the place. Barneyprotects me from those OTtypes. He barks when theycomeinmyalley.Scares’emaway,hedoes.Watchesover

me twenty four-seven,whichismore than you coppers dobyalongshot.”Lane backpedalled out of

the alley as the fierce baglady pressed her finger-jabbingassault.“Ididn’tsayIwas taking your dog …Barney. I was just trying towarn you about the newordinance and AnimalControl.”Sadie gave a wicked grin,

all yellow-teeth and decay.“I’m controlling my inneranimal,rightnow,bucko,butif you want me to let loose—”Gretchen decided to

intervene. She liked Sadie.ShelikedPhillipLane.Heck,she liked dogs, having had aPomeranian named “Floofy”for sixteen years before hehad passed and she finallyhad no excuse not to move

into a retirement home.Today, like many mornings,she had grabbed an extraappleandacoupleofgranolabars from thecafeteriaatherretirement home to helpSadie. Gretchen recognizedthat Sadie was a primeexample of what could havehappened to her, had she nothad a husband who workedhimself to death to providefor her, and grown children

successful enough to assuagetheir guilt by chipping in forher apartment at theretirement home. Gretchenhadn’t seen … or met …Barney before, but she hadbeenoffthepastseveraldayson her quarterly round ofvisitstodoctors,dentists,andmanicurists.“CanIbeofanyassistance,

PatrolmanLane?”Shewavedcheerily and moved to

interject herself betweenPhillipandSadie,holdingoutagranolabarinofferingwithher left hand as she used thecane in her right hand toassistherquickmovement.Lane turned, retreating a

step farther as he did so.Sadie remained stationary,hereyes fixedon thegranolabar.“Mrs. Cain, ma’am,” said

Lane. “Good to see you.

Missed you the past coupledays when I stopped by theofficetocheckinonthings.”Gretchen flashed him a

warm smile as shesimultaneously handed Sadiethe granola bar. “I had somebusiness to take care of andwas away. Apparently, MissSadiehasfoundanewfriendwhile I was gone.” Sheleanedheavilyonhercaneasshe bent down. “Did I hear

his name is Barney?” Shereached toward the dog,whosemoodhadsoftened.Barney wriggled out

completelyfromSadie’sskirtand sniffed at Gretchen’shand, then rolled over topresent his belly. Thoughconcerned about fleas—morefromSadie’s skirt, than fromthe dog—Gretchen stretchedher hand down and gave thewiggling dog a good belly

rub.“Seemslikeafriendlylittle

fellow,”saidGretchen,asshestraightened back up withcare.Whoknewthatbendingdowntopetadogcouldbesostrenuous when you gotolder?Sadie stopped munching

her way through the honey-nut granola bar long enoughto agree. “Friendly as theycome. Found him rootin’

around for food two nightsago, during the rain. Pokedhisnosepast theplasticbagskeepin’ the water off myhouse, here.” She shruggedtoward the refrigerator box,which was decorated withdried flowers andhaphazardly covered withplastic garbage bags andbrokenumbrellas inanefforttokeep it fromdisintegratingintomush in the rain. “Even

thoughIwasworkin’onatinof cat food I found, Barney,he sawsomebody lived thereandjustreversedcourserightbackout into therain…realpolite.” She bent to giveBarney the last gooey bit ofhergranolabar.Thedog sat,eagerlywatching her fingers.She pointed down and thedog immediately stretchedout on the pavement. Sadiemoved her finger in a small

circleandthedogrolledover,and then sat back up. Sadiegrinnedandgave thedoghistreat.Impressed with the dog’s

performance, Gretchencouldn’t help but coo “Gooddog.” She noticed thatPatrolman Lane’s eyes weretwinklinginadmiration,too.Sadiestraightenedbackup.

“Barney’sagoodfeller,heis.Keeps himself clean, better

than me at least, and doestricks when I’mpanhandling…”Sadie’seyesdarted to the patrolman.“Uh … doing streetperformances … for thetourists, you know. Barkssomething fierce, too, whenanOT tries to come intomyalley.He’s agooddog.”Herbushy eyebrows turnedinward. “And you andAnimal Control ain’t takin’

himaway.”Gretchenspokeup.“I’lltell

youwhat,Sadie,Officer,I’ma dog-lover myself. Whydon’twejustagreerightnowthat I’ll take care of makingsure Sadie and Barney canremain friends? How’s thatsound?” She had no doubt alicense or a tagwas requiredto have a dog in the city.Probablywouldneed tohaverabies shots or something,

too.Mightmeana trip to thevet with Sadie in tow, butnothing she couldn’t handle.Barney was cute andGretchen did worry aboutSadie living and sleeping inthatdingyalley.“Mighty obliged,” crooned

Sadie. “What with the timesbeingwhat theyare, folksberecycling their own cansmore often. Besides, don’tthinkIshouldhavetopayno

taxes,especiallydogtaxes.”Patrolman Lane looked at

Gretchen with a grimace.“It’smorethanjustalicense,Mrs.Cain.”Ahh, no doubt someone

with an address had to takeresponsibility for the dog.“Don’t you worry, Officer.I’ll speak to Evey. The LawOfficeofThomasBrockwillhandle everything.” Shefluttered her free hand in

dismissal. “Go on, now.Don’tyouhaverealcriminalstocatch?”Lane opened his mouth as

if to protest, but then closedit. “Alright, Mrs. Cain. I’llstopbytheofficelaterandgothroughthedetails.”Gretchen watched him

leave, then turned back toSadie. “Don’t you worry,darling,”Gretchensaidasshereached into her oversized

purse and handed Sadie therest of her morning haul offruit and fiber. “Evey and Iwilltakecareofeverything.”“Youwon’tletanyonetake

mydog?”“No,dear.Iguaranteeit.”

Chapter4.2

“I’llstopbyCityHallonmy

morning run tomorrow andtake care of it,” said EvelynLove after Gretchenexplained Sadie’s andBarney’s situation. “You didgood, making sure shewouldn’t worry about themtakingBarney.”Truthbetold,Evelyn wished the legalproblemsshedealtwithmoreregularly could be so easilyhandled. Practicing inThomas Brock’s fledgling

law offices in Haight-Ashbury, catering to OTs,wasdifficult,evenbeforeherbossgotmurderedandturnedintoaghost.Whether ghouls, ghasts,

vampires, zombies, imps,witches, or whatnot, SanFrancisco had more than itsshare of weird and undeadcreatures. The town seemedtobesomekindofmagnetforeverything and everyone

magical, mystical, or justplain mist. And OTs tendedtodoalotmorethangobumpin the night. They got intolegal trouble all the time,particularly because they hadnext to no rights under thelaw. Thomas and she weretryingtochangethat,though.Unfortunately, the big firmsof the city were lined upagainst them, includingBrock,Davis&Davis,where

Thomas’ father, Reginald,andhis cohortsused all theirconsiderable resources topersecute OTs and protectthose who would do themharm.Of course, if all legal

problems were as easy aspurchasing a dog license,theirclientswouldn’tneedtohire them, andpaying clientswere hard enough to comeby. As it was, The Thomas

Brock Law Offices werebarelymakingenough topayrent on the space and toprovide meager salaries forherandforGretchen.Thomasno longerhadmanypersonalexpenses—being incorporeal,he couldn’t even handlecurrency. Instead, he wasdependentonherorGretchenor Pete, the gargoyle wholived on the roof andprotected the building as it

protectedhim,todosomuchasuseaphoneorturnapage.“So how much does a

license cost?” askedGretchen.“C’mon, Gretchen. You

know better than that. JustbecauseIpassedthebarexam—”“Withflyingcolors!”“—in February and was

sworn in by Judge Knott,doesn’t mean I have every

statute, regulation, andordinancememorized.”“But,it’slocallaw.Wasn’t

itontheexam?”Evelynlaughed.“Theexam

doesn’t ask about practicalthings. It asks about thingslike‘treasuretrove.’”“Treasure trove? What’s

that?”Evelyn rolled her eyes.

“The law that governs whogetstokeeptreasurefoundon

someone’s property. Theoutcome depends, forexample, on whether thetreasureisburiedornot.Plus,the rules distinguish betweengoldbullionandgoldcoins.”Gretchen scrunched up her

face in apparentconsternation. “Not in mybook. If I find gold of anytype anywhere, it’s goingstraight to the safe depositbox.The law is pretty stupid

sometimes.”“You should take

admiralty. If you fall off aboat,jurisdictionandliabilitymay depend on whether youfell onto land rather thanwater, and then whether youhit the ship or the dock orboth on the way down.”Evelynshookherhead.“I don’t care about that,”

Gretchenpressed.“Ijustwantto know what a dog license

costs.”Evelynshrugged.“Lawyers

don’t actually know the law;they just know how to findthe answers theywant. I canfind it on the city’swebpage.”“Well, whatever it is, just

dock my salary for it, okay,dear?”Evelyn thought for a

moment. Thomas didn’t payGretchen very much. “Why

don’twegohalfsies?”A shadow darkened the

opendoortotheoffice.“I’dsplititthreewayswith

you, ladies. But, I’m afraidthat won’t solve theproblem.” Patrolman PhillipLane stood at the doorway,hishatinhand.An almost unnoticeable

shimmer near the photocopymachine darkened,substantiating into the form

ofThomasBrock.Asalways,Thomaswore thesuitand tiehe had died in, the sameclothes he would wear foreternity. For the millionthtime,Evelyn vowed never todienaked,eventhoughonlyasmall percentage of peoplewho died came back asghosts.Mostghostshadunfinished

business, likeThomas.Whenhe was murdered, he had a

casetofinish,theOTcausetochampion, some unsettledfamily issues, and a start-uplawpracticetorun.Oh,andamurder to solve. His.Someday all those tasksmight be completed andThomas might be able tomoveon,ifhewasn’tbusted,banished, dispersed, orexorcised first. But somenights,asEvelynlayinbedinher apartment, just upstairs

fromthelawoffice,shelikedto think that maybe she andThomas were unfinishedbusiness.Certainly therewasaffection there, but, in hiscurrentform,shecouldn’tseehow their relationship couldevertrulymoveforward.Evelyn, Gretchen, and

Phillip halted theirconversation a moment forThomas to materialize fully.Eventhoughhehadprobably

heard everything while anearly invisiblemist,pausingwas only polite. Besides,maybe he had been flittingaround town gatheringinformationonacase.UnlikeVal, the hippie-dippie ghostfrom the 1960s who hungaround their block trying toride the highs of anyone atthe bars or elsewhere hecould find who wasintoxicated by drugs or

alcohol, Thomas was notboundtoaparticularlocation.“Whynot?”askedThomas.

“Adog license has got to beeasier to get than a lawlicense.AskEvelyn,”hesaidwithawink.“And a lot cheaper,” she

saidwithasmile.Shewantedtowink back at him, but notinfrontofotherpeople,evenfriends like Gretchen andPhillip.

Phillip turned the hat hewas holding, his mannernervous. “Sure, Barney’ssupposedtohaveatag.ButIwouldn’t bust her for that. Imean, Sad Sadie’s notsupposed to be living in arefrigerator box in the alley,butI’mnotgoingtorousther,neither. An officer has areasonable amount ofdiscretion on misdemeanors,atleastifnoonehaslodgeda

formalcomplaint,youknow.”“Wellput,”saidThomas.Phillip continued. “But the

Board of Supervisors, theyrecently passed a newordinance which goes intoeffect next month. The folksatAnimalControlareallhotand bothered over it. Heldspecial training sessionsduringrollcalllastweek.”Gretchen interrupted.

“Doesn’t Animal Control

already have more strays ontheir hands than they knowwhattodowith?”Phillip nodded. “Yes,

ma’am.Ibelievetheydo.Butthisisn’taboutstrays.Thisisabout dog-fighting. I guessthere’s always been a dog-fighting ring operatingoutside the city, across thebay and inland, too. Butthey’ve apparently movedintothecity—Chinatownand

the Tenderloin, so I hear.Apparently the fights movearound.”“Low-life thugs and

barbarians,” mutteredGretchen.Evelynagreed.Likealmost

everyone in town, she was abig fan of the 49ers footballteam, but years ago she hadvowed that if theyeverhiredconvicted dog-fighterMichaelVick,shewouldstart

rooting for another team.Some things just can’t beforgiven.“But, I don’t understand,

Phillip.What’s thatgot todowithSadie.…orBarney?Noone’s running dog fights inthe alley. We’d hear. Istrongly suspect Pete woulddrop a cornice on anyonedoingsomethingsoheinous.”“Well,” answered Phillip,

“since theycan’tgetwordof

the fight locations in time toraid them, the Board ofSupervisors has outlawed thekeepingofanypitbullsinthecity. That includes all thepopularbreedsofbullterriersand bull terriermixes of anykind.”“But that’s not fair!”

exclaimed Evelyn. “Bullterriers are smart, sweet,adorable dogs. They’re notmean. Just because some—”

she paused as she sought therightword.“Jerks,” interjected

Gretchen.“Thewordyouarelookingforis‘jerks.’”“ClassA Jerks,” continued

Evelyn with conviction,“havestarvedandbeatenandtrained their dogs to fightdoesn’t mean that the entirebreedshouldbeoutlawed.”“That’s right,” chimed in

Gretchen. She was clearly

getting riled. “They reallyshouldoutlaw—”“—assholes. They should

outlaw assholes,” saidEvelyninafirm,clearvoice.She really wasn’t much forstrong language, but somethings deserved anunequivocalresponse.Phillipwasclearlyflustered

by the vehemence ofGretchen and Evelyn.“The… the Animal Control

peoplesaythatapitbullhasareal powerful bite when itclampsdownonyou.”“Youwantbitestrength,try

an African Grey Parrot or amacaw,” grumbledGretchen.“One lit aftermyFloofy andclippedthetipofhisearrightoff.Bledlikeason-of-a—”“I was just giving Sad

Sadie a warning. You know,so she could find a goodhome for thedogoutside the

city.”“Or keep Barney out of

sight,”suggestedGretchen.“No,ma’am.Owning a pit

bull, they’ve classed that afelony. I’ve got nodiscretion.”Thomas spoke up.

“Phillip’s right, ladies. Hecan’tlooktheotherwayonafelony. He’s a good cop. Hehastodohisduty.”“But I promised Sadie we

would handle this,” grousedGretchen.“The law’s not fair!”

repeated Evelyn. “Pit bullsaregooddogsatheart.”“Lots of famous dogs are

pit bulls,” added Gretchen.“LikethedoginOurGangortheoneintheBudweiserandTargetcommercials.OrPatsyAnn,upinJuneau.”Evelyn continued her case.

“They’re being discriminated

against for things that aren’ttheirfault.JustlikeOTs.”“That’s true,” replied

Thomas.“Andwhatdowedowhen someone is beingdiscriminated against forsomething that isn’t theirfault, even under color oflaw?”“Wesue!”criedoutEvelyn

inglee.“That’swhatlawyersdobest.”ThomaslookedatGretchen

and Evelyn, the edges of hismouth turning up, theninclined his head towardPhillip. “Thanks for yourassistance, Officer. Restassured that The Law Officeof Thomas Brock is on thecase.”

Chapter4.3

JudgeGordonN.Knott tiltedhis head down and peered atEvelyn over the top of hisspectacles. “How manyweeksagodidIadmityoutopractice,MissLove?”“Three,YourHonor.”“After being licensed for

threeweeks,MissLove,mostattorneysarestillfiguringouthowtousethecopymachineatthelawfirmwheretheyareworking on document

production for some bigantitrust action or piece ofcommercial litigation. Somemaystill evenbe looking fora job. But you, Miss Love,youareasking,nodoubtwiththeassistanceofyourghostlyemployer, who I can seehovering in the back of thecourtroom,tobeappointedasguardian ad litem on behalfof…what is it…allbreedsandsub-breedsofbullterriers

intheCityandCountyofSanFrancisco.”“Yes,YourHonor. That is

correct.”“I’m a cat person myself,

but I bear no ill will againstour canine friends. And, asyouknow, Iamnotafraid totakeonthetrickiestandmostdifficult cases in mycourtroom.Butaguardianadlitem is generally anappointment made for

someonewhoisincapacitatedor of tender years and notable to look after their ownlegalinterests.”“That is true,YourHonor.

