GRAND THEFT SORCERY

ELLIOTT KAY

Copyright © 2024 by Elliott Kay

Cover illustration © 2024 Julie Dillon

Line Design © 2024 Lee Moyer

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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THE GOOD INTENTIONS SERIES

Grand Theft Sorcery is written to stand on its own. However, it shares a world and characters with the Good Intentions series:

Good Intentions

Natural Consequences

Personal Demons

Past Due

WARNING

Grand Theft Sorcery contains explicit sex, explicit violence, explicit criticism of American law enforcement, bilingual profanity, a meet-cute that ends in homicide, conspicuous consumption, Los Angeles, demons, monsters, cops, vampires, talent agents, tautologies, street racing, attempted murder, successful murder, axe murder, motorcycle helmet murder, matching basketball hoodies, carjacking, kidnapping, brief torture, discovery of animal abuse (past/off-page), destruction of evidence, rampant traffic violations, premeditated hotel reservation with Only One Bed, desecration of the dead, awkward meetings with the ex, awkward meetings with the ex’s mom, deadly bisexuals, hypermasculine podcaster trash, acknowledgment of white privilege, false license plates, conspiracy, squatting, looting, mauling, home invasion, trespassing, witchcraft, abuse of authority, aggressive generosity, arguable cannibalism, destruction of private property, search warrant violations, outright lies, phone hacking, petty theft, grand larceny, vandalism, arson, defenestration, resisting arrest, driving under the influence of existential shock, appropriation of queer meme culture, shooting, punching, kicking, biting, couch surfing, bribery of wildlife, old timey Hollywood stereotypes, internet sexism and exploitation thereof, unflattering implications about Heaven and angels, two entirely normal cats, and the Black Dog of the Mojave.

1

GOD ON THE RUN

Evan had already hit rock bottom three times today, and that was before someone threw him down a flight of stairs.

His diaphragm still spasmed from the first punches in the garage. He didn’t struggle, given the inability to breathe and the lock his brawny handlers had on his arms. The eight-figure Hollywood Hills “modern build” monstrosity held two hundred finance bros and D-list celebrities tonight. Not one of them wandered into the hallway to ask what this random server had done, let alone why they dragged him deeper into the house.

Someone ran a card through an electronic slot at a door, and then Evan’s handlers shoved him into the shadows. The first hit from the stairway struck his arm. The next hit his head.

Little of his life flashed before his eyes, to no great loss. Instead, he saw two kittens at the bottom of a dumpster, one black and one grey tabby, crying out for help. He’d been almost as broke when they met. If he died here—Oh god, the cats⁠—!

Hit after hit from the stairs kicked his lungs in and out of working order. He landed in a sprawl with a wheezing intake of air. Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow.

I should’ve stayed home tonight… except he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep Flip-Top and Lily, or his three-year run of actually having a home.

Effective immediately, rent will increase⁠—

Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a position at this time⁠—

We’re going with Leslie and her new guy to Cabo⁠—

It had been the shittiest of days.

Evan knew more than one kind of rock bottom. He grew up there.

“Mike, Donny, what the fuck?” scolded the third guy at the top of the stairs, older than the other two. Frank, if Evan remembered correctly. Bald, goatee, smarmy. “Don’t break his neck yet.”

“Christian said to break his neck. His exact words, soon as we called him.”

“Christian ain’t in charge. Gimme a sec.”

Lights came on, confirming the puddle under Evan’s face was in fact his own blood. He had looked good when he arrived, clean-shaven and his sandy blond hair recently cut short, but he’d be one big bruise soon. His server’s uniform black and crisp down to the ironed creases and apron ties, showed more of his own blood.

Evan looked up to find a white sheet draped over some painting in an ornate frame. More sheets hung all around, covering statues and other artwork. Neatly-stacked crates took up most of the bespoke white cabinetry in a basement as modern and pristine as the rest of the house. Two shelves held dozens of artful porcelain flower vases, all of them capped for some reason. Not enough room upstairs to show off all the art? thought Evan. Maybe they moved the precious stuff down here for the party. Don’t wanna get your Rembrandt covered in wine. Or blood.

His nose didn’t feel broken when he pinched it to stop the bleeding. Other bones still worried him, though, from limbs to ribs.

“Don’t move, asshole,” said one of the goons descending the stairs. They, too, dressed in black for the party, but wore blazers rather than aprons. “Stay down.”

Despite the instruction, Evan twisted and propped himself on an elbow, then turned on his hip to rise further. Getting up had always been among his bad habits.

He was better about shutting up. Early in his teens, he learned the cardinal rules of crime and subterfuge: Nothing is wrong, act like you belong, say less. Those rules had worked out time and again. They got him through most of the party tonight, too—right up until the punching started. Now he had to talk… once he could breathe again.

“License says Evan Murphy, lives in Hawthorne,” reported Donny. “Twenty-two, if this is real. Nothin’ else in his wallet but some fives and tens. No debit card, no insurance, no… hold on.”

“His phone is old as shit, too,” said Frank, missing Donny’s pause. “Thumbprint didn’t work any better than facial rec. Even if we beat a passcode out of him, I bet there’s nothin’ on it.”

“Frank, look,” said Donny. “Business card.”

“Shit. ‘Arneson Recoveries?’ You’ve gotta be kidding me,” said Frank. “You’re a repo man?”

“Not kidding,” Evan groaned. “Christian’s five payments behind on that Lamborghini. The key fob came from the dealer.”

“Bullshit. You can’t repo anything out of someone’s garage. This is private property.”

“It’s a public event,” said Evan. “Somebody filed with the city to make this a charity thing. I had to stop and leave as soon as someone got in my way. Tried to explain, but the punching kind of interrupted me.”

The three goons shared long looks. Evan wished he’d brought a fake ID, but this job always held a chance of ending with cops and handcuffs. Exploiting the public event technicality was dodgy enough. Everything else had to be strictly legal in case he got caught.

Security might have exceeded their legal right to beat Evan’s ass. That sort of concern didn’t seem to be on their mind.

“Lotta effort to repossess a car,” said Mike.

“It’s a limited-edition Lamborghini Countach,” said Evan. “I don’t take family minivan jobs. Christian’s rich. And he’s an asshole.”

Frank, Mike, and Donny all looked like they couldn’t argue with that.

“Motherfucker, where is he?” shouted someone above, presumably in the hallway. He grew louder as he got closer. “Is he down there?”

“Christian, hold on—hey!” Frank complained.

Six feet and two inches of celebrity-athlete-influencer shoved past Frank and Mike, gold chains bouncing between a half-open silk shirt and olive skin. The wraparound shades made the biggest statement of his ensemble, given the late hour. Christian Miller crossed the stairs in a rush that would’ve ended in a faceplant if Evan had any luck.

He did not. Evan turned to take Christian’s first kick against his hip rather than something more vulnerable. It still hurt like hell. So did the follow-up.

“My car?” Christian stomped on Evan’s shoulder and back. “You tried to steal my fucking car?”