My…clients…aresimilarlyafflicted.Theyarenotabletospeak…uh…our languageand few, if any, ever live tothe age of legal majorityunderthelawsoftheStateofCalifornia.”Judge Knott stared at

Evelyn for a full minute,before continuing. “Thankyou for not asking thisesteemedCourttointerrogateyour clients in their nativetongue.Wewillstipulatethatdogs can neither conversewith the Court effectively,nor are most of legal age, ifsuch a concept were appliedto animals and other lowerbeasts. But, the primaryfunction of a guardian ad

litem is to protect the legalrights of his or her client.What legal rights do youintendtoenforce?”“Iseektobecomeguardian

ad litem, Your Honor, so Imay bring a class actionbeforetheCourtclaimingthatOrdinance 4.8889 of theBoard of Supervisors for theCity and County of SanFrancisco violates theConstitution of the United

StatesandtheConstitutionofthe State of California bydiscriminating against themonthebasisofrace.”JudgeKnottshookhimself,

as if trying to awake from adeepsleep.“Dograce?”“Breed, Your Honor. Dog

breeds are the equivalent ofracialclassificationsforthesepurposes.”“You want to bring a

constitutional class action for

racial discrimination onbehalfofabreedofdog?Andyou want to do that in mycourtroom?”“Basically, yes, Your

Honor. Dogs are protectedunder various anti-crueltylawsandordinances.”“Noneofwhichgivesthem

the power to sue as third-party beneficiaries of suchprovisions.”“The lawmay infera right

of private action if necessaryto enforce the legal rightsgranted. Much likedisenfranchised voters in the—”“Stop. Just stop right

there,”intonedtheJudgeinaweary voice, “before youanalogize to this country’ssad history on civil rights. Itdismays this Court that theUnitedStatesConstitutiondidnotevenconsiderallhumans

to have legal rights when itwas founded, but I doubteven the current SupremeCourt would opine that thefounding fathers intendedsuchrightsforanimals.Ifyouwere with one of the morepolitically-connected lawfirms and I were up forjudicial retention this year, Imightthinkyouhadconjuredup thisbizarre request for anorder appointing you as The

DogWhispererinanefforttorileupthedog-ownersofthisfairlandagainstme.Asitis,Iwillsimplydenyyourmotionforlackofyourclienthavingany legal rights under thelaw, for a failure to showproper cause that any suchrights are not adequatelyprotected under the currentlaw, and for utterpreposterousness. Motiondenied.Clerktosetanorder.”

“Thank you for your time,YourHonor.”“Pleasetrynottowasteany

moreofit,MissLove.”“Yes,YourHonor.”

OOOEvelyn sat in the empty

courtroom. Thomas sat withher.Moreaccurately,hebenthimself intoasittingpositionand hovered as if actuallysitting on the bench—hecouldn’t actually touch

anything, including Evelyn.Hemissedmanythingsaboutbeing alive. The smells ofcooking food and the salt aironthebreeze,thetasteoffinewine as the sun set over theocean, the bracing feel of acool showeronahotday,oreven just a hot day. But oneof the things hemissedmostofallwasbeingabletotouchthings. And right now, hewanted to touch Evelyn, to

pushbacktheloosestrandofhair blocking her face andbrush away the tears in hereyes. It saddened him not tobeabletodoso.Justbecausehe couldn’t feel didn’t meanhedidn’thavefeelings.“The Judge hates me,”

mutteredEvelyn.“Old Gordy?” replied

Thomas. “He doesn’t hateyou. He just doesn’t want torisk a high profile reversal.

Theysayhe’sbuckingfortheGovernor to appoint him tothe Supreme Court ofCalifornia.”“Corporations have legal

rights. Maybe we couldincorporateBarneyandalloftheotherpitbulls.”Thomas shook his head

slowly. “I can’t see Gordyextending the parameters ofthatdecision.”“Whatarewegoingtodo?”

Thomas thought for amoment. “Phillip said theBoard of Supervisors passedthis ordinance because theycouldn’t find and shut downthe floating dog-fighting ringintown,right?”“Well,sure,butIdon’tsee

howthathelps.”Thomas shrugged. “If

there’s no more dog-fightingring, the law won’t beneeded. Maybe we can get

the Board of Supervisors torepealit.”Evelyn smiled. Thomas

loved it when she smiled.“But if the police can’t findthe dog-fighting ring, howcanwe?”Thomasfloatedupfromhis

“seated” position and driftedaroundtheroomafewtimes,gathering speed as he went,then stopped and stood infront of Evelyn. “I can go

places the police can’t.” Hegrinned. “And Idon’t needawarrant or a lock-pick to getin.”“Thathelps.Youdefinitely

have an advantage. But youcan’t go everywhere, beeverywhere.”“We’ve got one more

advantageyou’renotthinkingof.”“What’sthat?”“DaggerMacKenzie.”

“I should have thought ofthat.” She laughed.He loveditwhen she laughed. “That’sabigadvantage.”He laughed with her. “At

sixfootfive,nonebigger.”

Chapter4.4

Dagger rolled over andgrabbedhiscellphonebefore

it vibrated its way off thenightstandasitpulsedoutthestrains of “Carry On MyWaywardSon”asaringtone.He held the tiny thing in hisbeefy paw and turned thescreen towardhissharpeyes.Evenatarm’slengthhecouldsee the caller I.D. read:“Thomas Brock LawOffices.” Sure, it could beThomas, if Pete had dialedfor him and was holding the

phone, but it might just beGretchen giving him somehassle for the incidentalexpenses he claimed on hislast bill for “servicesrendered.” Or it could beEvey. In trouble. Again. Hehad a soft spot for the girl.He’d taught her some self-defense. Moves he liked tothinkhelpedherescape fromthat near-death fracas at thatrestaurantsomemonthsback.

But he didn’t want to be atanyone’s constant beck andcall.Afterall,evenhehadtheright to relax some of thetime, even if it was in themiddleoftheafternoon.It’snotlikehekeptregular

hours.But…itcouldbeEvey.In

trouble.He punched the “Talk”

button with his massivethumb.

“Dagger.Makeitgood.”“Dagger, Thomas …

ThomasBrock.”He felt his lip curl

reflexively. He preferred totalk with Evey. “Business orcharity?”hegrowled.“Er, business. Just a small

project,actually.”He sat up on the bed.

“Small things somehow turnintobigthingswhenOTsareinvolved.Hasn’tthatbeenthe

case on every project I’veworked for you? OTs areyourspecialty,notmine.Idohaveotherclients.”“I understand,Dagger. I’m

sure with your knowledgeandexpertisethatyouhaveagreat many clients I knownothingabout.”“Just like they know

nothing about you, Tommy-boy.”“Of course. You’re the

best.That’swhyIcallyou.”“I charge double for time

wastedflatteringme.”Hegotup and wandered toward thebathroom as the callcontinued.“WhatkindofOTarewedealingwiththistime?I don’t do imps. Imps creepmeout.”“No imps. No OTs at all,

actually. Evelyn and I, wejust need your help findingand bringing down a dog-

fightingring.”“Sickos. Every single one

of ’em.” Dagger had hatedthe concept of dog-fightsevenbeforehehadbecomealycanthrope. Now the wholegratuitous canine crueltythingmadehisfangsgrow.“So, I can count on you?”

Thomasasked.“When haven’t you?”

Dagger paused as he arrivedat the bathroom door. “But I

need to set you straight ononethingrightaway.”“What’sthat?”“This one isn’t business.

It’spersonal.”“That’sgreat,Dagger,butI

don’twant to take advantage—”“I’m not the one being

taken advantage of here.Look,ifitmakesyoufeelanybetter, you can donate whatmy fee would’ve been to

RocketDogRescue.Theydogoodworkthere.”Dagger thumbed thephone

off without waiting for aresponse. He looked backtoward the bed, where hiscompanion was stirring.“Sleep as long as you like.Lock up when you letyourselfout.”“I thought you had the

wholedayfree.”Dagger shrugged. “Things

change. Being self-employedhasitsdownside.”His companion sat up.

“Whereareyougoing?”Dagger chuckled as he

entered the bathroom.“Believeitornot,I’vegottoseeamanaboutadog.”

OOOThomas was relieved to

hearthatDaggerwouldassistandthathewouldbedoingsoprobonopublico, but having

toaskforhelpalsofrustratedhim. There were so manythings he simply couldn’t doas a ghost. To even callDagger, Thomas had beenforcedtopryPeteawayfromGretchen’s computer, wherethe building gargoyle wasbusily playing World ofWarcraftwhileGretchenwasout at the local OfficeMaxrestockingsupplies.Thestorewasall thewayuponGeary

Boulevard, at Arguello, butthepricesweregoodand theoffice was definitely on abudget.It grated on him to be

dependentonothers.Sure,heknew other ghosts wentthrough the same thing,missing taste and smell andhaving to deal with theindignities, not onlyof beingincorporealbutalsoofhavingpeople be afraid of you for

being so. Not everyone,though, shared his particularfrustration of not being ableto effectively practice law.Why,hecouldn’tturnapageof a legal treatise withoutGretchen or Pete’s help. Hecouldn’tpull a file,Googleasuspect, or MapQuest alocationwithoutassistance.Itwasnicethateveryoneintheoffice was willing to help,especially Evelyn, who

depended on the officestayingopenasherpath to asuccessful career as anattorney, especially in theseover-lawyered times. Still, ithardly seemed fair to burdenherwithhis infirmities…anaptword for his condition inthe afterlife … when sheshould be stretching herwingsasanattorney.On the bright side, Evelyn

gotmorecourt time thanany

associate of similar vintage.The bad newswas thatmostall of itwouldhavebeenhiscourttime.Manyjudgeswerenotenamoredwiththenotionof a ghost appearing beforethem, especially in aprofessional capacity.Thomaswasn’t sure if itwasbecause of simple prejudiceagainstOTs, the complicatedbureaucratic and ethicalissues involved because of

the special abilities andlimitations of ghosts andotherOTs,orthattheysimplydidn’twantanyone toappearin their court who couldn’teffectively be jailed forcontempt if they got out ofline.His reveriewas interrupted

by Evelyn’s return to theoffice.Shehadgoneoutforafew minutes to report in toSadSadieontheday’sevents

at court and to pet Barney’sbellyforafewminutes.“ThatBarney’sonesmartdog,”shesaidwith abright smile. “Heeven knows how to playdead. Flat on his back, withallfourpawsintheair.Sadiesaid she taught him just lastnight. Said it was a survivalskill for anyone sleeping onthestreets.”Ifonlyplayingdeadwasso

simple. Thomas shoved the

negative thought away andsmiledbackatEvelyn,butheguessed she could tell hisheartwasn’tinit,becauseherbrowfurrowed.“Anything else you need

me to do beforeDagger getshere?”sheasked.“Nah,” he replied, then

shook himself and made adeliberate effort towill awayhis gloom. “It’s getting closeto closing time. Why don’t

youputanoteonthedoorforDagger tomeet us up on theroof? We’ll have animpromptu beer or two todrownthesorrowsoftoday’sadverserulingandlaunchourinvestigative quest.”As soonas he said the words, herealizedtheywerenotwhollyaccurate. “Er … that is youand Pete can have a beer ortwo… and Dagger when hegetshere.”Thomaswondered

ifheavydrinkerswhobecameghosts spent eternity goingthrough withdrawal. MaybethatwaswhyValwasalwaysgoing from person to personand bar to bar nearby, tryingto catch a high off ofsomeoneelse’sbuzz.“C’mon, Pete,” he said to

the gargoyle, who wasfussing with a controller andmuttering something aboutputting an orc on a hook to

baitatroll.“Stopslayingorcsand have a beer on therooftop. If you ask nicely, Ibet Evelyn will bring up asix-pack of Gubna’s OskarBlues along with the MillerLite.”Thementionofhisfavorite

micro-brew got the gargoyletoturnhisheadaroundsofastThomas could hear the stonesinews of his neck musclespopandgrind.“OskarBlues?

That’sgoodstuff.”Hegaveagravellyshrug.“MillerLite’sokay, too. I mean, it tastesgreat.Butit’slessfilling,youknow?”Thomas and Evelyn both

laughed,causingthegargoyleconsiderable consternation.“What’ssofunny?WhatdidIsay?”Thomas simply started

floating to the doorway andup the stairs. He made it a

practice never to floatthrough Evelyn’s apartmenton the floor above. It wouldbe creepy to do so—shedeserved her privacy.“C’mon, Pete. Evelyn willgrabthebeer.“I’llraceyoutotheroof.”Pete grumbled as he

hopped down from the chairof Gretchen’s desk. “Youknow that’s not fair, boss.These stubby little wings I

got,theydon’tletmefly.”

Chapter4.5

Evelyn looked up from herMillerLite to seePete finisha third can of Oskar Blues,crumple the can flat with asimple clench of his fist andtossthecandownthenarrowopeningbetweenhisbuilding

andtheonenextdoor.“Hey!” she shouted.

“That’slittering!”Petescruncheduphisstone

countenance.“Nah.SadSadiecollects the cans from therereal regular. With an extramouth to feed, I figure shecan use the extra cash. Ifwedrinkthewholesix-pack,shemight be able to trade upfrom them tiny tins of catfoodtoabighonkin’hunkof

canneddogfood.”Evelyn had to admit the

green granite gargoyle had apoint,butshedidn’twanthimto get into any bad habits.“As long as she’s collectingthem, okay, but you need tokeep track. Litter around thebuilding doesn’t exactlyattract the best clientele fortheoffice.”“Hmmmph,” replied Pete.

“You could say the same

thingaboutSadSadie.”Thomas turned back from

looking down at Sad Sadie’salleyway from the corner ofthe rooftop. “No bad-mouthingourclientorI’llcutoffthebeer.”“Well, it’s true,” grumped

Pete.“I can also cut off your

World of Warcraftprivileges.”“That’s not fair. I earn

them minutes turning pagesand makin’ calls and stuff.It’squidproquo.”Evelynwas shocked. “You

knowLatin?YouknowlegalLatin?”“Of course,” gruffed Pete.

“Most of my brothers spendtheirliveshangingtothetopsof churches. Can’t help butlearnafewthings.Besides,incase you didn’t realize it,turning pages for someone

ain’t exactly the mostengaging job in theworld. Ifyou didn’t readwhatwas onthepages,you’dgostircrazy.More boring than watchingpigeons roost and you can’tbreak the monotony bykilling the damn rats withwings.”Evelyn noticed how

distressed Thomas looked asPete described his “work.”ThelastthingThomasneeded

was to worry about the jobsatisfaction of a beer-swilling, pigeon murderinggargoyle. “The office rentkeeps the building going,”she reminded her stonefriend, “and that keeps youalive.Ourclientele,andthus,our appearance are keys toyoursurvival.”“Shush,” whispered Pete.

“If the pigeons ever figurethatout,they’llflockfromall

over the city just to leavedroppingshere.I’vegotquitea reputation with the birdbrains.” He cracked openanother Oskar Blues, as ifworried that he had to drinkfastbeforethebeerwastakenaway. “Besides, since whendid your clientele care aboutthe … ambience … of theneighborhood?”Anyotherresponsewascut

offasDaggerstrodefromthe

access doorway to the roof.Thebigmanpointed atPete.“Any pigeon unloads hisdroppings on me, Pete, andI’mblamingyou.”Evelynreacheddowntothe

dwindling six-pack andtossed anOskarBlues to theprivatedetective,ignoringthedismayonPete’s face as shedidso.Daggercaughtthecanwith

a relaxed flick of the wrist.

Heturneditalmostsideways,bit into the middle of thealuminum cylinder, tilted hishead back, and used afingernailtopopthetop.Theopen top let air into the can,allowingthecontentstodrainthrough the bite holes in aninstant. He crushed the canand tossed it lazily towardsPete’s feet, as the gargoylelookedathiminshock.“It’s called ‘shooting’ a

beer,”hesaidtothegargoyle.“It’sthefastestwaytodrinkabeer, and … well, I wasthirsty.”Evelyn marveled, not for

the first time, at the bizarrethings you could learn in thelegal profession, while Peteinspectedthecan.Dagger licked a speck of

foam off his lips and turnedto Thomas. “So what’s theplan?”

“Plan?”saidThomas.“Yeah, plan. You want to

break up a dog-fighting ring.I’mgoodtogo.Whatdoyouknow?Where are we going?What are we expecting tofind?”Thomas fidgeted with the

edge of his suit. “Uh…we,we don’t know any of that.Wewerekindofhopingyoumight know something aboutthe dog-fighting ring.

Supposedly,therearefloatingfights at various locations inChinatown and theTenderloindistrict.”Daggerscowled.“IfIknew

anythingaboutadog-fightingring in the city, therewouldn’t be a dog-fightingringinthecity.”Evelyn interjected. “But

you spend so much time intheTenderloinand—”Dagger finished her

thought “—and other seedyareasoftown.”Evelyn felt blood rush to

her face. “Well, somethinglikethat.”Dagger sniffed. “Big area.

Lotsofsecrets.TheonlywayI survive there is by notasking about ones I’m notpaid to learn about.” Heturned toward Thomas. “So,noplan?”Thomas tilted his head to

one side. “Well, I thoughtmaybe thatmaybe you and Icould just go to theTenderloin and I’d … well,I’d just go completelyinvisibleandpassthroughthebuildings, you know, beingincorporealandall, ’til I sawsomething. Then I’d let youknow what I found andwe’d…well,we’dplayitbyearfromthere.”The look Dagger gave

Thomas made Evelyn sureshe knew how the detectivehad gotten his name. “Whatkindofgrab-assplanisthat?”Thomas blanched, whether

it was because his ghostlyblood drained from hisghostly face or because hetended to become moretransparent generally whenunder stress, Evelyn wasn’tsure.“I admit,” Thomas replied,

“itmaybeabittedious.”“Tedious?” growled

Dagger. “You whiz throughbuildingswhile I sit in a carwaitingaroundforyoutocry‘Mommy,’ thenwe just puntthe ball upfield? Is thatwhatyou’resaying?”Thomas didn’t answer. He

simplystood…orfloated…lookingdownathisfeet.Dagger shook his head.

“It’s not just tedious and

inefficient—you don’t evenknow if the bad guys are intownbetweenfights,andyoudon’t know when the fightsare going to occur—it’s aviolation of privacy. There’slots of secrets in theTenderloin and Chinatown,but most of ’em aren’tcriminal. They’re just peoplebeingprivate.Butyou’rejustgoing to float througheverybody’s business while

they’re taking a shower orpicking their nose or yellingat their kids or doing theirtaxes or making out on thecouch, but that’s nonevermind to you, becauseyou’re a man on a missionand that means you got aright to peep into everyone’sbusiness?”“No!” shouted Thomas.

Evelyn felt a wave of airpressure bump past her as

Thomas shouted. “No. Idon’t … I mean, I wouldn’tdoanythinglikethat.I’mnota peeper.”He lookedover atEvelyn.“Never,Iswear.”Heturned back to Dagger. “Iguess I expected you to beable to identify a specifictarget … a commerciallocation,maybeawarehouse.And when you couldn’t,’causeyoudidn’tknow,Ijustdidn’tthinkitthrough.”

Pete stopped inspectingDagger’s discarded can andlookedupsuddenly.“Dogbarks.”“What?”saidtherestofthe

trioinunwittingsimultaneity.“Dogbarks,”repeatedPete.

“The average barking dog inanurbanareacanbeheardbytwo hundred and fiftypeople.”“Itcan?”saidEvelyn.Thomas scrunched up his

face and looked to one side,like he always did whencalculating numbers. “Itmakes sense. San Franciscohas a pretty high populationdensity. Especially with anopen window, the soundcould easily carry to thatmanypeople,maybemore.”“How did you know that,

Pete?”askedEvelyn.Pete tossed Dagger’s can

into the narrow space

between buildings.“Somebody mentioned it onWorldofWarcraftwhentheywere pricing guard dogs forthecamp.Gamescanbeveryeducational. I’ve learned abunch of new ways to killpigeonsbyplaying.”Evelyn let Pete’s last

remark slide. “San FranciscoAnimalControl or the policeor somebody must keeprecordsofnoisecomplaints.”

“Yes,” said Thomas, “butthere’s bound to be somehabitual complainers whowillskewtheresults.”“But,” Evelyn continued,

“if we look for spikes thatdiffer from the historicalpatterns,weshouldbeabletonarrowitdown.”ThomasnoddedandEvelyn

noticed that a smile wasbeginning to return to hisface. “I’ll check with

PatrolmanLanewhenhedoeshis final rounds in an hourand see if he can get us anydatafromthepoliceblotter.”“And I’ll,” chimed in

Evelyn, “contact AnimalControl and see if I can getany information from them.”Things were finally lookingup.EvenPetegot in the spirit.

“I’ll commune with mybrothers across town and see

if they’ve noticed anything.”Gargoyles on the variousbuildings around town couldcommunicate through lowfrequency vibrations in thebuildings they protected,down through the bedrockbeneath the city, thoughPetehad once told Evelyn thatlow-level quakes sometimesgave the conversation a kindof Tourette’s syndromequality. Pete continued, “I

can’t promise anything,though. I gotta admit theytalka lotmoreaboutpigeonsthan dogs. I mean, usgargoyles don’t usually havetoworryaboutdogpoop.”Daggergrabbedthelastcan

of Oskar Blues. “And I’llhave another beer. Now,that’s a plan.” He lookedaround at the group.“Compare notes tomorrowafternoon?”

Everyone murmuredagreement as Dagger gotreadyto“shoot”hisbeer.Pete looked over the edge

of the building. “Drink fast,Dagger.Gretchenjustgotoffthe bus with a boatload ofoffice supplies, andsomebody needs to help herget’eminside.”Evelyn saw the shining

edge of Thomas’ smile dim.Sheknewhewishedhecould

help carry things and wasfrustratedhecouldn’t.Buthewas helping Gretchen andSadie … and her … morethan he knew. She had tomakesureheunderstoodthat.

Chapter4.6

The fey winked and giggledat each other as they danced

around the tall pole in thecenteroftheclearing.Eachofthe participants, who werefestooned with flowers ascirclets on their heads andbraided into belts for theirgaily-colored skirts andpantaloons, held a longribbon attached to the pole.As they danced around thepole, half clockwise, halfcounter,thefeydartedfirstinand then out in passing,

causing the ribbon windinground the pole to braid in abright,intricatepattern.Truth be told, Pete found

the celebration a bit silly,even embarrassing to watch,but it wasn’t the main focusofhisattention.Heshiftedhispoint of view frequently,looking outward from theedgeof themaypolecircle tothe dark shadows and treecover beyond. He saw a

flicker of black against thedark cover as evening fell,then heard the full-throatedwarcryofthewoodbansheesas they rushed in to suck thelifefromthefrolicsomefey.After remaining almost

stock still for so long, it feltgood to move again.Gretchen’s office chairbumped with a heavy thudagainst her desk as Petetwisted and turned the

controller, maneuvering hisWorld of Warcraft charactertodobattleagainsttheforcesof evil in the make-believerealm.Hischaracterspunanddancedwithalitheflexibilityandlethalgracehisownstoneformwouldneverknow.Thiswas so much more fun thatkillingpigeons!His skillwas such that the

bloodybattlewasoveralmostbefore it began. But it had

barely ended when a darkshadow fell over the entirescene.“Sign off, big guy, or I’ll

do a hard reboot and you’lllose this session’saccumulated experiencepoints.” Gretchen hoveredover him. When he lookedback and to his right to seeher, he noted her eyes werenarrowed and the tip of hercane was only a few inches

fromtheon-offswitchforthesurge protector into whichhis … okay, her … desktopcomputerwasplugged.“I’m on break,” Pete

rumbledashisstubbyfingerspushed and maneuvered thebuttons of the controller,saving his character’sprogress and powering downthe combat-heavy fantasyMMORPG. “Workers get afifteen minute break in the

middle of every four-hourperiod,andamandatorypaidlunch break for any shift ofseven hours ormore. It’s thelaw. I saw it when I wasturningpagesforThomas.”“Hmmph,” growled

Gretchen as Pete jumped outof the chair with a thud thatreverberatedacrosstheoffice.“I’llbetthosebooksdon’tsayanythingaboutusingyourco-worker’s equipment or

scratching up her desktopwith your elbows while youplaygames.”Pete felt the green granite

veins in his stonycountenance darken fromembarrassment. His roughcomposition was hard onwood,evenwoodastoughasoak. “Er, sorry, Gretchen.”He moved to feel the roughsurface of the desk with hisstony fingers sohecould tell

howbadthedamagewas,butstopped short. The effortwould only make thescratchesworse.“I’llseeifZ-man…you,know,Zaxil,ourlandlord…hasany furniturepolishinthejanitor’scloset.”Gretchen’s scowl softened.

“Youdothat,Pete.Thenjoinus on the roof. Dagger’s onhis way over, and I knowEvey’s been talking toAnimalControlonandoffall

day. Time for everyone toreportin,includingyou.”

OOOThomas gazed westward,

past the uneven jumble ofbuildings of the city’s manyneighborhoods, toward thedistantocean.Atleasthehadhissight.Evenasaghost,hecould still enjoy the sunlightglinting off the choppysurface of the fierce blue ofthe PacificOcean. Even as a

ghost, however, he wascareful not to stare too longtoward the bright light ofsunshine on the waves. Hedidn’t know if ghosts couldgoblind by looking too longat the sun, but he wasn’tabout to risk any damage tohis eyesight. Without it, hewould truly be a lost soul,wandering around SanFrancisco in perpetual dark,unable to tell where he was,

unable to practice hisprofessioneveninthelimitedfashion he still could now,unable to see Evelyn or thebeautyofnature…unabletosee any point for continuingon.He took a deep breath,

though he could not feelhimself do so, gathered histhoughts, and then turned toface the rest of the rooftopassemblage: Dagger,

Gretchen, Evelyn, and Pete,whowasrubbinghishandsasif trying to get some residueoff them, producing anirritating scritch of stoneagainststone.“Uh, could you stop that,

Pete?”The green granite gargoyle

scowled in Gretchen’sdirection from behind herback. “I smell lemony fresh.It’s not good for my

reputation to smell lemonyfresh.”Dagger interrupted. “Can

wegettoit?”“Sure.” Thomas nodded

toward Gretchen, and sheheldaclipboardupsothathecouldreadfromthetoppage.“I talked to Patrolman Lane.He had a bit of a hard timegetting anyone to take hisinquiries about noisecomplaints about barking

dogs seriously, but he wasable to confirm that each ofthe locations in theTenderloin and Chinatownthe police later discoveredhad been floating arenas fordog fights had an elevatedlevel of complaints for thethirty-six hours proceedingthe event.” He looked up atthe group. “That means ourtheory for locating the fightsis sound, but that we won’t

getmuchleadtime.”Daggerfrowned.“Sowhen

and where do the noisecomplaints indicate the nextfightwillbe?”“Phillip doesn’t have a

clue.Hewasonlyabletofindacorrelation lookingatnoisecomplaintsforpastsites.Thepolice just turn suchcomplaints over to AnimalControl, unless there’s asuggestion of some kind of

foul play associated with thecomplaint. You know, like amissing person or brokendoororsomethingsuggestingthe noise complaint may bedue to a deceased owner orsomesuch.”Evelyn chimed in, her

voice bright and cheery.“Fortunately for us, and forSadieandBarney, thepeopleat Animal Control pay a lotmore attention to animals in

distress than to people indistress. Since they havetrucksgoingaboutthecitytohandle grim situations likecat-hoarding old ladies andescaped exotics whichderanged people try to keepas pets, they have the truckspatrolforstraysbetweensuchcalls. They track noisecomplaints as a way tosuggestthemostusefulpatrolroutes. I asked them to

compiledog-barkingstatsthismorning. And once ThomasgavemePhillip’sinformationaboutpastspikes,Iconfirmedhisinfowiththemasawayoffocusingtheiranalysis.”Dagger growled again.

“Getting to the point wouldbegood.”Thomas could tell that

Dagger’s impatience irritatedEvelyn,butsomeonewhodidnot know her as well as he

did likely would not noticethe micro-movement of herlips pursing before shecontinued. She was anattorney, a professional. Topractice law, one had tocontrol one’s demeanor,whether in front of anirksome judge, a cluelessjury, or an irritating client orcolleague.“There are two potential

hits. One in Chinatown,

within a block or two of theintersection of Jones andFilbert. The other one is, assuspected, in the Tenderloin,near some warehouses alongPolk,betweenEllisandEddyor somewhere thereabouts.The time frame suggests thattonight’s thenight somethingisgoingtohappen.”Thomastriedtopicturethe

neighborhoods in his head,wishing he could conjure up

GoogleEarth StreetView inhis mind. “That’s not veryspecific. It’ll be a lot ofground to cover, especiallyfor two locations milesapart.”“Might not be necessary,”

respondedDagger.Helookedinto thedistanceas ifhewasremote-viewing both spots.“If I recall correctly, that’s apretty dense part ofChinatown. Lots of small

buildings.Restaurants,shops,small apartment buildings.Not sure there’sanything theright sizeand remoteenoughfromalotofhustleandbustleto hold a dog fight.” Daggerstopped looking into thedistance and faced Thomasdirectly.“Isaywegowiththeodds.Tenderloin.”Behind them all, Pete

grumbledtolife.“Iagree,notthat anybody’s asked me

aboutwhatIfoundout.”Evelyn looked hurt, as she

turned to Pete. “We’re sorry,Pete. It’s just that you saidthatyouweren’texpectingtofind out much from thegargoyle clan. Do you haveinformation on a specificlocation?”Pete used a talon on his

right foot to scratch at apigeon dropping on the roof,as if attempting to smudge it

out. “Well, no,” he admitted.“But I agree that Chinatownis less likely.” The gargoylelookedup at the group. “Nottoomanyofmybrethren arenear either location, but theydid suggest that sounds ofanimals in distress inChinatownseemtopeakonasemi-regular basis. Youknow,cyclical.”“Cyclical?” asked

Gretchen. “Like with the

economy?”Peteshookhiscarvedstone

head. “More like with thelunarcalendar.”“Werewolves?” asked

Evelyn with a shudder.Thomas and Evelyn dealtwithalotofOTsinthebriefexistenceofthelawfirm,butso far they had not had anylycanthropes as clients.Thomas knew that Evelynwasn’t prejudiced against the

pitiable beasts, probably justabitscared.Alycanthropeinfull fang could be a frightfulsight, he was sure.Fortunately, thatwasonlyanissue during the dayssurrounding a full moon asbestasheunderstoodit.Daggerlaughedheartily.“I

doubt that. A lycanthropeloping through the narrowstreets of Chinatown wouldbe pretty obvious. No doubt

they prefer public parks andopenexpanses.It’ssomethingelsealtogether.”“Like what?” asked

Gretchen, looking back andforthatDaggerandPete,asifthey were sharing an insidejokeandnotlettingtherestofthegroupinonit.Petestoodstone-faced.Finally, Dagger spoke

again. “The whole Chineseculture is lunar-calendar

based,includingtheholidays.Sothebigfeastsandfestivalsand party times, they all aretimed to the lunar calendar.Lots of business for therestaurants.”Evelyn interjected. “But

ChineseNewYear isalreadypast.”Dagger shrugged. “Plenty

of holidays on the calendar.AzureDragoniscomingup.”Evelyn shook her head.