Tough it out, tough it out, you’ve gotta—“Oof!” Christian’s foot kicked the rest of that thought out of Evan’s skull. Though healthy enough, Evan’s resilience had always been more mental than physical. He knew when he had no choice but to endure. Beyond the legal problems, Evan wasn’t in much shape to defend himself. He managed only a partial block when Christian grabbed his hair and held his head up for a sloppy but furious punch to the temple.

“Motherfucker,” Christian shouted, letting Evan drop.

“You said that already,” said Mike.

“Shut up! How the fuck could you let this happen?”

“We didn’t,” said Frank. “We caught him and took care of it. Your car is fine and here he is. Nobody knows anything happened.”

“Gimme a gun,” Christian huffed. “I know one of you has a gun. I’m gonna kill him myself.”

Evan’s eyes widened. Oh fuck.

“We’re not givin’ you a weapon. Fuck outta here,” said Frank.

“Fine, I’ll get my own.”

“You will not.” The door slammed shut. Steady footsteps descended, hard soles clapping the stairs. The newcomer took control of the situation with an assertive, annoyed voice. “Seriously, you brought him here? Some of this is more than mere art. Pull him away from the stairs. Someone hold his arms back. And stop shouting.”

Mike got behind Evan and pulled on both hands, crushing Evan’s fingers together while raising him painfully to his knees. Frank, Donny, and Christian loomed behind someone Evan had seen mingling upstairs: middle aged but fit, short dark hair, a tight beard, suit with all but a tie. It was a party, after all. He had the look of a corporate executive. “Explain,” he said.

“He came with the caterers,” said Donny. “Servers are all gig work. We don’t know them. He didn’t have that, ah, glow you told us to watch out for, but he gave me that other thing with the shakes. ‘Sense of an enemy,’ right? It’s the only reason I saw him sneak off to the garage. Said he was just looking around, but he was at Christian’s Lamborghini with a key fob in his hand.”

Glow? Shakes? What the fuck? Evan wondered.

“Did he have anything on him?” asked the apparent boss.

“Only a Leatherman—it’s a multitool. Phone’s old and locked, wallet’s mostly empty.”

“Strange circumstances for mere car theft, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, about that,” said Frank. “He says he’s here to repossess the car, not steal it. Says our boy is behind on payments. Also, is this party a public event? Legally?”

The little bounce in Christian’s posture and fuming red color in his face spoke of embarrassment beneath his rage. “This party was supposed to be about my products and my podcast. I wanted guests with connections and people with money. You decided you wanted to do your thing here. That wasn’t my call.”

“You haven’t paid for your car?” asked the boss.

“I’ll settle that. Don’t worry about it. Thought they got the message already.”

“Let’s not waste time on this, then.” The boss’s eyes turned on Evan, cold and intense, and… red? “Whom do you serve?”

A chill ran through Evan. His mind clouded, reeling with sudden vertigo. “What? Nobody,” he answered. “I work for Arneson Recoveries. Brett. My boss is Brett.”

“Why are you here? Tell me the truth.”

His mind hurt. It frightened him more than any punch or kick. He didn’t understand what was happening, let alone how to resist. Confusion compelled him as much as pain or fear.

“I came to repo Christian’s car,” Evan explained in a rush. “He knows it’s open to repo, so he only takes it to private property. I watched his social media and realized this party was a chance to grab it.”

“Are you here alone?”

“Ghuuuh. Y-yeah.” Evan shivered. God, are his eyes glowing? Does the room have a gas leak? He didn’t smell anything, but his head⁠—

“You’re merely an agent for recovery of this debt? Nothing else? Tell me the rest.”

“I’m only part time. Won’t take the shit jobs that hurt normal people. This one pays big and I need the money. I’m about to lose my shitty studio and⁠—”

The boss grabbed his jaw. “Tonight. Us. The party. What do you know about this party?”

“Rich people and groupies. Christian’s launching a line of bad shoes. Publicity shit.”

“Bad? Man, fuck you,” Christian fumed.

The boss almost smirked. “You came for a financial score? Nothing else?”

“Christian’s an asshole and I kinda wanted to ruin his day,” Evan confessed, and then blinked. Wow, I did not mean to share that. Did they drug me?

“Really,” said the boss.

“How am—fuck you,” Christian repeated. “Where do you get off?”

“You tell your listeners condoms are a Chinese conspiracy to turn Western men into betas. You tell them paying child support is ‘paying to be a cuck.’ You have your listeners harass online streamers when they won’t date you. You’re fucking trash.” Evan stared; Christian stared back. Evan wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised, but the clouds had lifted from his mind. “Wow, guess I wanted to get that out.”

“You would have found greater safety in apathy, Mr. Murphy.” The boss straightened and adjusted his shirt. “Well. I believe him.”

“What do you want us to do, Anatole?” asked Frank.

“You leave him here while I beat him to death,” said Christian.

“He didn’t ask you,” Anatole sighed.

“The repo’s blown,” Evan rasped. He lifted his head. Didn’t beg, didn’t plead. If all the punches hadn’t shown that was pointless, the trip down the stairs sure made it clear. Still, the truth was worth a shot. “It was over as soon as someone got in my way. I’m supposed to leave. You can dump me on the curb. Who’s gonna care?”

Frank considered it. “Easier. Less mess.”

“True, but let’s take no chances,” said Anatole. “If he planned to leave with that car, he will not have one of his own nearby. Frank, erase and replace any security video of this incident. I’m hardly worried about an investigation, but let’s not be sloppy. Do not delay.”

“Anatole, this guy’s a nobody,” Christian argued.

“The same cannot be said for everyone here. Tonight is a matter of delicate diplomacy. Some of our guests upstairs will sense a death, perhaps even through the wards. That will complicate things. Most of our own security aren’t allowed in this room. It is sealed for a reason. You were fools to open it.”

“We had to get him out of sight fast,” said Frank. “This was the only sure bet.”

“He’s here now,” Anatole decided. “The wards hold. And Christian has one point: he is no one. It won’t hurt to keep him down here, as long as he cannot leave.” He gestured to Donny, still holding Evan on the floor, and stepped behind him.

A sharp stomp crushed Evan’s foot. A scream leaped from his throat, cut short by Donny’s knee in the small of his back. Pain seized his wits while he felt his arm twisted and struck behind the shoulder. He felt the joint pop, and with it, the bone.

They left him face-down on the floor, gasping in agony. There were footsteps and words he couldn’t track. The lights went out. The door closed and locked with a beep.

Conversation and pop music filled the otherwise empty hallway. Christian’s party had split his excessive home between groups of moneyed, well-dressed networking and public-facing internet immaturity. Anatole appreciated the former, at least, but both ends of the spectrum provided cover for his own needs. He should have known they might bring complications, too.

Elizabeth met him at the basement door. Her high-necked, sparkling black dress and pinned blonde hair fit the party, but she watched the hallway for trouble with professional diligence as the door sealed and the group disbanded. Christian sulked away to his party. Frank and the others turned to their responsibilities.

“Mundane trouble, apparently,” Anatole explained to her under the din of the party. “Christian is behind on his absurd expenses.”

“A bill collector?” Elizabeth’s brow rose in doubt.