“Okay,sothereareholidaysIdon’t haveonmycalendar. Istill don’t get it. What doChinese holidays have to dowithdogsandcats?”The realization spread

acrossThomas’mindlikethesunset would soon spreadacross thewaves beneath thewestern sky. “Well, youknow,”hesaid,searchingforthe right words to conveywhat he had concluded

withoutshockingher.“Timesare tough, economically, andwith lots of customerswanting to feast and, uh, theprices for traditional …” Hefaltered, unable to continue,to impinge further upon herinnocence.Dagger took up the

narrative. “Some of thecheaper, more traditionalrestaurants, they serve …theyservecatanddog.”

“Oh my God!” whisperedEvelyn, her right hand flyingtocoverhermouth.“Gross,” muttered

Gretchen. “Not that I don’tsometimesuspecttheydothatat The Towers. The mysterymeat in the cafeteria issometimesprettystringy.”Evelyn stared at Dagger,

wide-eyed. “And peopleorderit?”Dagger shrugged.

“Sometimes they say itsbeefor chicken or rabbit. But theold places, where the disheslisted aren’t in English, theymightputitonthemenu.”Hegesturedwithhis largehandspalmsup.“Insomeplacesit’sconsidered a delicacy. Whatdo you think happened to allthe dogs during the CulturalRevolution?”Gretchen winced. “That’s

probably one of the reasons

there were so few ChineseShar-Peis left in Chinawhenan effort was made back inthe seventies to save thebreed by bringing some ofthemtotheStates.”“I may be sick,” Evelyn

saidwithatremble.“Well, if you are, don’t

make your deposit over thatside,” said Pete, pointing apudgy finger toward the roofedge nearest Evelyn. “Sad

Sadie’s box is right belowandIdon’tthinkthosebrokenumbrellas can take a load.”He gestured with his headtowardthemiddleofthesidebehind him. “But there’s apigeon nest over here thatcould use a bit of biologicalwarfare.”Gretchen barked out a

raspy laugh and Thomascouldn’thelpbutsmileatthestone-facedpracticalityofhis

gargoyle friend. Pete hadbrokenthegrimmoodoftheirdiscussionwithajoke.The queasy look on

Evelyn’sfacediminishedandDagger took the group backto the mechanics of the taskathand.“They won’t start ’til well

after dark,” the privatedetective stated, all businessonce again. He looked atThomas. “I’ll meet you

somewhere on Polk, aroundEllis or Eddy—just look formycar—attentonight.Ihopeyou’ve got Officer Lane’sphone number memorized.We might need to call forsupport and 911 calls fromthe Tenderloin don’t alwaysget quick response, if youknowwhatImean.”Thomas nodded, then

turnedtoEvelyn.“Stayattheoffice and be ready to call

your contacts at AnimalControl.Wemightneedsometrucks.”Dagger nodded his own

head in agreement as heturned toward Evelyn, too.“Alotoftrucks.Andalotofvetsoncall.”Gretchen grimaced.

Thomas sensed she wasworriedabouthavingputherfriends in danger over apromise to a bag lady, but

finallyshepursedherlipsandnodded,too,thenlookedpastThomas toward the sun as itdipped lower toward thedistant sea. “I guess this iswhat they mean by a ‘dogday’afternoon.”

Chapter4.7

As always, the smells of the

Tenderloin assaultedDagger’s keen senses. Thestench of sweat and sex andboozeandpisspermeatedthedistrict. It didn’t help that hewas hyped up about theprospect of dishingout someviolencetothesick,cowardlyperpetrators of the “alleged”sport of dog fighting—thesametypeofviolencetheevilsickos so often cheered onduring the depraved bouts of

their beaten, starved, andabused fighters. Aboveeverything else, he couldsmell the stink of his ownadrenaline and his ownwolfishscentashetensedforwhatheknewwascoming.He practically growled

when Thomas suddenlybegan to materialize in thepassenger seat of his 1972Dodge Charger, in his suitand tie, as always now—

though Dagger actuallycouldn’trememberthelawyerever wearing anything elseeven when he was alive andstill had a sartorial choice tomake. Thomas was fidgetyand sweating, if that waspossible, not that Daggercould smell the ghostlyperspiration that seemed tocling to the young attorney’sforehead.“Been here long?” asked

Thomas.Dagger looked out the

windshield at the passingstreet traffic as he replied.“Aboutanhour.”Hesawthefrazzledlawyer

raise his left arm to look athis wristwatch, then roll hiseyes and fling it back to hisside. Dagger guessed that,with no way to wind them,ghostly watches ground to ahalt pretty quick, and were

just useless costume jewelryafter that. An accessorywhich you could neverremove and that constantlyreminded you that time heldno real meaning for youanymore.Thomas spoke. “I’m not

late, am I? You said ‘ten,’didn’tyou?”Dagger harrumphed.

“Don’tgetyourlegalbriefsina twist. I just came early to

scopethingsout,getafeelforthe neighborhood. See if Icould hear or see anythingthat would narrow ourchoices.”Thomasdidn’tneedto know how keen Dagger’ssenses of sight, smell, andsound were. Dagger didn’tvolunteer information abouthis special abilities or fromwhence they stemmed,whether from his black opshistory or from his OT

affliction.Thelawyerseemedtorelax

a bit. “Find out anything?Some place you need me tocheck out, you know,incorporeally?”“Some faint howls,

probablyfromthatwarehousetaking up the last half of thenextblock.Looksabandoned.Notrucksinorout,butafewguys have slipped through agap in the razor-wire topped

chain link and then gone inthroughasidedoor.”He watched as Thomas

peered down the street.“That’ssuspicious.”Dagger chuckled. “Yeah.

Especially when they lookboth ways before they do it,to see if someone’swatchingthem, then pretend tononchalantly stroll from thefence to the door afterskittering through the gap in

the fence. Like anyonewatching from coverwouldn’t find that eyebrowraising.”Thomas scrunched up his

face,as ifmakingadecision.“Well, then, I guess I shouldmist out and go take a look.I’ll be back … when I’mback, I guess.” He began tofade from translucent totransparent.“Better if we go in

together.”Thomas popped back to

translucent, becoming almosttangibly opaque as he sat…or hovered … in the bucketseatofthemusclecar.“Butthatwasn’ttheplan.I

can check things outinvisibly,withoutanyrisk.”“You can go ‘practically’

invisible,ifnooneislookingforyou,butthatdoesn’tmeannobody is on the lookout at

this place, even for misted-outCaspertypes.Andyou’renot invisible. It’s just thatyou’re dead. Doesn’t meanyou can’t be dispersed orsoul-trapped or exorcised or,for all I know, captured andtortured.Nah, it’ssafer ifwego in together. I’ve watchedenoughguysgo in tobeableto look like just another guylooking for some illicitaction, whether that ends up

being drugs, dogfights, orThai hookers in octopustanks.”“Er,what?”“Don’t ask. Trust me, you

reallydon’twanttoknow.”“Iwon’t.”Dagger wrinkled his nose.

Hedidn’treallywantThomasto think he was a softie, buthedidwanttoprotecttheguyboth physically andmentallyfrom the seedy side of the

district. “You just mist outandhangclose.IfIneedyoutopeekthroughalockeddooror go listen in on aconversation, I’ll just tilt myhead in the direction of thetarget.”“Sounds like a plan.”

Thomas started to fade, thenstopped midway. “Once lastthing. You have a cellphone?”Dagger patted his front

pocket. “Don’t leave homewithoutit.”“No,Imeanaspare.”“Glove compartment.”

Daggerpointed,thenrealizedthat Thomas couldn’t openthe glove compartment. Hereached over and popped thecompartment open, grabbingthe spare, untraceable cell,but leaving his spare,untraceable .38 behind.“Won’t do you any good,

though, Thomas. You can’tcarryitandyoucan’tdialit.”“I know,” replied Thomas,

“but if you dial through toEvelynattheofficerightnowandleaveitopenonthedashor someplace, the line willstay open and I can comebackhereandtellhertosendhelpifweneedit.”“Hmmpphh,” said Dagger,

doing as Thomas hadinstructed. “I always knew

you legal typeswere smart. Ijust never thought you werestreet-smart.”Dagger could tell Evelyn

was nervous when theyconnectedandbroughtherupto speed, but Thomasreassuredherthatallwaswellso far, Dagger was lookingout for them, and they werejust being smart and carefulbefore checking out thewarehouse.

“Ipulledupthestreetviewof the block on mycomputer,” said Evelyn overthe phone, “so I’ve got theexact address when it’sneeded.” She also identifiedtheother exits from thehalf-block structure for DaggerandThomasDagger placed the phone

on the console between thebucket seats of his ride andopenedhisdoor.

“Showtime.”As Thomas faded into

oblivion, he replied: “Dogshowtime.”

OOOEven though he was

incorporeal and practicallyinvisible, and he thought itunlikely that the type oflowlife thugswhoconsideredfighting dogs to beentertaining recreationwouldhave anything capable of

trapping or hurting or killingaghost,ThomaswasrelievedtohaveDaggerbyhissideasthey approached the decrepitwarehouse.The flap where the chain

link was able to be rolledback was fairly obvious asthey got closer to thewarehouse entrance. Daggergrabbed it firmly and shovedit to the side, but at six footfive, with wide, muscular

shoulders,was still forced toduckdownandturnsidewaysto squeeze through. Thomas,of course, simply passedthrough the solid portion ofthe fencenearby.Theymadetheir way across an asphaltapron littered with rangyweeds growing from thecracks and approached thedoor. Dagger made a fist ofhis meaty paw and poundedout “shave and a haircut” on

the metal door, then lookedfromsidetosideashewaitedfor a response. Thomasguessed that Dagger wasdoing his best to mimic thebehavior of the losers whohadenteredbefore.Apparently it worked,

because about ten secondslater, they heard the clang ofthedeadboltbeing thrown.Awiry, tough-looking dudewith greasy hair opened the

door about halfway. Evenwithout transporting throughthe wall next to the door,Thomas could see the guywore a wife-beater shirt thatcovered some of his less-than-artistic prison tats. ThewhiteoftheshirtwasstainedwithwhatThomascouldonlyhope was grease. The guyalso cradled a Mac 10—youdon’t hang around theCriminal Courts too long

without learning more thanyou want about automaticweapons favored bygangbangers—withnonchalantaggression.“Youdon’tworkhere,”the

doormansnarled.Dagger stood his ground.

“NeversaidIdid.”“Sowhy’reyouwastin’my

time?”“Chicosentme.”Thomas had no idea who

Chico was, but it was acommon enough name,especially in some of theLatinogangsaround thecity.Atleasttwohadgangleadersnamed Chico. Daggerobviously knew more than alittle about the criminalelements that controlledvarious neighborhoods. Ofcourse, that’s why Thomasoftenhiredhim.Thatandthefact the guy was cool under

pressure.The doorman tilted his

headtooneside.“Whatfor?”“Thefights.”“Whatfights?”Dagger’s eyes bored into

the face of the shorter man.“Thecanineconclave—”The doorman’s eyes

widened.“Huh?”Dagger scrunched up his

faceandshookitslowlyfromside to side. “Look, chavalo.

Letmeputitinsimplewords,like you were still in firstgrade.” He spat out the nextwords in a lilting sing-song.“Look. See. See Spot. SeeSpot run. See Spot kill. Go,Spot.Kill,kill,kill.”The barrel of the Mac 10

dropped even lower as theguy stepped back and usedhisoppositehandtoopenthedoor wider. “Ojete. You’remorethananhourearly.”

“What?” repliedDagger ashe lumbered into the darkconfines of the warehouse,“You never go to the trackahead of the races and visitthestables?Youmustnotwinmuch when you gamble.”Daggerlookedtheguyupanddown. “Judging by yourwardrobe, I’m guessing I’mright.”As they walked into a

cavernousroom,Thomassaw

Dagger’s nose twitch as ifassaultedbyahorriblestench.But, of course, Thomascouldn’t smell anything. Hehadtorelyonsight.Thomasestimatedtheroom

they entered took up about athird of the building’s space.In the center was arectangular fenced-in area,which had razor wire loopshungalongtheentireinward-facing surface of the chain

link. Sharpened rebar“spears” were fixed in thefour corners, pointing in,apparently to prevent thedogs from seeking refuge tocover their rear and flanksduring the fights. Theconcrete surface of the floorwas clear in the center, butThomas could see brokenglass on the floor along thefence line, also to force thedogs to center stage. The

floorinthecenterhadheavy,darkstains,whichwerebeingvisitedbymorebuzzing fliesthanThomasusuallysawthistimeofyear.Bothofthelongsidesoftherectangulararenawere flanked by bleachers;the portable, roll-out kindused inacombinationschoolgymnasium/auditorium. Hecouldseesplashesofstainonthe front rows of thebleachers.

Itmightbe a floating fightclub, but this location hadobviously been used before.The far end of the roomfeatured a large blackboard,no doubt for posting odds,and a small free-standingkiosk, like ticket-booths at astrip mall carnival, with abarredwindow.Eightorninetoughs,alsolikeyou’dfindata strip mall carnival, werebusily locking the bleachers

into place and setting up theblackboard and betting area.All had automatic weaponsslung over their shoulder,militarystyle.Thomas saw Dagger’s lip

curl as he glanced over theset-up. “So where are thepooches?”Their guide pointed his