“Of a sort, or so the intruder himself believes. No sign of magic at work. The guards wouldn’t have caught him without the enchantment to raise their vigilance. If anyone put our intruder up to this, he doesn’t know it. Are they waiting?”

“Yes, all gathered on the upper deck. I hesitated to leave them, but Aminah is there.”

“Not the first time her diplomacy worked in our favor.” Anatole started walking beside her. “Anything from Jan?”

“He’s on the monitors. Lexington is with him for arcane advice. They’ve seen no problems. I had to shoo a couple of our hired hands away from the hall.”

“As long as they took no interest in the door?” Anatole saw her head shake. “Good enough.”

They rounded the small steps into a living room full of mingling suits and dresses and continued up the main stairs. Guests thinned out on the second floor. “You used an elixir when the warning came?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

“Only of ashes. We have plenty. Does it show?”

“No. I saw you pull the vial from your pocket. You appear normal.”

“Best of both worlds, as promised.” They came to a door flanked by trusted guards in suits. Anatole kept his voice low. “Watch for tricks.”

“Of course.”

The balcony to Christian’s home overlooked his extravagant pool patio full of partiers and music, opening out to the hillside view of Los Angeles under a starless night. Guests on the balcony took more interest in one another than the party spectacle—though they mingled less.

Predictably, those who could stand one another’s company had sorted themselves and separated from mortal enemies. Mitsuyo stood almost alone at the center of the deck, beautiful and serene in a modern white gown, dark hair draped to one side, and her breath showing over her unnaturally frosted drink. She provided an unspoken boundary, dividing both rivalries and practical matters of comfort among the company.

To one side of Mitsuyo, Aminah chatted with Uthman. Her conservative blue dress and beaded scarf matched her mature beauty, while Uthman appeared darkly handsome and broad-shouldered as always—but djinn and ifrit could look however they liked. In their case, it helped cover how much Uthman wanted to put a knife in Aminah’s back.

Others in attendance had more open hostilities. Sergio almost dressed for the party, while Cooper kept to his “Real American” t-shirt and ballcap; both big men stayed on opposite sides of the balcony, just as their werewolf packs stayed on opposite edges of the city. All three of the vampires clashed in style as well as ambition: Teng Yang in club clothes from the seventies, “Lady Felicia” in her pink wig, shades, and silver fabrics, and Mr. Solomon in his Old Hollywood dark suit and glasses. As much as they hated one another, they all wanted Mitsuyo’s frosty aura between themselves and the subtle, radiant heat from Uthman and Aminah.

Stylishly dressed and quietly observant, Latasha represented a circle of sorcerers with a bent toward nature, and Aminah’s best allies outside the djinn. Hang Li claimed no circle since arriving from China a decade ago, but seemed friendly with both women. Other Practitioners had fewer alliances: Cliff Baker spoke for the well-heeled Orange Curtain, while Roger Harrell, also in a nice suit, left business cards for the Universalis Church everywhere. Quietly surprising everyone, Enrique came on behalf of Diecisiete, but still refused to tell more of the city’s oldest Practitioner circle than to confirm their existence.

Not every circle sent someone, nor did all the werewolf packs. The oni didn’t answer at all. Still, a turnout like this was beyond Anatole’s hopes.

“I hope I haven’t kept anyone waiting,” Anatole began. “Thank you all for coming. This may not be anyone’s preferred environment, but…” He held his hands out to the partiers at the pool. “Company and witnesses provide diplomatic reassurance.”

“And you get to impress us with your connections,” said Teng.

“It’s not that. Normies are a safety blanket,” said Cooper.

“If we’re to be blunt, yes,” Anatole conceded. “The nightlife in this city has been tense of late. We’ve all seen recent trouble. Several of us thought an open meeting might clear the air.”

“Shit, is this about them?” Sergio pointed dismissively. “The big boss vampire died months ago and they’re still fighting to be King of Loser Hill. Who cares? What’s that got to do with us?”

“Be nice,” Mitsuyo murmured. “No shouting.”

“Someone stole from us,” Lady Felicia shot back. “We’ll find out who, and they’ll pay.”

Mitsuyo eyed Felicia and the other vampires. “Would you like me to step away?”

Felicia glanced past her to the scowling werewolf at one side and the djinn and ifrit at the other. “No,” Felicia squeaked.

“Nobody cares about your dead daddy vampire and his Scrooge McDuck vault but you,” said Latasha.

“Then you know of it,” said Solomon.

“Your inquiries haven’t been quiet,” said Hang Li. “Nor has your infighting over the issue.”

“That is not what brings us together.” Aminah quieted the bickering with little effort. Few here held her in warm regard, but no one wanted to be on her bad side as de facto leader of the Los Angeles djinn. “One of my people has been killed: Haisam, an elder, and longtime resident of this city. Some of you knew him. He was fatally mauled in his home by some beast.”

Eyes turned to Sergio at one end of the deck and Cooper at the other.

“Wasn’t one of mine,” said Sergio. “Wouldn’t deny it. Don’t care.”

“I dunno who you’re talking about. Wasn’t us, either,” said Cooper. “Got no reason.”

“Spencer Wood was also killed days ago,” Uthman spoke up. “He was a Practitioner, friendly to my people. His body had hardly a drop of blood left when we discovered him.”

“Wait,” said Baker. “My circle suffered a murder, too—not a sorcerer, but a close associate. He handled our finances. A woman shot him in his office two weeks ago. A necromancer in my circle conjured up the echoes from the murder. The killer told him, ‘Don’t beg, it’s only business.’ And she said it in Spanish.” Baker looked from Enrique to Sergio.

The two men stared back—as did the rest of the group. “Forty percent of LA County speaks Spanish, you dumb fuck,” said Enrique.

“Not much of a necromancer if she could only hear the echo,” said Latasha.

“Doesn’t anyone—?” Cliff pointed to Enrique. “Hardly anyone here even knows you. And that djinn Hussein was⁠—”

“Haisam,” Aminah corrected.

“You said he was mauled. Teeth and claws, right? Who could do that to a djinn but a werewolf?”

“Dickhead, if you think any pack in the southwest gives a damn what language someone speaks, you’re dumber than you look,” said Sergio. “We don’t know these people. We don’t care.”

“Neither do we,” said Cooper.

“The lack of interest is as concerning as the murders themselves,” said Aminah. “You claim not to care, but you see the danger. Suspicion is enough to bring retaliation, and then we spiral. We have never been a community, but we have coexisted without falling into chaos or war. The nightlife in many other places cannot say the same. I have seen it. We do not want that.”

“Then what do you propose?” asked Teng.

“This open dialogue is a start,” Aminah answered. “We recognize coinciding losses and mutual interest. If we agree to investigate these murders⁠—”

“Not you,” Uthman interrupted, calmly but assertively. “I think we all see where this is going. Someone must act as the investigator and interlocutor. Someone else. Not you.”

“Then do you have a suggestion?” asked Latasha.

Eyes turned to Mitsuyo, who declined with a tilt of her head. “I came here only for the warmth and space. This is already more socializing than I desire.”

“And I will not answer to some yuki-onna outcast—!” Teng’s voice froze under Mitsuyo’s gaze and her quiet smile. The last of his breath came out in a frosty cloud. A vampire only needed air to speak, but the point was made… and she held her gaze.

“Mitsuyo. We seek peace,” Aminah prodded quietly. “Please. For me.”

Mitsuyo turned away. Teng shuddered as he’d been released from a literal hook. “I will ask the oni for you,” said Mitsuyo, “but I do not think they are involved. This does not sound like them.”

“Our host has mediated between my people and the werewolves in the past,” said Uthman. “Anatole has good relations with most of us. He is neither djinn nor ifrit, nor werewolf or vampire. Not even a member of any Practitioner circle, if I am correct?”

“You are,” said Anatole.

“That doesn’t make him a neutral party,” said Latasha.

“No, but he’s closer to neutral than we’ll find among our factions,” said Uthman.

“I have no authority,” Anatole noted, his hands open. “We have no laws and no ruler. I’d only be asking questions and mediating, but as Aminah suggests, it would be out in the open.” He gave her a deferential nod. “I share your interest in peace among the nightlife.”

“I am in favor,” said Solomon.

“Mister Anatole is polite,” said Mitsuyo. “He is acceptable.”

Lady Felicia shrugged. “Whatever.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” said Sergio.

“We have nothing to hide in all this.” Baker looked around the deck. “I’m hearing mild support, but no real objections…?”

Though she frowned, Aminah nodded.

Anatole kept his smile cordial and polite. Minor complications aside, he couldn’t have hoped for a better night.

Oh fuck. Oh god oh fuck ow ow ow fuck.

They’re gonna kill me.

I can’t move. Foot’s broken. Arm’s broken. Can’t…

Merely breathing hurt. Anatole definitely broke bones; those injuries were almost enough to make him forget all Christian had done, and the tumble down the stairs. It was much worse than anything Dad had ever done. Worse than anyone… but he could breathe.

He could move, even if it hurt. Two and a half limbs could still crawl.

I can’t stay here.

“Ohhh fuck fuck fuck,” Evan hissed. Moving hurt much worse than he expected. It didn’t matter. He had to move more. Two cats. Friends. A life, sort of. Everything had fallen apart before, and he survived. He could do this, too. Had to.

He thought he’d seen a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. That had to be the first step. Get some light, find a weapon or a tool or an option. Maybe set a fire and force the fire department to come down here. Something.

That required turning around first. Evan pushed with his good arm and leg. “Nnnggh!”

Between pain and pitch darkness, he wasn’t entirely sure if he passed out. His eyes eventually found a little red dot on the wall. It matched the light switch, assuming he wasn’t disoriented. Fine. Good enough. Get there.

Stars burst behind his eyelids. He grit his teeth, held back the whimper that would only make him feel weaker, and crawled.

Whether his vision adjusted quickly to the darkness or he passed out again, Evan opened his eyes to dim shapes. He was sure of the little red LED now, and the placement of the stairs. Racks and boxes were easy to identify. He could make out shadows in the darkness, cast by some faint light source behind him.

One push toward the red light led to the next. He crawled, sucked up the pain, and crawled more. A bolder push bumped him into the nearest shelf, tipping over one of the capped vases. It landed with a clank and a cloud of dust that made him cough.

No. Not dust, he realized. Ashes. That’s ash. What the fuck? Are they all like that?

He pushed away from it, caught a clearer breath, and pushed again.

“Evan.”

He stopped. The faint bump of music from the party died off some time ago. He heard no movement or breathing. The voice didn’t sound natural. Too distant, too soft.

“Evan.”

Head trauma, he decided. He crawled another few inches. It hurt like hell.

“Evan.”

“Delirium doesn’t help,” he croaked irritably.

“You do not surrender.” The voice held more observation than assurance. Evan couldn’t identify an accent. A woman, maybe? “Why?”

What the fuck? Why would I ask myself… wait, is this motivational? Like the counseling I got with student health insurance? The community college only covered a few sessions, but at the time, Evan figured anything was better than nothing. After all he’d been through, he knew he had to talk to someone. Was that where this came from?

Hell, am I going into shock? I probably should be.

“Evan. Answer.”

“What the fuck good does surrender do?”

The light never rose beyond an ambient, middle-of-the-night blue. Enough to guide a wanderer out of bed, or enough to fall back to sleep. It came from behind him. He was sure of that now.

“Where do you find this strength?”

“Hhhhheh.” Sure, why not? Motivational, right? “Mom died; Dad threw me out. I was fourteen. Looking for help made it worse. Had to… figure things out on my own. Take care of myself.”

“I sense deep anger, but also empathy. Charity. Strength.” Her voice never really touched his ears, but he didn’t imagine it. “You are the first person of any merit allowed in my presence in centuries. We need one another, Evan.”

“Uuhhh…” He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

The soft light grew, and with it came a rush of relief. Pain ebbed from his shoulder and foot, and soon the rest of his body. Bones mended and returned to place without so much as discomfort. His right shoulder and arm supported weight again. So did his leg.

A final shuddering breath carried away the last of his pain. He didn’t even feel tired.

“Evan.”

He didn’t imagine his sudden recovery. He didn’t imagine the voice, either.

Warily, Evan turned and stood. The palest shade of blue glowed from the seams of a plastic crate on a top shelf. It was unmarked, just rounded corners and metal latches, but he saw no locks or handles.

“Tell me you’re not a talking box,” he said.

“I am not a box. I am within the box,” answered the voice.

“Ah. Okay. Let’s go with whatever this is. Magic? It’s magic, right? Not aliens? Feels more fantasy than sci-fi. Gotta be one of the two.”

“This is not fantasy. Your peril is dire.”

“Kinda caught that.”

“Your peril is greater than you know. I, too, face a grave fate. We can save one another,” said the voice in the box. “You are healed. You must help me, Evan.”

“Whoa. Hold on. I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You thought you were delirious. I had to convince you of reality. Your injuries are healed. Do you still doubt? Do you doubt this strongly in your dreams, too?”

“…wow,” Evan mumbled. “Rude.”

“I didn’t expect ingratitude,” the voice grumbled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have healed you without an agreement first.”

“Thank you,” he blurted, and then stopped himself. He was arguing with a box… but he also couldn’t ignore his experiences. “I’m grateful, just… Glowing, talking box—voice in a box, sorry—in a scary basement for scary people, and you want out. Feels like the kind of deal that makes everything worse. Cautionary tale, horror movie, Greek myth stuff. Monkey’s paw.”

“I am none of those.”

“What are you? Who are you? Alien, ghost, genie in a bottle, er, box?”

“You invoke names without understanding them,” said the voice. “I am no ghost. I am not of the djinn. I am Mitu, and humanity has long forgotten me. Most of my time reaches back further than the history you know. I had much in common with the angels, but I am not of Heaven, and I would not bend the knee.”

“Angels,” said Evan. “Okay. We’ll go with that.”

“Many things you believe myth are real, Evan. You face more than one such being tonight. You sensed the power behind Anatole’s voice when he compelled you to speak.”

He did. He had questions about that, too, but: “Keep on topic. You wouldn’t bend the knee? To whom, the angels? God? Like, as in Christianity God, or… Islam? Same? Who are we talking about here?”