Mac 10 behind the bleacherstotheleftofwheretheycamein, toward what Thomas

knew from the layout had tobe the rest of the samebuilding. “Back there. TellPacky that Lou said youcould look at the dogs.” Hestopped and casually raisedthe Mac 10 higher for amoment. “You can look, butyou can’t touch. And don’trileupthedogs.Onestartsupandtheyallstartgrowlin’andhowlin’ … Makes for anunholy racket and gets ’em

hypeduptoomuchbeforethefight.”Daggernoddedandreached

intoabackpockettopullouta small, beat-up notepad anda stubby pencil. “No sweat.Namesonthecages?”Their guide furrowed his

brow. “What? You takin’inventoryorsomething?”“Or something,” Dagger

growled.“Can’thandicap theodds if I don’t know the

bitches’names.”“Owners and trainers are

back there with Packy. Youseesomebodyyouwanttobeton—or date—you ask them.They're supposed to bebrandedwithnumbers…youknow, like cattle… but thatdidn’t work out. Numbnutowners ended up setting toomanyof’emonfire.”Eveninhisfullincorporeal

state,Thomasfoughtbackthe

urge to hurl. A part of himwondered about the feeling,evenashestruggledtogagit.Ghostsdidn’teat.Couldtheyhurl? He shuddered, hisanalytical legal minddissectinghisattempttoparsehis ability or inability toregurgitate afterdeath.Whenyour mind starts thinkingaboutvomitinginanefforttodistract itself fromsomethingeven more grisly and

disgusting,thatthingmustbereallysick.Thomas refocused himself

onthetaskathandintimetofloatquicklytoDagger’ssideasthebigmanstrodethrougha door sporting an ancient“AuthorizedPersonnelOnly”sign.The second room was as

large as the first and filledwith crates and cages withangry,snarlingdogs.Another

ten guys with Mac 10shovered over more thantwenty owners and trainersandwhatever other term youmight want to use toeuphemistically refer toabusers and beaters of dogs.The owners were a motleybunch,butmostfitacommontheme:big, tough, tatted,andbald (whether shaved ornatural). The majority hadfacialhairandafondnessfor

grimyT-shirtsanddarkjeans,with a handgun tucked intothebelt-line,frontorback.Avariety of vans and pick-upslitteredopenspacebehindtheroughly laid out rows of dogcrates. It was clear that thisgroup accessed the buildingthroughseveralbaydoorsonthe opposite side of thebuilding fromwhereThomasand Dagger had entered. Acinder block wall separated

this middle room from theother two-thirds of thebuildingoneitherside.As Dagger wandered the

aisles of dogs, talking to thetrainers and taking notes,Thomas drifted on his own,focusing on the animals.Some were snarling andangry, but many wereshivering and whimpering.Some were muzzled andmany had wicked-looking,

studded collars. Most werescarred and some had open,oozing wounds. A few hadone eye clouded over inblindness,andmanyhadearsor tails which had clearlybeenbittenor tornoff.Somehad angry red burns andcharred fur from brandingefforts. The scene filledThomas with more sadnessthan he had ever known. Itwas like being forced to

watch those long HumaneSociety commercials on latenight television, the oneswhere theyshowedquiveringabusedanimalafteranimalinan effort to guilt you intosending them some money,but thiswas a hundred timesworse and you couldn’t fast-forward through it with yourDVR remote or go to thekitchenandfixandsandwichsoyoucouldcomebackwhen

itwasover.Thisscenewouldnever end, not until theabomination of dog fightingwas wiped from the face oftheearth.He wanted to bolt. He

wantedtofleebacktothecarand tell Evelyn to call thecopsrightnow,butheneededtobeaprofessional, tofinishthejob.Daggerwasstillhereandmight need his help. Heowed it toDagger and to the

police to findoutasmuchaspossible,toinvestigateandtonotjustleave.The dogs were primarily

tough, hardy breeds. Morethan half of them seemed tobe American Pit BullTerriers,witha largenumberof Staffordshire Terriers andStaffordshire Bull Terriers—all commonly known as PitBulls. But there were also anumber of Rottweilers, a

couple Doberman Pinschers,aRhodesianRidgeback,andaGermanShepherdinthemix,along with a fair number ofanimals too scarred or toomuttly to identify. A fewcages held smaller dogs, likePomeraniansandChihuahuas,plus some rabbits and otherfurredmammals too small tofight.Food?Baitanimals?Heshudderedtothinkaboutit.Thomas wished he could

comfort them.Asaghost,heknew theycouldn’thurthim,andhelongedtogivethemapet or a hug or a scratchbehindtheears,butasaghosthe couldn’t touch them, andalmost all of them started tobarkifhehoveredtoonear.Finally, he turned his

attentiontoDagger,whowastalkingtooneoftheguards—maybe Packy?—near a doorin the wall separating this

room from the last third ofthe building they had notvisited. This door also had asign:“NoAdmittance.”Thomas floated over and

hovered above and behindDagger’s left shoulder.Looking down, he could seeDagger’s notebook. Alongwith dog names and variousarcane symbols Thomasassumed were betting code,henoticedsetsofnumbers.A

look around confirmedThomas’ guess: Dagger hadjotted down the license platenumbers for every vehicle inthe place, making them looklike odds and bettingamounts.Dagger swung his head

backovertheshoulderwhereThomas was hovering,startlinghim.“Guyovertheresays his dogs are just theundercard … a warm-up act

for the animals in the nextroom.”The guard seemed

unimpressed.“So?”“So how are me and my

boss going to bet smart if Idon’t check out the wholecard?”“Why the hell do I care?

Who says we want anybodybetting smart? Nobody goesto the back room. Notnobody. Not no-how. That

includesyou.”“Afraid I’ll see the man

behindthecurtain?”The guard screwed up his

face.Heclearlydidn’tgetthereference. “What curtain?Whatguy?GetouttamyfacebeforeIthrowyouout.”Daggerraisedhishands,as

if in surrender and started tobackaway.“Hey,man.Chill.Just trying todomyjob.”Atthesametime,heinclinedhis

headtowardthedoor.Thomas took his cue. He

floated toward the wall withthe “No Admittance” door,anglinglefttogothroughthewall, rather than directlythrough the guard and thedoor. Truth be told, eventhoughheneverfeltanything,he didn’t really like passingthroughpeople.Andsincehewasalmost invisiblewhen inhis misted out state, but not

completely invisible to theeye, he preferred goingthrough walls clouded byshadows, furniture, orshrubberywheneverpossible.The dimness of the last

roomwasbrightcomparedtothe darkness pervading thisone. A few more guardspatrolled theperimeterof thelast third of the warehouse,Mac 10s cradled casually intwo hands as they walked

slowlybackandforthbehindeach of the closed bay doorsto the streets and alleysurrounding this part of thebuilding on three sides.Thomas had expected morecratesandcagesinthisroom,butthecagesherewerehuge,barredaffairs,someaffixedtowagons. The type of thingsyousawintravelingcarnivalsand circuses. Thick rods oftempered steel running up

and down one side of sturdymetal boxes, boxes thatblockedeventhemeagerlightof the roomfrompenetratingtotheinterior.Thomas tried to move

methodically,butquickly.Hedidn’t want to leave Daggeron his own for long, just incase trouble arose, but hecouldn’t see well enough ashemovedalong the first rowof large cages to see what

was inside. He still had toconcentrate hard when usinghis night vision. Were theyfighting rhinoceroses? HadSteven Spielberg sent thesemooks a couple spareVelociraptors?Thomas heard a smacking

soundashepassedoneofthecages at the end of the firstrow.Hetookadeepgulpandphased through the bars, inthe hope of getting a look at

whatevermade the noise. Atjusttherightangle,themetalwall of the side of the cagereflected a bit of the meagerlight edging through thecracksofthebaydoortwentyfeetaway.Inthedimlight,hesawthecauseofthesound.Aghoul sat huddled in thecorner of the cage, its facecovered with dark, gooeyblood. Flecks of skin andmuscle clung to its lips, and

veins squeezed between itssharp teeth as it tore offanother piece of meat fromthehumanarmitwasgorgingon.The fingerswriggled andstretched while the ghoulfeasted on the dense muscleof the forearm, as ifattemptingtograbtheghoul’sface, but only reaching andtwisting some of its stringyhair.Zombie meat. Since the

armwasmovingandwasnotattached toabody, theghoulwas eating zombiemeat, andthe zombie wasn’t going togoquietly.Thomas imaginedthe fingers clawing at theinsides of the ghoul’s mouthas the ghoul finished hismeal, grabbing hold of thetongue and hanging on so asnottogodownthethroat.Thesebastardsweren’tjust

fighting dogs, they were

fighting OTs against eachother. Ghouls vs. zombies.Dog-faces vs. werewolves.Vampires vs. fey. A quicklook around the rest of theroom confirmed hisconclusion.He fled the room in terror.

No matter how vile anddepraved mankind was,somebody always found away to take it up a notch, tomake the world sicker and

more disgusting than couldpreviouslybeimagined.Hephasedback through to

the other room and foundDagger sauntering around,conversing with a few moreof the owners, maintaininghis cover.He floated next tothebigguy’sear,ignoringthefact that thepositionputhimateyelevelwithabiker-typewearinga leathervest over adeeply tanned and muscled

chest bearing the tattoovisage of a snarlingDoberman and the words“And They Called It PuppyLove…”“Car. Now!” Thomas

hissed.Dagger nodded, but took a

few moments to finish theconversation, rather thanbreaking it off midsentence.Then, he strolled casuallytoward the door to the arena

room and at an agonizinglyslow pace through it, to thedoorway they had first comein, stopping a moment tothank the guy who had lettheminforhishelp.ItwasallThomascoulddo

to keep himself frommaterializing until they wereoutofsight,backinDagger’sCharger.Hegenerallywaitedto talk until fully visible; itsomehow creeped him out to

think of himself as adisembodiedvoice.When he did materialize,

Daggergavehimalook-over.“Jeez, Thomas. What thehell? You’re practicallydiaphoretic. I didn’t knowyour type could get sweatyand breathe heavy.You looklike you’ve seen a …” Hestopped.“Whatdidyousee?”“They’re not just fighting

dogs,” Thomas practically

shouted. “They’re fightingOTs.”The phone on the center

console practically vibratedofftothefloorasashriekandan “Oh my God!” emanatedfrom the tinny speaker.Evelynhadstayedonthelinethe entire time they weregone.Dagger’s face tightened

and Thomas suddenlyrealized the private detective

had more of a five o’clockshadow than he had noticedearlier.“Youmeanlikethosedamn cage street fightchampionships?”Thomas looked at Dagger.

The detective’s lip wascurling, just above the eyetoothonthesideofhismouthfacing Thomas. “Yes… andno.”Dagger gave a growled

shout. “What the hell does

thatmean?Yesorno?”“Er…Imean,yestheyare

going to fight them in cages,but not like boxers ormixedmartial arts. I don’t thinkthesefightsarevoluntary,andIthinkthey’retothedeath…or to the ‘final’death for theOTs that are undead.All theOTs were in cages … liketiger cages at the circus. Icouldn’t see theoccupants inmostofthem,butIthinkthey

are fighting various types ofOTs against each other.Vamps, zombies,werewolves, imps, demons,ghasts … whatever they’vegot.”“Werewolves?” snarled

Dagger.“I think so. I couldn’t see

verywell,but itmakes senseoutofwhatIdidseeandwhatyou heard about the dogfights not being the main

attraction. Feys battling eachother won’t keep a dog-fightingcrowdentertainedforlong.”Evelyn’s voice on the

phone interrupted Thomas’stale.“I’llcallPhillipand911,then get Animal Control ontheway.”“Notyet,”Daggerbarked.Evelyn’svoicequaveredas

shereplied.“Butwecan’tletthemfight!”

“Wewon’t,”statedDagger.“But Animal Control won’ttakecareoftheOTs.Andthecops can get a bit over-aggressive in a fire fight notinvolving any innocentcivilians … at least anyhumancivilians.”Thomas understood

Dagger’s point, but whatchoice did they have? “Youcan’t take on all those guys,yourself.”

Dagger looked over toThomas as he fished out hiskeys. “I’mnot going to. I’vegot friends. We just need togo get them.” He turned thekey in the ignition and theCharger roared to life. Hegrabbed the cell phone.“We’ll call you back later,Evey.”“Can’t you just leave the

line open? Who are yougetting to help? Where are

yougoing?”Dagger flashed a toothy

smile as he responded.“There’s some things youdon’tneedtoknowaboutme,Evey. This is one of them.”He snapped the phone shutbeforeshecouldreply.Dagger jinked the car in

gear, then turned to Thomasbefore letting out the clutch.“If Idrive fastareyougoingto travel at my speed or are

you just going to phasethroughthebackofthecarasIaccelerateandbeleft in thedust?”Thomas hesitated. He

didn’t know. He could onlyfloat through things at amoderate pace and, since hecouldn’t touch things, hewasn’t sure how the carwould help. On the otherhand, he had gotten onto acable car with Evelyn one

timeaftercourtandmanagedto keep up, although hehadn’tthoughtabouttheissueat the time. Finally, he justthrewup his hands. “I’mnotsure,”headmitted.“I’m not either,” replied

Dagger as he revved theengine. “Focus on the car aswetravel.Itmighthelp.”Thomasnarrowedhiseyes,

staringatthedashofthecar.“If we get separated, you

can meet me at The Guys’Warehouse, near the airport.Youknowtheplace?”“I’veseenit.Iknowwhere

it is.” Thomas had alwaysassumed the place was aTexas-sized strip club or gaybar…thiswas,afterall,SanFrancisco. Either way, hecouldunderstandwhyDaggermight not want to share hisdestination with Evelyn.Thomasdidn’tcareifDagger

was gay. He didn’t care ifDagger hung out in stripclubs, either. Thomas wasn’tsure, though,whetherhewasgoing to be comfortableaccompanying Dagger ineithercase.The things you do for

clients. Even pro bonoclients.Dagger broke Thomas’

reverie.“Theneitherhangonor catch up when you can.

Time toget somemuscle forthisfight.”Dagger popped the clutch

and the Charger bolted fromits parking space, tiresspinning, rubber burning,engine red-lining betweenrapid,smoothshiftsasthecarsped into the night, Thomassomehow managing to stayaboard, thinking once moreabout whether ghosts couldactuallyhurl.

Chapter4.8

If it wasn’t for the garishneon depicting martiniglasses and the words“GUYS’ WAREHOUSE” inten-foot-tall pink letters,outlined in sci-fi green, thelarge, boxy building with acouple of acres of parking

wouldlookjustlikeanyotherwarehouse near the airport.Of course, most warehouseshad several acres of asphaltfor parked semis and trailertrucks backed up to lengthyloading docks. This one hadacres of parking overflowingwith parked cars and othervehicles, including an oddlyhigh ratio of pick-up trucksand4x4 Jeeps and other off-road vehicles. There were

evenahalfdozenrecreationalvehicles—perhaps parkedtherebycurious tourists,but,Thomasguessed,more likelythe working homes ofprostitutes who trolled theclubonaregularbasis.Afterall, a moveable den ofinequity was cheaper, safer,faster, andmore private thangoing to a nearby motel ormixingitupinacaroroutinthe parking lot. Faster being

most important; in the sextrade,timeliterallyismoney.Thomasgrittedhis teethas

Dagger swung into the lotwith a vicious right-handturn, tires squealing as theCharger fishtailed at speed,accelerating alarminglytoward the front entrance oftheclub.Thomascouldn’t,ofcourse, hang on, but he alsocouldn’t feel the g-forcesfrom Dagger’s rough

handlingofhisride—notthatthe kaleidoscope of light andcolorspinningacrosshisfieldof vision, jerking andwhippingwithabruptchangesindirection,didn’tstillterrifyand nauseate him. Daggerdidn’t even attempt to find aparking place, ignoring eventhe bevy of handicappedspotsemptyandforlorninthefirst row of the lot. Instead,Dagger braked the powerful

Dodgetoascreechinghaltata haphazard angle mere feetfrom the front door, causingthebeefybouncer/doormantoleap away from the entrance,landing in a sprawl on theconcrete sidewalk. Thebouncer’s fashionableclothestookthebruntofthedamage,andhecameupswinging,butDaggerhadalreadyexitedthecar, jumping lithely over thedriver’s side door and

skidding across the hood ofthe vehicle to burst throughthe glass double-doorsleading into GUYS’WAREHOUSE. The bouncercame at Thomas instead.Thomas flinched as theprofessional brawler’sheavily-bejeweled fistsswung in roundhouse arcs athis head and abdomen. But,of course, nothing couldtouch him, not anymore.