Mitu let out a sad laugh. “There was a time when mortals merely believed their gods superior, before denying the existence of all others. Eventually, most gods faded or moved on, or turned to the Pit. The angels left few alternatives. I would not bow, nor would I descend. As mortals turned from me, I did not hold them back, but the angels would brook no potential rival.”

“You’re… you mean, like a god?” asked Evan.

“I claimed no such name.”

“Okay, but that sounds like a god. A forgotten god, in a box, in an asshole hockey star’s basement in the Hollywood Hills.”

“Evan.”

“Sorry. Keep going.”

“I fled and hid until my last followers died out, millennia ago. This box holds my last tie to this world. It is an idol, found in a cave by Roman soldiers, then taken by secret masters with great ambitions. My idol passed from one shadow to another until claimed by a petty monster named Cornelius. He kept the idol as a mere trinket on a shelf for centuries; this room is filled with the treasures of his long unlife. Anatole stole this hoard when Cornelius died. I am forgotten, yet still imprisoned, and further jeopardy looms. As I said, you are the first person of any merit to come within reach in a very long time.

“My story spans millennia, Evan. Your life may end tonight. We do not have much time. The dangers you face are greater than you know. Anatole employs monsters and magic, and I am unsure of his true nature. I need your help, and you need my power to escape.”

Evan sucked in another breath. His situation was bad enough without existential revelations and magic… but Anatole did break his bones with unnatural ease. And there was that whole glowing eye thing, and the “glow” that concerned his goons.

“Alright. Whatever we do, I’m sure it’s bad for the bad guys, too. Fuck ’em.”

“Open this box.”

Slowly, wary of heat or electricity or who-knew-what from that glow, Evan complied. He felt nothing but plastic and metal at his fingertips, and it wasn’t heavy. He set the box on the floor and popped the latches.

Radiance from within overpowered Evan’s vision, though without glare or disorientation. If anything, he felt new relief to his fear and trepidation. The light neither threatened nor harmed. It also didn’t last, diminishing into carved marble nestled in dark foam padding. He found a crude and simple bust no larger than his hands if held together, with upward arcs like wings to either side. If facial features had ever been part of the carving, age wore them away. Finer characteristics showed only as shallow creases.

The light faded completely, plunging the room into darkness—yet his eyes took in color, fine detail, and distance. He saw the pitch-black room as if under a soothing shade.

“This… this carving isn’t you, is it?”

“The carving is only an idol,” said Mitu, “kept by the last of my mortal followers. It holds me here. If I am to leave, I must escape. We must escape. Free me, and I will owe you.”

“Owe me? Wait, you said I owed you.”

“Our enemies may kill you, but they cannot take your soul. My peril is greater. We are not the same, Evan. The debt will be mine.”

“Okay. Sure. Owe me what?”

“All that I have left to give,” said Mitu. “You would call it sorcery. The angels will not see a threat in such power invested in a mortal. Others wield magic, though they come to it differently. You will gain in a moment what they strive years to learn.”

“Then what’s the catch?” Evan asked. “There’s always a catch.”

“Rightly or wrongly, the angels tolerate only so much, and mortal forces still determine mortal paths. Magic may change lives, but it does not change the world. Secondly, this power and the fight ahead may earn you enemies. You will have to live with that.”

“Is that the only catch?”

“You must let me go, Evan. The angels still hunt me. I wish to leave this world. My release will not be difficult, but you must carry me from here, and you must agree to let me go.”

“Then what? You go away to wherever and I go about my life?”

“Yes,” said Mitu. “You will see in any darkness as you see now. You will heal as I have healed you, from injury or sickness. You will never be without weapons and armor, and you will learn tools others cannot match. You will never be lost.”

A distant slam caught his ear, muffled by concrete walls, but reminding him they weren’t really alone and didn’t have much time. “Alright, let’s go,” said Evan. “What do I doooooo?”

Light returned, glowing from the idol and now his own body. He felt a rush like the pull of a rollercoaster and wind on his skin. As soon as he could put names to the sensations, they vanished, along with the new light. “The fuck was that?”

“The investment of my power,” said Mitu, “now yours. It is done.”

“I don’t feel any different. I feel normal. All better, physically. But normal.”

“You are still human and mortal, and will remain so. You will sense the rest with time, but we have little of it. Will you trust me?”

“Kinda committed already, yeah,” said Evan.

Without thinking, without really choosing, Evan curled up his left arm and made a fist. Faint light shimmered in tiny dots across his body, hand and torso and legs all at once, and then vanished. Once again, he felt nothing.

“Armor,” said Mitu. “It can be overwhelmed. You are not invincible. Try not to test its limits.”

Evan scratched his hand. “Still not feeling a difference. It’s just my skin.”

“This is sorcery, not iron and boiled leather.”

“Y’know, when you said, ‘armor,’ I thought more like Kevlar.”

“I do not know what that is.”

Evan frowned. “Mitu, do you know what guns are?”

“Vaguely. They kill at distance, like arrows or stones from a sling, yes? Your magic holds much the same power.”

“Oh boy,” Evan sighed. “Alright. We work with what we’ve got. The healing magic is still amazing. Cheaper than medical bills, too, so that’s awesome.”

“Your injuries are healed, but blood remains. This is easily cleansed.”

Evan waved his right hand in a circle, pulling and making a fist. Blood, sweat, ashes, and grime flew from his body, disappearing entirely. He looked down at clean clothes and skin and wondered how he knew to do that.

“Whoa. Where did it go?”

“Nowhere. It is gone. Destroyed.”

“It’s physical matter,” said Evan. “You can’t create or destroy matter.”

“Magic can,” said Mitu. “It is a tiny amount of matter, to be missed by no one. More meaningful measures are beyond your abilities, but trivialities of fluid and grime? These are of no consequence.”

“No consequence?” Evan repeated the motion intentionally this time, staring at the trail of his own blood reaching to the bottom of the stairs. It, too, flew toward his hand and vanished, along with the strands of his hair and scuffs on the tile. “That’s my DNA, Mitu. That’s evidence.”

“Mortals of this era may have concerns beyond my understanding,” Mitu conceded.

The mess of ashes diminished with the effect. One more try purged the ashes entirely, leaving only their empty vessel. “What’s with all the urns?”

“Cornelius kept the remains of vanquished foes and executed subjects. To him, they were trophies. Anatole found some greater value to them, but I do not know why.”

“Gross. Okay, how do we get out of here?”

“We haven’t the power to work greater wonders. Magic will aid, but you must leave on your own. I believe you will have to fight.”

“Great.”

“I will not control you, but you will know what you can do when you need. Will you trust me?”

Evan still had a million questions. Magical healing was huge, but it had to have limits or costs. Mitu’s idea of weapons and armor didn’t exactly match his. So far, the only magic he really understood was the effect on his eyes.

Muffled voices at the top of the stairs forced his decision. He could see in the dark; might as well use it. “Sure. I trust you.”

His gaze snapped toward the ceiling lamp, and his hand followed. A tiny, faintly shimmering orb shot from his open palm to shatter the bulb. Evan blinked with only half a realization before he waved and shot out the next. He struck the third and final lamp in time with the beep and unlatch of the lock at the top of the stairs. The sound of the door covered the last tinkle of broken glass.