Onceherealizedhewasinnodanger,Thomasshruggedhisshoulders and gestured,palms-upathisattackerinanattempt to say “Hey. I’msorry.”ForallThomasknew,he actually said thosewords.The throbbing techno beatblasting out of the closingdoors to the club made itimpossible to hear anythingelse.Thomas rushed for the

doors, in an attempt to slipthrough before they closed.Sure, he could just phasethroughthem,buthestillhadthe instincts of a normalperson. Besides, he liked itbestwhenhecouldpassasanormal person and notconstantly reveal himself asan OT, as a ghost, toeveryonewithinsight.It’snotthat he hated OTs; it’s justthathewishedhewasn’tone,

wishedthathehadn’tdied.Apale pink fey sat behind

thebarredwindowofaboothjust inside theentrancereadyto collect the twenty dollarcover charge and stamp thebackofthehandofpatronsastheycamein.Shewasstaringafter the still rapidlymovingfigureofDaggerMacKenzie,as he moved through thethrong of dancers andpartygoers gyrating on the

dance floor of the club, buthereyesflickedtoThomasashe entered. She paused for asecond, and then just wavedhim through, tilting her headtoward a sign to the right onthe wall behind her: “Nominimum, no cover forghosts.Wecan’tstopyouandyoudon’tdrink,anyway.”Thomas hesitated for a

moment and chuckled.Finally, a perk for being an

incorporeal remnant of hisformer self. But the momentquickly faded and he turnedhimself back to the task athand: following Dagger towhereverhewasgoingtogetassistance in breaking up thedog-fighting andOT-fightingringintheTenderloin.Herushedacrossthedance

floorinDagger’swake,doinghisbesttowendandwindhisway through the haphazard,

shifting gaps betweenwrithing dancers, rather thanplow straightforward. Hedidn’t like to phase thoughpeople unnecessarily, and hesuspectedmost people didn’tlike the experience, either.It’snot that itwasphysicallyunpleasantforeitherofthem,as best he could tell. It justfelt like a violation ofprivacy, of personal space,like leaning in too close to

someone to talk with them.You didn’t need to havegarliconyourbreath for thattofeeluncomfortable.Thomashad sethimself an

impossible task, though. Thecrowd was thick andundulatingwithalackofanysense of propriety orinhibition. Bodies weresurfing the crowd, the proneforms being passed overheadfrom group to group, hands

pressing, touching, gropingeverywhere. The giddy,encouraging surferswhoopedit up, with no effort to stopwhat was happening, merelyreveling in the moment anddoing their best to grabrandomdrinkstochugastheywere man-handled by thecrowd.The crowd was as varied

and tumultuous anduninhibited and drunk as

Thomas had ever seen, evenwhen he went to SpringBreak that one year on theGulf Coast of Texas. Thepulsing, apocalyptic abandonofthecrowdwassixtimesasdense and hedonistic andfrenzied as anything shownon the late-night cablecommercials forCoedsGoneWild, and not nearly sodressed. And it wasn’t justcoeds. Girls danced with

guys, guys with guys, girlswith girls, girls with groups,feyswithvamps, ghastswithghouls,dog-faceswithpixies,and guys with naked cat-women…ifyoucouldreallycall what was happening onthedancefloor“dancing.”AsThomas averted his eyes, henoticed a few zombies evenshuffled at each other in ashadowy alcove near thelong, mahogany bar that

stretched the length of theroom—almost two-thirds ofthe length of the warehouse.A swirling cloud near theceiling might be the miasmaproduced by the smoke fromcigarettes and marijuanatokes wafting toward unseenceiling fans or it could beghosts dancing for allThomas knew. At least, hehopedtheywerejustdancing.Hecouldn’t,thankfully,smell

tobacco or weed anymore,and he didn’t really want toknow anything about thedanceorsexualproclivitiesorabilities of ghosts, eventhoughhewasone.Thomas felt like he was

drowninginaseaofflesh.Heclosedhiseyesforamomentandputhishandstohisears,as if his incorporealappendages could block outthe thumping, atonal beat of

thebass.Hewilledhimselftofloat up eight feet, thenopened his eyes and focusedon Dagger’s back. The bigmanwas just openingadooratthefarendofthemainhall.Thomas concentrated on thespot,stretchedoutSuperman-style,andbegantofloatathisbest speed toward the doorwithout looking elsewhere.He was momentarily takenabackwhenhandsreachedup

topasshimalong,likeoneofthe body surfers, grasping athis arms and legs and torso,somedeliberatelygrabbingathis privates as he sped alongthe topof the crowd.But, ofcourse, the partying fondlersfound no substance there. Adisconcerting experience forbothsides,nodoubt.ThedoorDaggerhadgone

through was closed by thetime Thomas arrived and

floated back down to floorlevel. “Private. Were HausMembers ONLY.” Theplacardgavehimamoment’spause. Not just the odd,Germanic misspelling, butalso the word “Private.” Herespectedprivacy,butDaggerhad made a deliberatedecision to bring him here,when he could have stayedbehind towatch the comingsand goings at the fight

location in the Tenderloin.Dagger wanted him to gothrough the door, though hecouldn’t imagine why.Thomaswas a skilled orator,but he didn’t think for amoment that he would bebetter able than Dagger toconvince anyone at this kindofestablishmenttocomehelpbustadog-fightingoperation.Still,hewasn’tabouttolet

Daggerdown…orSadie,his

clientinallthis.He phased through the

door.To his surprise, the

deafening music from themain room was obviouslypiped in here, too. Theambient light was even less,though,litprimarilybyafullmoon projected high on thefar wall. The dance crowdwas thick here, too … andalmost entirely furry.Hehad

entered the private party denof a pack of werewolves. Avery largepackofvery largewerewolves, almost all ofthem fully wolfed-out. AsThomas froze for a momenttoconsiderthecircumstances,Dagger jumped up atop thebar and yanked a fistful ofcables out of the amplifiers,provokingastaticfritzas themusic died, the dancingground to an awkward halt,

and more than a hundredwolfish heads turned towardDagger,theirlipscurledupinachorusofsnarls.Agutturalgrowlrosebehindthetoothy,slavering jaws of the pissed-offwerewolvesastheystaredatDagger.Thefacesofthosenearby whose yellow eyesflicked to Thomas lookedevenangrier.Dagger faced the crowd

fromatop thebar. “Ineed to

talk to you,” he shouted, hisvoice booming across thelargeroom.Adeep,snarlingvoicefrom

the back of the crowdanswered. “We came toparty!”“While you’re partying,”

continued Dagger, “there’s adog-fightabouttostartintheTenderloin.”Murmurs of concern

flittered across the crowd,

interspersed with a fewshouts of “Who cares?” and“Notmyproblem.”“But it is your problem,”

answered Dagger. “Even ifyoudon’t give adamnaboutour innocent caninecompanions, dog-fightingisn’t the worst of it. That’sjusttheopeningact.”A different voice cried out

fromthecrowd.“Forwhat?”Daggerstaredatthecrowd,

his eyes seeming to Thomastogrowyellowandfierce,ashebarkedouthis reply. “Forcaged fights of capturedOTs…to thedeath.They’reforcing werewolves, vamps,dog-faces, fey, and more tofight each other to the deathforsport,forentertainment.”A wave of howls, growls,

and shouts erupted from thecrowd.“I’llshow’emafighttothe

death!”“Just give me a scent to

follow,andI’mwithyou.”“Leadthepack!”Daggerwhipped thecrowd

into a snarling frenzy, whensuddenlysomeoneinterruptedwith a snarl. “I’m with you,but what’s the apparitiondoinghere?It’snothisbattle.Besides, everybody knowsghosts can’t fight worth adamn,anyhow.”

“This is his fight,”answered Dagger. “He’s anOT, too. Besides, he’s mylawyer.”The last drew a number of

ragged guffaws, snarls, andshouts. “This ain’t gonna benocourtbattle,counselor.”Dagger slammed his foot

hard on the bar, causingglasses tovibrateand tumbleover along its entire length.“Think about it. We can’t

travel there in wolf-form.And he’ll be there.His case.Hediscoveredthis,thankyouverymuch.He’llseeallofustransform…”Thomas’ mind whirled at

Dagger’s words. “Wecan’t …” “all of us …”Dagger wasn’t gay … well,maybe he was. But, what hewasforsurewasawerewolf.His private detective was awerewolf and Thomas had

neverknown.“But he’smy lawyer. And

if he’s your lawyer, he can’ttell anyone anything aboutwhoyouareorwhatyouare.Attorney/client privilege.Right,Thomas?”That’s why Dagger had

brought him here. Thomasnot only had the toughest,most street savvy, privatedetective in town,hehad thesmartest one, too.Of course,

hedidn’tevenknowhisnew“clients’” names, he hadn’tmet them personally, hehadn’t run a conflicts check,orcollectedaretainer…still,somebar caseshad foundanattorney/client relationship toexist from no more than aquestionaboutlegaladviceata cocktail party. And, it wasgreat marketing. Why go toanyoneelseforyourOTlegalproblems, when you already

hadanattorney?“Absolutely,” answered

Thomas. “You are all clientsof the Thomas Brock LawOffice. Your transformationfrom human to wolf form iscompletely privilegedinformation.”“Dowehavetogiveyoua

retainer?”avoiceasked.“We don’t have time for

thisbull—”growledDagger.“This one’s pro bono,”

answered Thomas. “It’s ontheHaus.”Thomassmiledathis pun, even though as aspokenpun,noonewouldgetit. He was glad ghosts stillhadasenseofhumor.“Great,” replied Dagger.

“But time’s wasting.Transform and get in yourcars. Followme. And if youcan’t keep up,meet the packat Polk and Ellis. We’ll gofrom there.” He turned back

toward the electronicsequipmentandsearchedforamoment before de-couplinganother cable. Use the fireexits. No point scaring themundanes with a massexodus through the mainroom. Now MOVE.” Hestared straight at Thomas.“You,followme.”

Chapter4.9

“So,nowyouknow,”snarledDaggerashemaneuveredtheDodge Charger with hismassive left hand, his righthand working the gears withrapid precision, never lettingthecar losespeedas it joltedout of the parking lot androcketed back toward theTenderloin, leadinga convoyof other vehicles striving to

keep up. He would havepreferred if Thomas neverknew, if none of hisemployerseverknew,histruenature. He wanted to beregarded as a street smartdetective with skills andtraining,notabloodhoundonsteroids. Still, a wolf had todowhat a wolf had to do toprotectthepack.HelookedoveratThomas,

whose eyes were wide, and

triedtoassesswhether itwasbecause of his driving or thefact that the lawyer realizedhe was sitting next to awerewolf. Neither shouldmatter; the guy was a ghost.Dagger literally couldn’ttouchhimandneithercouldahead-onintothedeliveryvanbacking out of the alleywayahead,blockingtheirpath.Daggertookhisfootoffthe

accelerator, depressed the

clutchsothetireswouldspinfrom inertia without beingengaged by the drive train,then cut hard left, letting theheavy muscle car drift untilperpendicular to theirdirection of travel. Then hepopped the clutch andsmashed downwith his rightfoot, powering the vehicledownasidestreetshortofthealleyway.His eyes flicked tothemirrorandheslowedabit

to let the less proficient—orless reckless—drivers behindcatchup,afterhavingtoslowfortheturn.He glanced over at

Thomas,stillwhite-knucklingthe ride, even though theghost couldn’t actually holdonto anything. “You’re notafraidofmenow,areyou?”Afleetinggrinpassedover

his passenger’s face,morphing into a tight

grimace.“No,atleastnotanymorethanIwasbefore.Iwasroommateswithavampireinschool,youknow.OTsdon’tbotherme.”“Not even since you were

killedbyone?”Thomasdidnotreply.Dagger pressed. “Nothing

to say? About this? Aboutme?”The lawyer swallowed

hard. “No,” he replied.

“Nothing to say, to anyone,ever. You have my word.You have my bond, as amemberofthebar.”Daggergavetheguyacurt

nod.“Then,whysonervous?You look white as a …sheet.”“I’m not that fond of fast

cars,Iguess.”Daggerlaughed.“Thenyou

better float out when I stopfor a moment a block away

from the target to let mybrothersandsisterscatchup.”“Why?” replied Thomas.

“The ride’s practically overbythen.”Dagger laughed even

harder.“Notbya longshot.”He patted the dash. “Sad tosay, but Peggy, here. She’sleading the charge. I’ll becrashing through thewarehousedoorintothebackroom—the onewith theOTs

—at speed.Weneed a quickwayintokeeptheelementofsurprise. There’s no tellingwhat those bastards holdingand fighting us might do tocover theirasses if theyhaveanytimetoreact.”Hestrokedthe steering wheel with hisfingers as he continued tomaneuver through the meanstreets of the Tenderloin.“Peggy’stough.She’shitandbeen hit before. And she’s

powerful enough to breakthroughanoverheaddoorliketinfoil. But she doesn’t haveany airbags.” He smirked.“She’sallnatural.”“Why not just go in the

frontdoor,likecustomers?”“Tooslow.Toosuspicious.

These bastards might gopretty far to cover up orretaliate if they get thechance.”Hetookhisfootoffthe gas and let the car

decelerate naturally as heapproachedafour-waystopablock from the target. “Youphase through and watchwhat’s going on in the arenaanddogpenareas.Comefindme if there’sanything Ineedtoknow.I’llgiveyouashoutwhen it’s okay to let Eveyknow to send the cops andAnimal Control.” He fishedout the spare cell phone,flipped it open, his thumb

hovering over the speed-dialfor The Thomas Brock LawOffices. “Any lastquestions?”“Yes,” repliedThomas,his

voice a bit cracked andpitched higher than usual.The lawyer bent to look outthe window, high into thesky.“Themoon’snot full…and there’s no big moonprojection like at the club.How do you … I mean …

howcanyou?”Dagger roared with

laughter. “The projection atthe club is just foratmosphere. Privilege stillapplies,right?”“Sure.”“The truth is, we canwolf

out anytimewewant, day ornight. We just have to wolfoutduringthefullmoon.”Hecontinued talking while thecall connected and rang.

“Anythingelse?”Evelyn’s voice came over

the speaker. She soundedtense, nervous. “Hello?Wherehaveyoubeen?”“Recruiting volunteers,”

repliedDagger.“Youstayontheline.Thomaswilltellyouwhen to send your friends tocollect thebadguysand takecare of the doggies.”Daggerjerked thecar toahaltat thefour-way stop, idling for a

moment.“I do have one last

question,” said Thomas, stillinthepassengerseat.Daggergaveahardstareat

the phone. Evey didn’t needto know, even if sheworkedfor his lawyer. “Party line,dude.”Thomas nodded. He

seemed tounderstand.“Whathappensifthephonegetslostordisconnectedinthecrash?”

“The what?” shoutedEvelyn.Dagger reached over, his

beefy paw passing throughThomas’incorporealsideandbutt to jam the phone in thecrack between the seatcushion and the back of thebucketseats,wedgingittight“I wish you wouldn’t do

that!”mutteredThomasashequickly began to phasethroughthedoor,outontothe

street.Dagger roared in both

laughterandpainashebeganhistransformation.Questions streamed from

the cell phone in rapidsuccession. “What crash?What’s the plan? Should Icallanambulance?”“Just hang on Evey.Don’t

callthecopsuntilwetellyou.They can get pretty trigger-happy with OTs, especially

when they don’t understandwhat’sgoingon.Sojustwait,nomatterwhat.You’regoingto hear a lot of loud noises,but pay them no attention. Icantakeit.Peggycantakeit.And Tommy here, well hecan take anything, exceptmaybeajoke.”“Peggy?Who’sPeggy?”The rest of the pack had

caught up. Dagger pressedPeggy’s accelerator until she

roared even louder than him,then popped the clutch andworked the gearshift with aclawed paw. Peggy boltedforward into the Tenderloinnight, leaping into thewarehouse and into theunknown.

Chapter4.10

Cars, pickups, and vansstreamedpastThomaslikehewasthestarterforathirtycarstreetrace.Heleapedout theway of onemuscle car, onlyto pass through a passengervan of eight transformingwerewolves. Was that CitySupervisor Braddock justbeginning to turn? Heswiveled to get a look at thethree-term official, but thevan finished passing through

him, the rear door poppinginto view, blocking his sightof what was inside it andexpanding his peripheralvision past the side walls ofthe van to the stream ofvehicles racing toward thewarehouse. Just then, athunderous clang rang outabove theroarof theenginesasPeggy’ssleeklinesmetthemetal panels comprising thewarehouse bay door. A

cacophony of high-pitched,metallic rending andscreeching noises punctuatedthe commotion for a fewmercifully brief momentsbeforeasecond,louderclangrang out as Thomas saw thedoorgivewayandfallbeforethe assault of Dagger’sDodge Charger. Peggy racedinto the gloom of thewarehouse beyond, quicklymoving out of sight, as three

or four chase cars rushed inbehind. Then, it was allsquealing tires and slammingdoorsandshoutsandscreamsand howls and—was that agun shot?—worse as theassault began beyond theinitial shock and awe andmoved into close quartersfighting.Handtohand.Clawtoclaw.Toothtotooth.

Cagebycage.Thomas shook his head to

clearitfromtryingtoimaginewhatwasgoingoninsidethefoul warehouse. He couldn’tdoanythingtheretohelpand,truth be told, there wereprobably many things aboutthe battle he didn’t want toknow as an officer of thecourt and didn’t want to seeas a mild-mannered memberofthehumanrace…evenas

adepartedmember.Besides, he had a task to

perform. He turned awayfromthetumultuoustangleofwere-creatures storming thewarehouse and floated withalldeliberatehastetowardtheentrance to the arena sectionof thewarehouse.He phasedin through the wall short ofthe door, which had alreadybeen flung open and wasdisgorgingasteadystreamof

lowlife toughs andwannabesclutching betting slips andcash and yelling expletivesand B-movie dialogue like“It’s a raid!” as they fledfrom the scene of theircrimes. Thomas knew thatmostofthemwerecustomers,not ringleaders of the dog-fighting conspiracy—patheticlosers and poseurs, notcriminal masterminds—buthe hated them just the same.

Without pathetic losers whoregarded the vicious crueltyofbutcheringanimals…andOTs…asport,thepurveyorsof blood porn behind thearenaofdeathwouldhavenocustomers, no income, noincentive to cater fresh meattoa raveningcrowd.Nobodycould force a crowd to cheerasoneanimaltorefleshfromthebodyofanother.Nobody.Youwere either depraved or

vomiting on the floor as youavertedyoureyes.Inside,thecontrastbetween

the brightly lit arena, wheretwo bloodied dogs lickedtheir wounds at a warydistance from one another,andthesurroundingbleachersmadeitdifficulttosee.Butashiseyesadjusted,hesawthisarea was deserted¸ so hemoved on to the middlesection, where the dog pens

were located. The sounds ofthe fight in the third sectioncould be heard here, belowthe tumult of dozens ofbarking, howling, franticdogs.A few humans were

leaving, but Thomas couldseethatagroupofthugswasgatherednear thedoor to theOT area, including thedoorman from theirreconnaissance mission

earlier in the evening. Mostof the toughs already heldhandguns or Mac 10s andwere checking their ammo.One bald, muscle-boundtough in a tight-fitting blackT-shirtandloose,camouflagepants handed out additionalweaponry from a dufflegripped in one hammy fist.Thomas watched as the guythrust a .38 Saturday NightSpecial towardasweatyhick

wearing jeans and a plaid,flannelshirt.Thehickheldhishandsup

toeitherside,refusingtotakethe gun. “I ain’t fighting nogang wars. If someone’smovinginonyourturf,that’syourproblem.Ijustbringmydogs, that’s all. I’m here totakecareofmydogs.”Black Shirt thrust the gun

toward thehickagain. “Thentakethisandtakecareofyour

dogs.”The hick paled. “You

mean…?”Heshookhisheadwith a shiver. “I ain’t killingmydogs.Igotaninvestmentin them dogs.” Thomaswatched as the hick lookedaround at the assembledgroup, most of whom wereignoring the minormelodramaandclearlylayingplanstostormthenextroom.Hegesturedatthedoorwayto

the other room. “That ain’tmy problem. No way. Nosir.”Black Shirt snarled at the

hick. “You are rapidlybecoming my problem,buddy. Assuming anybodymessing with us in the nextroomlivestoseeanotherday,I can’t have ’em taking yourdogs for inventory. So, youeither kill them bitches orbring’emheretosetlooseon

the gang raiding our set-up.”He motioned at the cageswithhisbaldhead. “Yougotless than twominutes beforewegoin.”Thomas gasped, faded-out

completely from view, andimmediately started floatingtoward the wall between thewarehouse sections at speed.He didn’t even slow as hepassedthroughthewall.Whilethescenebackatthe

dog pens had beenfrighteningandtense,thedimscene in the OT section waschaotic and violent beyondbelief.Ambientlightfromthestreet seeped through thecollapsedwarehousedoorandheadlights from severalvehiclesshotbeamsofbrightwhite light at haphazardanglesintotherecessesofthewarehouse and its scores offilthy cages. Hazard lights

from a pick-up truck whichangled off to one side of thedamaged bulk of Dagger’sCharger, Peggy, flicked onand off, flashing a sicklyamber-yellow across the paleforms of the OTs who hadbeen released. Fighting side-by-side the liberated OTswere their rescuers, scoresoffurred-out werewolves, theirteeth flashing, their mouthsbloody, their claws rending

cages apart by brute animalforce. A few guards wereattempting to hold off theassaultfromthefarcornerofthewarehouse,burstsofMac10firerat-a-tattingfromtheirredoubt and echoing acrossthe cavernous scene ofcarnage.Thomas wished he could

just tell Evelyn to call inSWAT, but he couldn’t putthe pack, his clients, at even

greater risk. He had to trustDagger. So, instead of goingto Peggy, he headed for thegunfire.Bullets couldn’t hurthimandheknewthatDaggerwouldbeon the front lineofdanger. He found him,crouched behind a containernear the human’s last stand,drawingwithhisclawsonthedirty floor, obviouslyexplaining to three packmembers the elements of a

plantotakeouttheMac10s.Thomasmaterialized in frontof Dagger, but behind hiscompanions, in the openaisle.“What?”barkedDagger.“They’re planning on

killingthedogsinthearena,”began Thomas, as Dagger’scompanions turned to lookathim.“They’re already killing us

in here,” Dagger stated, the

“here” giving way to a lowgrowl. “You’ll have to takecare of it yourself. I’ll comewhenIcan.”“That won’t be soon

enough.Theywanttheownerto do it before they launchtheir counter-assault in aboutaminute.”“Counter-assault? One

minute?” Dagger’s eyesnarrowed. “You’d think youmight have led with that.

Where?”Thomas mentally kicked

himself for focusing on hisown problems when otherswere in danger. It wasobvioushewasamanoflaw,not a man of action.“Doorway to the adjoiningroom.”Dagger stood on his hind

legs to his full height for amoment and yelled out“Randy!”atfullthrottle.“Put

yourpick-upthroughthewallat the door in the middle.NOW!”AsThomasspun,hesawa

juvenile werewolf leapthrough the open window ofthepick-upnexttoPeggyandjinkitintogear.Thenoiseofthe engine fought fordominance with clangs andsnapsasthefour-wheeldrivepick-up pushed aside orclambered over debris,

pickingupspeedasitheadedfor the wall. In the lastmoment before the collisionthe lithe junior werewolfleaped out of the window,clearofthecrashandensuingwreckage.Forabriefmoment,all the

shootingandthesnarlingandthe fighting in the OTwarehousehaltedaseveryonelooked at the destruction ofthe door and the hole in the

warehouse wall, where thepick-upspewedradiator fluidoverabevyofarenaworkersand gangbangers trying toextricate themselves fromthedebriscausedbythecrash.Inthat brief moment of silencefor the soon-to-be-departed,Dagger launched his assaulton the redoubt of remaininghumans.Thomas tried his best to

ignore the soundsof snarling

and screams and breaking ofbones as he floated backtoward thedogpens.He stillhadtosavethedogs!The hick had avoided the

tangle of concrete block,bodies, and guns at thedoorway, but so had enoughof the bad guys, includingBlack Shirt, that he was stillshaking in fear ashepointedthe .38revolveratoneof thecageddogs,pointblank.

Thomaswasinapanic.Hecouldn’t grab the gun. Hecouldn’t chase away thecaged dog. He couldn’t doanything.Ghostswereuselessin a fight. Ghosts wereuseless in most situations.Unless someone neededhaunting. Somehow, Thomasdidn’tthinksaying“boo”wasgoing to turn the tideon thislifeanddeathsituation.Andthenitcametohim.

He materialized in thenarrow space between thedog and the hick, histranslucent bodyencompassing the hick’soutstretched arm and lethalweapon.“Your grandmother says

‘Don’t you dare hurt thatdog.’”The hick started, whether

confused by Thomas’appearanceorwords,Thomas

couldn’t tell. He pressed on.“Shedoesn’tlikeyouhurtingdogs. She never liked howyoutreatedyouranimals.”“Nana?”askedthehick,his

voice high-pitched, crackingashespoke.“YoucantalktoNana?”Thomasdidhisbest toput

a hard edge to his voice,hovering a few inches abovethefloortoappeartaller,andholding his arms slightly out

from his body so to appearbigger, more menacing. “Ofcourse I talk to Nana. I’m aghost, ain’t I?” He grimacedat his ownbad grammar, butthe face he made apparentlyscaredthehickevenmore.Thomas heard the gun

clattertotheconcretefloor.“CanIseeNana?CanItalk

withher?”Thomashesitated,tryingto

figure out what to say. Sure,

lawyers are quick-witted andarticulate, but he hated thepopular notion that membersof the bar were quick to lie.Thomasdidn’t lie,not really.Hewasn’tgoodatit.Buthe’dgone down this path; he hadtofinishitoff.Hehadplayedone of the three ghosts in AChristmas Carol in gradeschool.He called upon thosememories, deepening hisvoice and adding a vibrato

quavertoit.“Nana will never talk to

you,notaslongasyoulive.”He floated just a tad higherand angled his body to loomover the cowering hick.“Your only hope to see her,even after you die, is tochange your ways. Makeamends. Train your dogs tobe kind and happy andloving, the way they weremeant to be.” Thomas

ignoredagrowingamountofnoise and commotion in thedirectionofthecrashedpick-up and concentrated on hisplay-acting.“Then,onlythen,can you possibly meet upwithNanain—”Black Shirt suddenly

appearedbehind thehick,hisface contorted in rage, hismuscled arm bringing up aMac10tobearontheformofthecagedpitbull.“Screwthis

bull—”Then suddenly, the angry

bald head above the blackshirtdisappearedanda sprayofcrimsonflewoverThomas,thehick,andthedog, thoughitpassedthroughThomas.Dagger stood behind the

fallingbody, his sharp talonsdripping blood, as his darkeyes tracked a bald, bloodyhead skittering across theconcrete floor. His canine

nose wrinkled, as if it hadsmelled somethingdistasteful, foul. Finally, helookeddownat thebodystillflooding blood awash thefloor. “You want to watchanimals die?How’d you likethe show, animal?” Daggerlicked at his canines, thenshiftedhisgazetoThomas.“Rescue’s complete. Just

cleaning up. You can letEvelyn know to send the

coppers andAnimal Control.We’ll be gone in five.” Heturned and left withoutwaiting for Thomas torespond.Thomas left the hick

quivering in fearon thefloorof thewarehouse and floatedat a walking pace back toPeggy. She was dented andoneheadlightwasbroken,buttheymade cars solid back intheday.HeknewthatDagger

would have her shiny andnew in no time. He quicklylocated the cell phonejammed into the crackof thepassenger seat, the line stillopen. He heard the sound ofsighsandcryingon theotherend.“It’s all right, Evelyn.

Everything’s all right. TellPhilliptosendthecops.SendAnimal Control rightbehind.”

“Thomas, is thatyou?Youcan’timaginethesoundsI’vebeen hearing. Crashes andshouts and gunfire andfighting and more crashingand howls. I was secondsaway fromdialing,nomatterwhat Dagger said. Whathappened?”“The good guys won.

Evelyn.Thegoodguyswon.”

Chapter4.11

Evelyn picked up thenewspaper from Gretchen’sdesk the next morning whenshecameintotheofficeafterher morning run. “GANGWAR IN TENDERLOIN”read the headline. Sheskimmedthestoryabouthowrival gangs had gone to war

when one gang had staged adogfight in another gang’sturf. The newspaper reportedeight fatalities, three bycrushing, blunt force trauma,threebygunfire,onebystab-wounds from a sharp-endedcylindrical object (perhaps atire iron?), and one bybeheading. Police weresearching for the murderweapon for the last,presumably some type of

machete.Truth be told, she was

uneasyabouthow thingshadgone. Oh sure, her part hadgone like clockwork. Thepolice and Animal Controlshowed up promptly whencalled. The animals werecapturedandshehopedmostof themweren’t so wounded—physically or mentally—that they couldn’t be saved.But people had died, all

because shehadn’tbeenableto persuade Judge Knott toappoint her as guardian adlitem for Barney and hisbreed. She hoped that thepeople who had died werebad guys—really, really,really bad guys. But shedidn’t know that. And,somehow,shedidn’tthinkthenewspaper or anyone elsewasevergoingtotellheronewayoranotherforsure.

The hairs on the back ofherneckstoodup.“Their deaths are not your

fault,”sheheardThomassay,close enough behind her towhisper in her ear. “Youacted in the best interests ofyour clients.” He floatedaround her, into view. “Iacted in the best interests ofmyclients.”Shewantedtobelievehim,

butitwashard.

“We don’t control theoutcome,”hecontinued.“Wedon’t control the world. Wedon’tevencontrolourclients.Sometimes things get out ofanyone’s control. Sometimesbadthingshappen.”“Is that what happened

here?” she asked, her voicebarelyaboveawhisper,afraidto say the words out loud.“Didsomeoneinnocentdie?”Thomasflinched.“Innocent

peopledieallthetime.”God, how could she have

asked him that?Thomaswasinnocent and he had died.Had innocent people died atthe warehouse, too? Wouldsheeverknow?Wouldhetellher even if he knew?No, hewould protect her.Hewouldalwaysprotecther.Somehow,thathadtobeenough.“Whatnow?”sheasked.Thomas gave her a weary

smile. “Now we finish up.Nothing’s ever over until thelawyersfinishup.Dealsdon’tconclude on a handshake oreven a closing. There’salwaysthepost-closingitems.Cases don’t finish on ajudgment. There’s always anappealorproceedingstoseizeassets and collect on thatjudgment. Even death isn’tthe end.…”He grinned a bitmore warmly. “Even if you

don’tcontinueonafterdeath,there’s an estate to settle,insurance to collect, final taxreturns. Life ends, butpaperworkisforever.”Evelynfrowned.Whatwas

left? The dog-fighting ringwas broken. The bad guysarrested or dead. The dogsand theOTswere freed. Shehad even gotten somevolunteers from Bay AreaDog-lovers Responsible

About Pitbulls (BAD RAP)involved to provideinformation about handlingabuseddogs.Thomas tilted his head to

one side. “What about yourclient?”“Barney? Barney’s safe

withSadSadie…Oh.”“Until the new law goes

into effect,” Thomas voicedher thoughts aloud. “We stillneed to save Barney by

gettingthelawchanged.”Evelyn gave him a brief,

lilting laugh. “This isCalifornia. They’ll alwayspass a new law, given half achance.”

OOOEvelyn sat quietly through

the zoning session, the parksreport, and an extendeddiscussion of city employeepension matters. Finally, itwas her turn. Mark Shu, the

President of the eleven-memberBoardofSupervisorsfor the City and County ofSanFrancisco,calledthefinalitemontheagenda:“Nextup,public comment andconsideration of a proposedamendment of Ordinance4.8889, dealing with theprohibition of certain breedsofdogsintheenvironsofthecity.” He looked up atEvelyn, who stood and

approached the audiencepodium.PresidentShulookedathis

watch. “Thehourgrows late,Ms. Love. And from what Igather frommyfriend,JudgeKnott, you are categoricallyopposedtoOrdinance4.8889,havinggonesofarastoarguebefore his court that it wasunconstitutional.Praytell,areyouheretoamenditsoastobe so narrow as to be

altogetherineffective?”Evelynreachedthepodium

justasPresidentShufinishedhis question. “No, PresidentShu. Ordinance 4.8889attempts to protect both thecitizens of the City andCountyofSanFranciscoandalimitedsubsetofcaninesbyprohibiting such caninebreedswithin theconfinesoftheCity andCounty so as topreventdog-fighting.”