Click. Click-click. “Shit,” grunted Mike. “No lights.”

“Careful,” said Donny.

“He isn’t special, right? He didn’t glow like the others,” said Mike.

“Don’t take chances. Let’s get⁠—”

Evan whipped around the stairway railing to cast another shot. Light streaked up the stairs to hit Donny in the chest, staggering him back from the doorway. Though wary and armed, Mike had his gun low. Evan threw one more orb before he fired. “Gah, fuck!” Mike turned with the blow, opening himself to a follow-up that put him down.

Evan flinched. “Shit! Did I kill them?” he hissed.

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“My power needs time to truly take hold, and killing was not your first instinct. You must strike again to finish them.”

“How about if we don’t do that?” Evan crept up the stairs, watching and listening for danger.

“They imprisoned and tormented you, Evan. They intend to kill you. Their paths have taken them beyond redemption.”

“Yeah, and they’re down,” he murmured.

The long hallway was clear, though more than one corner opened to other parts of the house. He heard no more conversation or music, which fit their plans to kill him after the party. Donny held his chest and softly groaned. Mike was out cold with a brutal abrasion on his head.

Evan stuck to the trick that had already shown value: he threw tiny orbs of light into the ceiling lamps, plunging the hallway into darkness. Mindful of the two goons at his feet, Evan kicked Mike’s pistol down the stairs. His foot hesitated at Donny’s gun. He didn’t know guns, but he also didn’t really know magic.

“What the fuck is happening? What am I throwing? Are they bullets? Rocks?”

“It is the luminosity of the infinite night sky,” said Mitu.

“I’m throwing stars?”

“Only as the ancients saw and imagined them. It is your simplest weapon.”

Shimmering light had accompanied the healing effect, and his ‘armor’. He could see in the dark. He flung tiny bits of… his shoulders sagged. “You gave me sparkle-magic?”

“I gave you the power to save your life. Blatant effects such as your weapons are rare even among master sorcerers. Are you unhappy with the aesthetic?”

“Fine.” Evan kicked Donny’s pistol after Mike’s; better to rely on magic than shoot himself by accident. Mitu’s idol already kept one hand occupied, anyway. He got moving. “What’s the glow they’re talking about? Is that star-stuff, too?”

“They must have some way to recognize magical power,” said Mitu. “It is likely a ritual bound to this home, or a spell upon the guards. I don’t believe it defeats darkness, or these guards would have seen you. Shadow is still to your advantage. Do you know where you are going?”

“Garage, I hope. I think it’s this way. We need a car to get out of here.”

“I have heard of cars. That is why you came, yes? It is truly necessary for our escape?”

“No, but the garage is the closest exit I⁠—”

The door at the end of the hall opened, producing two more men in suits—and Christian. Light spilled from behind them. “Shit! Shoot him!” Christian blurted. The goons had the same instinct, reaching inside their jackets.

Evan followed his instincts, too. The hallway branched right and upstairs. He bolted.

“You have magic!” Mitu began. Gunfire drowned out her guidance. Rounds flew past Evan’s head and smashed drywall at the hallway junction. One bullet shattered the handrail as he passed.

“Guns bad!” Evan blurted.

“Yes. I understand now. Your armor should help.” Mitu paused. “Try not to test it.”

“Ya think?” Evan emerged into the broad lower living room: pricy-but-neutral décor, emphasis on space, most of the lights still on, no more guests or staff—except for another thick-looking guy in a dark suit with a gun in hand. Genuine intent flew with another of Evan’s tiny stars, knocking the man through a glass coffee table behind him.

“He should survive,” said Mitu.

Evan put his back to one side of the stairway and flung tiny stars at the living room lights. Windows and a sliding door to the pool prevented complete darkness.

“Ground floor! He’s glowing,” warned a voice from downstairs. Evan winced; not only was the gunfire enough to draw attention from anyone inside, but apparently enough security remained on hand to require coordination.

“Please tell me I can do more than this,” said Evan.

“With time, yes. Right now⁠—”

The guards rushed the stairs. Evan didn’t dare pop out and throw his little stars while they had guns and running would only make him an easy target. He launched his elbow at the first guy to reach the top, Mitu’s idol still in hand. The other man kept his pistol in close rather than held forward like in all the movies. Evan heard the bang and felt something hard hit his hip, but his right cross was already in motion.

His fist landed at full force and with a brilliant flash of light. The guard snapped backward into the wall with a shriek of pain, trailing whisps of smoke and burnt cloth. His partner went down, too.

“Or you could just punch them with magic, I suppose,” grumbled Mitu.

Evan barely noticed her. Worse, though the pair of goons tumbled down the stairs, a third figure shoved through them. Christian’s podcaster nonsense could overshadow his first career, but he was a legitimate hockey star. He tackled Evan and brought him down hard.

It wasn’t Evan’s first brawl, but it was his first against a professional meat shield. A hefty shoulder plowed into his gut, and then the back of his skull hit the hardwood floor, with only adrenaline to mitigate his woes. That flash of light with his punch seemed to discharge whatever armor Mitu had given him.

Evan drove his fist into Christian’s ear before the other man rose, then again into his jaw. He kicked Christian off, buying a little space, but both men remained on the floor and Evan was still on his back. No more bursts of light accompanied his fists, as if he was out of magic. He had one more weapon, at least.

Christian planted a solid shot on Evan’s cheek. Evan returned the favor with the marble carving in his other hand. Christian’s face went slack, and his body followed.

“Okay, that felt good,” Evan exhaled.

“Don’t hit him with me!” Mitu protested.

“I thought this wasn’t you!”

“It’s close enough,” she replied sourly. “I was going to suggest conjuring a spectral blade or a blast of fire. Perhaps terrify them with a glimpse into the deathless infinity beyond all mortal skies. Something simple.”

“Ow. My hip,” he winced as he kicked free from Christian. “Wait, did I get shot? I don’t even have a hole in my clothes.”

“Magic,” she reiterated. “And luck. Renew your armor, and try not to test it against such a weapon again.”

“Hold on.” Evan rolled his defeated foe over and patted him down. “C’mon, c’mon, yes!” He pulled the keychain from Christian’s pocket with relief. Naturally, Christian had gone to check on his car, and for that he wanted his key fob. “Cry about this on your fucking podcast, dipshit.”

“What is that?”

“Our way out, and a little revenge.”

“Ah. Then I approve. What is a podcast?”

Evan renewed the armor with Mitu’s silent guidance, pushed himself to his feet, and limped for the stairs before another thought hit him. He repeated the circular wave-and-grasp motion, pulling bits of blood and debris from the floor and from Christian’s body. Once again, everything swept up by the spell vanished into thin air. No DNA. “Okay. Magic is cool,” Evan muttered.

“Your bones are mended, you hurl the light of the night sky, and yet you are fascinated by the simplest use of all my powers,” muttered Mitu.

New light appeared at the far side of the living room: an open door, a hallway, another suited goon, and Anatole. Evan reached out and pulled the door—from across the room, without touching anything.

Anatole blinked as the door shut. Evan fled down the stairs.

“You are not ready for that fight,” said Mitu.

“Yeah, figured.” He rushed over the remaining man at the bottom steps—and crumpled clothes amid spilled ashes. It had to be the one he punched. “Holy shit, did I kill this guy?”

“A vampire, I believe. The world is better without him.”

“A vampire? Working security?”

“They are the lowliest creatures of the night, no matter what they pretend. Did I mention Cornelius? He ruled the vampires of this city, and others before it. Nine hundred years on a vampire’s shelf. The humiliation, Evan. You cannot imagine the humiliation I have⁠—”

“Did I shut that door on Anatole?” Evan rushed down the hall. “Can I move things with my mind?”

“It’s magic, Evan. Of course, you can reach past your fingertips.”

Bright lights and open space awaited on the other side of the door. Most of the vehicles he found earlier in the garage must have belonged to VIP guests. Of the nine spaces available, only three had occupants: the Bentley, the long-body Escalade, and in between, the gleaming seven-figure status symbol that brought Evan here in the first place.

Bright red metal. Futuristic lines. A single low, sleek arc from end to end. Tinted windows, scissor doors, shining chrome rims. A V12 hybrid inside. “That’s it,” Evan muttered to Mitu. “Insecurity on wheels. Shiny waste of millions, and here we are fighting over it.”

No one guarded the garage. Evan had already located the panel for the doors, already knew the gate was keyed to the same button. He knew the cameras, too, and pushed them both to the ceiling before running into view. The Lamborghini beeped with a press of the key fob.

The gunshot, the awful explosion in his head, and darkness happened all at once.

Agony overwhelmed everything but the floor beneath him. He couldn’t open his eyes, didn’t know where he was, could barely think. Disorientation and pain terrified him, more so as enough wits returned to give him a sense of place.

“Heal, Evan,” Mitu urged beneath the clamor in his brain. “Heal.”

“God damn, you must really want that car, kid.” Frank stepped out from behind the Escalade, pistol in hand.

“Evan, you cannot rest. Do not pass out. You must heal.”

He had landed with his left arm under his torso. Frank stood near his feet. Evan slowly closed his left hand, remembering how it felt when Mitu healed him.

The clouds in his brain cleared.

“Hey, I put him down,” Frank said. “I’m in the⁠—”

Evan twisted and flung one more orb of light. Frank fired in the same instant, hitting Evan’s ribs, but he got the worst of the exchange. His head snapped backward with a burst of embers. The rest of his body wobbled before collapsing, smoke trailing from above his shoulders.

The bullet surely bruised a rib, if not fractured it, but Evan could move. He found blood on the floor beside him, on his clothes, and felt it on his face. The purging spell came to hand and mind before he thought about it, banishing all but the lingering ache in his head and the much more assertive complaint at his chest. Evan pushed himself up despite the pain, found the idol and the key fob, and then he found Frank.

“Oh, he’s dead,” said Mitu before he asked. “He’s very dead. And not a vampire.”

“Uh-huh,” Evan grunted.

“He would have killed you. I believe we have found the limits of your armor.”

“Yeah.” He got to his feet.

“You are not upset?”

“Getting over it.” Wincing, Evan crouched over Frank’s body. Escape had been his single goal until Frank appeared; the Lamborghini only mattered as transportation, despite the added “fuck you” to his tormentors. With Frank dead in front of him, though, Evan knew better than to pass up the opportunity to cut any further strings. Frank’s phone laid unlocked beside him, presumably tied to the security team’s net. Evan grabbed it and patted Frank down for his phone and wallet, finding both in a pocket. He accidentally pulled another wallet out with them, flipping it open onto the floor.

And then he got upset.

“Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh fuuuuck,” Evan gasped.

“What is it?” asked Mitu.

“That’s a badge. That’s a fucking badge. This guy’s—oh, fuck.”

“I do not know what that means. Evan, we have to go. If Anatole⁠—”

Evan abandoned his discovery. He winced with pain, but Mitu was right; stopping to heal probably wasn’t worth it. He grit his teeth and got into the Lamborghini’s low, futuristic interior, grateful he didn’t have to fuss with keys. The engine came to life at the push of a button. An open-palm thrust toward the garage door panel popped it open immediately.

Oh good. Magic works through glass, he thought.

“They are coming,” Mitu warned. “I sense Anatole and others. This is a car? Is it fast?”

Evan peeled out of the garage in quick, tire-squealing swerves around Frank’s body and through the half-opened doors.

“Oh,” said Mitu.

The gate rolled open on cue with the garage door. The Lamborghini surged and hooked right through it, missing black iron by inches before finding open road. Other details caught up with Evan’s brain: three AM, a full tank, clear skies. The only people in view spilled into the mirror behind him rather than the exit and the winding hillside road ahead. At least they hesitated before shooting in this neighborhood.

“We left behind other cars. Can they catch us?” asked Mitu.

“Heh. No.” At this hour, residential traffic wouldn’t be a problem. He knew the paths out of the Hills. It wasn’t his first high-value repo.

It was, however, his first with a passenger. “What do you need from me? You said you wanted to ‘leave,’ right? Like, more than escaping that house?”

“Yes,” said Mitu. “I need only a moment of peace under the open night sky. Somewhere high for the area and some peace and quiet would be nice.”

“I think we can do that,” said Evan.

He drove.

Winding residential roads took him past more mansions and estates. A little distance eased his breath, and with it, his heartbeat. He took a breath to gather his wits and details; with that, he remembered to kill the security on Frank’s phone before it locked up again. Then he considered destinations. The Hollywood Sign might work, but the observatory was higher. Mulholland would lead to the 101 soon. “Mitu, do you need the highest point possible? It’s maybe twenty minutes away, unless something closer works.”

“It would help. Please.”

“Are you alright?” Evan frowned. Her assertive banter had vanished. “You sound different.”

“The land holds so much light,” she answered quietly. “The eye can barely see the stars.”

“They’re out there,” he assured, and turned for the observatory.

“Always. I feel them, even while hidden. I feel them more now. The stars remain, yet this world is… I knew the world had changed, and humanity, but… so much. So many people.”

“This city’s bigger than most.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about anything?” he asked.

“I understand much already. I only ever needed to come under the night sky to see.”

Mitu grew quiet, so Evan shut up and drove.

Surface streets at the foot of the hills allowed smooth driving at this hour. Mitu said nothing through the city, though Evan felt her presence. Without traffic to dodge, he took the simplest route back into the hills toward Griffith Park. He hadn’t been there since high school.

Back then, he had to forge a signature on a permission slip. This time, his main obstacle was a chain across the road into the park. He dashed from the car and dealt with the lock with practiced ease. “Killed a cop and made a deal with an ancient god,” Evan muttered as he dragged the heavy chain out of the way. “Not gonna worry about trespassing. Although, shit, there’s bound to be security at the observatory. And cameras.”

“You will not be seen, at least until I leave,” said Mitu. “I hope that is enough.”

“I’ll be fine. Not my biggest problem.”

She fell quiet again as he drove onward, easy and smooth despite the uphill incline. It wasn’t long before Evan remembered he didn’t need headlights. He turned them off and found the road darkly shaded, but no harder to navigate than a cloudy day.