Shuinterrupted.“Aterribleproblem, wouldn’t you say?Especially given theheadlines just recentlyconcerning the Tenderlointurfwaroverdog-fighting?”“A terrible problem,”

Evelyn agreed. “But onewhichextendsfarbeyondthevariousbreedsandsub-breedspopularly associatedwith theterm ‘pit bull’ in ordinaryparlance. If you read beyond

theheadlinesofrecentevents,you will see that the dog-fighting ring involved notonly such dogs, but alsoDobermanPinschers,GermanShepherds, Rottweilers,Rhodesian Ridgebacks, and,according to the Departmentof Animal Control, at leastthirteen other breeds or partbreeds, as well as mixedbreedmutts.”Supervisor Tarden

interrupted. “Well, we can’toutlaw all dogs in the city.Therewouldbeanuproar.”“Exactly, Supervisor

Tarden,” responded Evelyn.“There’s no sense inoutlawing all dogs. It’s nottheir fault. And the fightsweren’t limited to dogs.Animal Control reports thatupon arriving at the scene,they found specimens orindications of fighting

chickens, badgers, wolves,andevenzombies.”“I’d outlaw badgers,

wolves, and zombies in thecity,” quipped Shu. “Evenchickens, unless, of course,theyareextra-crispyfried.”“Now, now,” admonished

Supervisor Braddock fromthe far end of the lengthytableatwhichalloftheboardmembers sat facing theaudience and the cable

television cameras. “Adecade or so ago, youwouldhave outlawed me if youcould have.” Evelyn knewthat as an openly gay man,Supervisor Braddock hadbeen on the opposite side ofmany, many battles withPresidentShu,a traditionalistand conservative, “Let theyoungladystatehercase.”“Thank you, Supervisor,

President Shu.” Lawyers

were constantly thankingpeople they argued with; itwas part of the job. “Theproblem isn’t with thoseforced to fight. Take awaytheir badgers and they willforce homeless people tofight each other or schoolchildren. The promoters arethe enemy, not their victims.They are the ones whomustbestopped.”“And how would you do

that?” asked SupervisorBraddock.“Instead of making it a

felonytoowncertaintypesofdogs, I would triple thepenalties and make themapply to the trainers andpromoters associated withsuchfights.”“So,” said Supervisor

Braddock. “You wouldpenalize anyone who trainedor fought dogs or any other

mammals for sport orentertainment.”“Why stop there?” asked

Evelyn. “What aboutchickens? Animal Controlreported evidence ofcockfighting.”Braddock nodded. “I’m

amenable to outlawingfighting of animals of allsorts. Animals are sentient.Theycanfeelpain.Theycanunderstandcruelty.”

“Let’s not stand onsentience,” replied Evelyn.“We don’t know how far itextends or when it starts orstops. There can’t be anyloopholes.Thepeoplewhodothisaresick,depraved,cruel.Theywon’tthinktwiceaboutlobotomizing puppies pre-fight and claiming the lawdoesn’tapply.”“You’ve got a point, Ms.

Love. Besides, you

mentioned zombies.Unfortunate souls, if theyhave souls. Never asked.Terrible way to live in anyevent, even if they areundead. Forcing them to eatone another seems barbaricandcruel,ifyouaskme.”Heleaned far forward to look atPresident Shu. “Hardlyfamily friendly stuff, zombiefights.This ordinance shouldbe expanded to formerly

sentientcreatures,alive,dead,orundead.”“Second the motion,”

shoutedSupervisorTarden.“Call the motion,”

respondedBraddock.Shushookhishead.Evelyn

could almost hear the gearsturning in his head. Step infront of a moving train andaggravate dog and otheranimal … and zombie …lovers throughout the city or

just let it slide.He looked athis watch and shrugged.“Without objection?” Hehesitated a split-second,apparentlywaitingforanyoneto protest. “Provisionallypassed unanimously withoutobjection. SupervisorBraddock to submit preciselanguagetobeincludedintheminutesandconfirmedat thenext session. We areadjourned.”

Oncethelightswentoutforthe cable television feed,Thomas materialized next toEvelyn. She knew he’d beenthere all along. He’d comewith her to the proceedings,then had simply faded tooblivionon thechairholdingher coat and purse while theproceedingsdronedon.“That went well, very

well,”hesaid.“Almost too well,”

admitted Evelyn. She’ddraftedalternate formsof theamended ordinance. One fordogs, one for mammals, oneforanimals,and,yes,onethatwent so far to include OTs,but she’d never reallyexpected to get everythingshe asked for. And she’dnever expected such helpfulsupport from Braddock.“Why was Braddock sohelpful?”

Thomaspursedhis lips foramomentbefore responding.“Ican’tsay.”“Doyou think it’s because

he’s gay? That heunderstands thediscrimination the OTs mustfeel?Thatheknowsthattheycan’thelpwhattheyare,evenifitscaressomepeople?”Thomas remained

expressionless. “I can’t say,Evelyn.Ireallycan’tsay.”

OOOThomas asked Evelyn to

call ahead so that Gretchencouldmeetthemdownbythealley so they could all givethe good news to Sad SadieandBarneytogether.When they arrived,

Patrolman Lane was therealready,givingBarneypiecesof a baloney sandwichwheneverhedidanew trick.Barneyhadlotsofnewtricks.

He could bark on command,standontwohindlegs,shakehands, and run in a tightcircle when given a simplehand signal. Itwas clear thatBarneylikedthelasttrickthebest. Thomas laughed whenhe saw that Evelyn hadnoticed Sad Sadie eyeballingthe policeman’s sandwichherself. He couldn’t doanything, but Thomas washappy when he saw Evelyn

simply reach into Phillip’slunchbox. “I’m taking thegroup for Thai food later,”she simply said to Phillip asshe snagged another half-sandwich and gave it toSadie. “You’re invited. So isyourgirlfriend,ifyou’reevergoingtoletusallmeether.”Phillip blushed. “Sounds

good,I’llgiveheracall.”“You, too, Sadie,” said

Evelyn, “if you want to

come.” Thomas knewEvelyn’s invitation wasgenuine. Everything aboutEvelyn was genuine. ButThomas knew Sadie rarelyleft her alley and that shewouldn’t make an exceptionfor Thai food. Sadiewas tooproud to ask for handoutsfrom friends (strangers wereanother story). She was astraight-up panhandler: nothreats;noliesaboutneeding

bus fareor losingherwallet;no Bible quotations. If youdidn’t help her, she didn’tholdagrudge,butifyouhadakindheart, youhadhers inreturn.Gretchen brought a

celebratorycollarforBarney,withhisnameengravedonatagandacity licensealreadyaffixed. Pete even tosseddownacoupleofbeercanstoget their attention, then

waved his stubby fingers atthem from the roof. Thomasstood apart, watching thescenefromafewstepscloserto the curb, keeping an eyeoutforDagger,whohe’dalsohad Evelyn call to join themfortheircelebration.Finally, he saw Peggy’s

sleek lines take the corner atHaight and roll toward theintersection with thealleyway.Daggerhadalready

repaired any sign of damagefrom the skirmish in theTenderloin, and the classicDodge Charger lookedanything but old. Thomasfloated closer to admire thecar,when he noticedDaggermotioning him over to thedriver’s side window. Hemuttered “Excuse me amoment,” to the assembledgroup and floated over toDagger’swindow.

“NotjoiningusforThai?”“Nah.Onceyou’vehadthe

realthing,AmericanizedThaifood leaves you kind of flat.Besides, not much forcelebrations.” The detectivewrinkledhisnose.“Notmuchtocelebrateanyhow.”Thomas frowned. “Didn’t

Evelyn give you all thedetails? Not only did thebreed-specific ordinance geteliminated, Evelyn got it

replacedbyanordinancethatprotectseveryonefromforcedfights. Dog, cats, animals,even OTs. SupervisorBraddockwasquitehelpful.”Dagger raised an eyebrow.

“You have anything to dowiththat?”Thomas started. Did

Dagger think he hadblackmailed the supervisorinto supporting Evelyn’sordinance? He would never

break privilege and hecertainly would neverblackmail someone bythreateningtobreakprivilege.“No.Never.Iwouldnever…couldnever.”Dagger nodded and waved

his left hand dismissively.“No worries. Just had to besure. Braddock’s a good guyand…” thedetective smiled,“… handy in a fight.Probably thinks he’s

protecting the community inhisownway.”Thomas shook his head in

confusion. “You don’tagree?”“Do I look like I need

protection?” replied hisfriend.“ThoughIguesssomedo.”“Then,what?”Dagger stared straight

aheadforafewseconds,thencoaxed Peggy to a purr and

puthishandonthegearshift.“Just don’t take to beinglumped in with dogs andchickens. You might view itas a step forward for OTrights. I justsee itasanothergovernment category, acategory that somedaymightleadtoacage.Idon’t like tobe labeled, tobecategorized.Me, I just want to be who Iam.Takeitorleaveit.”With that¸ his friend, his

co-worker, his comrade inbattle, drove into the nightalone, more alone than SadSadie,forallThomasknew.

OOOGretchen broke away from

the group and headed offThomas as he returned. Shescrunched up her nose. “Bigguy complaining about hisexpensesagain?”Thomas shook his head.

“Nah. Just wasn’t in the

moodtocelebrate.”Gretchen nodded.

“Werewolvescanbeamoodybunch fromwhat I hear, andnot just when the moon isfull.”Thomas involuntarily flew

back almost a foot in shock.“What? I never said … Wehave an obligation tomaintain clientconfidences … How do youknow? I mean, what makes

youthink—”“Relax, Thomas. I’m fond

of canines. Remember?That’s how we got into thiscase.”“But,how?”Gretchen harrumphed.

“Didn’tget tobe thisoldnotpaying attention to what’sgoingonrightundermynose.Don’t you ever look at thosebills for expenses youapprove? The man goes

throughmore clothes… andshoes … than any guy I’veever met. He ain’t thatmetrosexual,soIgottafigurehe’s ripping ’em out at theseamswhenhewolfsout.”Thomas didn’t know what

to say. Even his receptionistsolvedmysteries,itappeared.“Besides,” she continued.

“Dagger doing a job probono?That’s gottamean it’spersonal.Sincetheman’sgot

nofamilyIeverheardof,thatmeanspuppiesarefamily.”Thomasnodded.“So,that’s

whyyou cameover to speakprivately. Youwantedme toknowyouknew?”Gretchen shook her head.

“Nah. Got a phone messagejust before I came outside tomeet you guys to chat withSadie.”“Business can wait a bit,

can’tit?”

“Not this. It was NikaRondik.Youpromisedtotakehercallspromptly.”Gretchen got out her cell

phoneanddialedthecallbacknumber, thenheld thedeviceup to his ear tomake up forthefactThomasstillcouldn’ttouch or hold anythinghimself—a ghostly handicapthatGretchenandEvelynandPetewerealldoingtheirbesttohelpwith.

Someone picked up on thefirst ring. “Nika Rondik.PsychicExtraordinaire.”“Nika, Brock. Thomas

Brock.Youcalled?”“Mr. Brock, thank the

spirits you called. I hope it’snottoolate.”“Too late for what?”

Thomas reflexively lookedathis wrist, but his watch hadstoppedwhenhediedandhecouldn’t wind it, reset it, or

eventakeitoff.“Ihadanothervisionabout

yourfirm,Mr.Brock.Along,complicatedseriesof flashes.Past,present,andfuture.I…Idon’tknowhow tocushiontheblow,soI’mjustgoingtosay it. I know who orderedyourmurder,Thomas.”Thomas could feel himself

becomingmore insubstantial,as if hewanted to hide fromthenews. “I see.”He steeled

himself for the information,forcing his form to firm upand manifest morecorporeally.“Who?”“Your father, Thomas.

Your father ordered yourdeath.”Thomas heard Gretchen

gasp. Holding the phone forhim, he knew she couldn’thelp but overhear theconversation. Thomaswas ata loss for words. True, his

father hated OTs, using hislaw firm to champion casesagainst them. They hadn’tspoken civilly since Harry’smurder,thoughhisfatherhadmade his disdain forThomas’s law practice clear.Could this psychic possiblyberight?“I…er…Thankyou,Ms.

Rondik, for your … insight,but I’m confused. While Iappreciate your

communication, you said itwas urgent. You said youhopeditwasn’ttoolate.”Hismindwasawhirlashedidhisbest tokeep theconversationprofessional. “I’ve been …well, dead for a long timenow.What’ssourgent?”“Your father, he is an evil

man. InmyvisionIsawhimorderasubordinatetoarrangefor you to be … dispersed.Castoutofthisreality.”

There were days, certainlythere were nights, whenThomas wished he’d neverbecomeaghost,thatwhenhewasmurdered,hehadsimplydied and moved on. Butlately, things had beenlooking up. The firm wasbeginning to get on moresolid footing. And it wasclear that he and Evey werehelping people, especiallyOTs. OTs were people, too,

eventhoughthecourtshadn’tsaidsoyet.Hedidn’twanttobe dispersed.Hewould fightit, ifhecouldonlyfigureouthow.Nika was apparently

patient. She waited for himwhilehetookafewmomentsto process this newinformation.“Thankyou.Thankyoufor

thewarning.”“There’smore.”

His father wanted todispersehisghostlyexistenceand obliterate him fromreality. How could therepossiblybemore?“More?”“Hesaidhedidn’twantany

halfway measures this time.This time, they not onlyeliminateyou,theyneedtobesure to get Evelyn andGretchen at the same time.Heevenorderedthemtobash

yourgargoyletopebbles.”Gretchen gasped again.

Even thoughhewasfloating,Thomas somehow feltlightheaded and weak in theknees. Evey. His father hadordered some thug to killEvey.Gretchenlookedupathim.

Yes, there was fear in hereyes, but there was alsodetermination.“Thankyou,Ms.Rondik.I

will take every precaution.”HelookedGretchensquareintheeyeashefinishedthecall.“Trustme.Iwilldowhateveris necessary to stop myfather. Anything. I will doanything to stay in thisworld.”

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AuthorBios

JeanRabe

USATodaybestsellingauthorJean Rabe has penned 32

fantasy and adventure novelsand more than 70 shortstories. When she’s notwriting,whichisn’toften,sheedits ... two dozenanthologies and more than ahundredmagazineissues.Hergenre writing includesmilitary, science-fiction,fantasy, urban fantasy,mystery,horror,andmodern-day action. She lives incentral Illinois near train

tracksthatprovide“music”totypeby,andsharesherofficewith three dogs and a surlyparrot.SheisamemberoftheInternational Association ofMedia Tie-In Writers,InternationalThrillerWriters,and Novelists Inc. Visit herwebsite:jeanrabe.com.

DonaldJ.Bingle

Donald J. Bingle is an oft-

published author in thethriller, science fiction,fantasy, horror, mystery,steampunk, romance,comedy, andmemoir genres,with four other books(including Frame Shop, NetImpact, Forced Conversion,and GREENSWORD) andmore than 50 shorter stories,primarily in DAW-themedanthologies and tie-inanthologies. Many of Don's

stories are electronicallyavailable, individually or inhis Writer on Demand™collections by genre,including “Tales of Gamersand Gaming,” “Tales ofHumorous Horror,” “TalesOutofTime”,“Grim,Faire-Tales,” “Tales of an AlteredPast Powered by Romance,Horror, and Steam, “Not-So-Heroic Fantasy,” and“Shadow Realities.” He is a

member of the ScienceFiction and Fantasy Writersof America, InternationalThriller Writers, HorrorWriters of America,International Association ofMedia Tie-In Writers, GenCon Writer’s Symposium,Origins Game Fair Library,and St. Charles WritersGroup. He was also theworld’s top-ranked player ofclassic roleplaying games for

about fifteen years. Find outmore about him atdonaldjbingle.com.

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