Nothing crossed his path on the way to the top. He didn’t see so much as a deer.

“Does this work?” Evan asked as they came to the parking lot. “What do we need to do?”

“This is better, yes. I only need the open sky. The idol will crumble as I leave, or it would still tie me to this world.”

“Right.” Another thought hit as he looked for a place to stop: “Am I another tie?”

“You are not the same. You are mortal, and this is your world. I belong among the stars.”

He didn’t ask her to elaborate. He parked along the side of the road and stepped out, idol in hand. The observatory awaited, but he didn’t want to test security.

“So much altered stone covers everything,” said Mitu. “I see the utility, but…”

“The trees are nice?” Evan suggested. Much of the hillside dropped quickly beyond the parking lot, but patches of greenery stood out.

“Yes,” said Mitu.

He brought the idol to a nearby oak. If the branches and leaves obstructed her plans, Mitu made no complaint. “I should probably ask you a million things before you go, but I’m not sure where to begin,” said Evan. “Magic and how to be a good wizard and stuff.”

“Sorcerers,” Mitu corrected, “or in your culture, the term is Practitioner. Good and evil vary among them as widely as any mortals. The same can be said for the djinn. Vampires and werewolves are inherently foul, or they would not be what they are—and demons, too, of course. Anyone and anything else demands your own judgment. Magic pulls back upon itself, and thus it will cross your path now, whether you search for it or not. You will know real magic when you see it.”

“Werewolves and demons, huh?” His mouth tightened. “And angels are a problem, too?”

“Not for you, as long as you hold to your sense of what is right. I doubt you will ever meet one. Your soul matters more to them than your power. I might linger if the same could be said for me, yet I have yearned for escape for too long. I am sorry, Evan. I must go.”

“Nah, it’s fine. This is, ah—” His voice cracked. He stopped. Where did that come from?

He knew, of course. Running from danger was fine; running from himself never worked out.

“This is more of a goodbye than I got with my mom.”

“You found your own way then. You will find it again. You will be fine.”

His breath shook. Something pushed within his throat and his eyes felt wet.

“What is wrong?” asked Mitu.

“It’s, um.” He blinked his reaction away—mostly. God, this was too much like those counseling sessions. “For a long time, I’ve, um… I’ve wanted someone to tell me I’ll be okay. Someone I can actually believe.”

“You will be fine, Evan,” Mitu repeated. “You will thrive. Thank you, and goodbye.”

The idol glowed brighter than ever with a light that shot into the sky, outlasting Evan’s next breath. Half the city would have seen it, if awake and looking in the right direction. Mitu’s escape held on longer still in Evan’s eye.

Her idol cracked and crumbled, as she predicted. Evan held the remains until they thinned into nothing, turning them toward the oak tree. White marble became white sand, carried away on the breeze.

2

CELESTIAL NAVIGATION

The buzz pulled Amber’s eyes from the desktop monitor to her phone. The text read, “U up?”

Amber Maddox looked to her lone coworker before responding. Doug Bridger had his feet up on his desk, tie off and collar unbuttoned, reading some old, hardcover book. Every other cubicle in the team’s corner office had been empty all night. She quickly tapped and replied, “Lol dork,” with a heart emoji. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re working, I’m working,” Jason texted back. “Organometallic chem all night baby.”

She glanced at the monitors. None of the suspect trackers moved on the map of the city. No new calls or texts came across the surveillance spread. LAPD, Sheriff’s, and the rest of emergency services showed a relatively quiet night. She typed, “My practicum notes are on the shelf in the living room. Top left. Have fun.”

“Wow, you’re sexy,” Jason replied.

Amber rolled her eyes. She appreciated Jason’s ego boosts, but this was work: business casual, auburn hair tied back, try-not-to-look-so-young work. Flirting would only make her wish she was home. Her current tasks did enough of that already.

“Call him if you want.” Bridger hardly looked up from his book—Shillington’s Demonography, according to the cover. “Use the break room. Nothin’ going on here.”

“How do you know…?” Amber didn’t bother finishing.

“Oh, to be young and in love again,” Bridger joked. “Who else texts back and forth this late? Or do you mean, how do I know nothing is going on here?” He nodded to monitors with the same surveillance spread as her own. “And what do we do if one of our boogeymen pop off? Call for a tac team and let them know we’ve got a vampire to arrest?”

“We’ve arrested them before,” said Amber. She’d seen convictions, too—in a secret court. They always offered the public option, but no vampire or other ‘boogeyman’ could accept that. The ethical quandary that presented was one more uncomfortable part of her job.

“Not without a week of planning,” said Bridger. “We didn’t have overnight monitor duty before the new boss showed up. This is a shit detail.”

“We left Lanier to compile and review surveillance every morning. Wasn’t fair to him.”

“Amber. You know why we’re here.”

“Yeah, I know,” Amber sighed. Their sins had wildly different details, but fit the same general category. They came from the same investigation, too. Her sin moved in with her a few weeks ago and now texted her at work. “We knew we’d be in the doghouse once the Bureau assigned a new team lead. I’m only surprised Sanderson has us working together.”

“Graveyard shift gives him time with the team separated from us,” said Bridger.

Her eyebrow rose. “I don’t think he’d be that Machiavellian about it.”

“That’s because you’re only two years at the Bureau.”

“I don’t think he needs to be like that,” Amber elaborated. “Not with us.”

“Oh.” Bridger considered, then frowned. “Yeah.”

“You’re the occult expert. The team needs you more than anyone, and Colleen has your back. You got played. He’ll get over it.”

“Hey, you’ve accomplished more on this team than any of us.” Bridger paused. “You think she’s only playing me?”

“Doug. Literal succu⁠—”

“Whoa, what’s that?” Bridger pointed past her to the window, sitting up in his seat. Amber turned her chair as he stood.

Bright light flared in a straight white shaft from the hills across the city. The beam was too concentrated and pure to be some spotlight, like lightning except for its straight up-and-down shape—and lightning didn’t last an entire second.

Then it was gone.

“That was weird,” said Amber. “You just noticed? You were facing me and the window.”

“Yeah. Only a couple seconds.” They watched. Nothing else happened. “What’s over there?”

“The observatory.”

“Really?”

“I’m the kind of nerd who buys an annual membership. They’re not into stunts, though.” She folded her arms, thinking. “Something that bright would be an aviation hazard, for starters. Maybe it’s some prank publicity thing, but at this hour?”

A soft ping announced traffic on the surveillance spread—followed by several more in a short cascade. Amber turned from the window to find the same message to multiple targets. “Look at this,” she said, and read out loud: “’A. offers treasure and favors in exchange for the thief and murderer Evan Murphy. White cisgender male, 22, short blond hair, slim build, claims residence in Hawthorne. No allegiance known. Capable, yet hides it well. Delivery preferred; resolution acceptable.’

“A bunch of our suspects got this,” she went on. “Oscar Torres, Malcom Hollister, Dietrich, Emerald Shadow, Terry Wallace… and now Killer Six. It keeps going.” Most accounts were confirmed vampires, but some were still unknowns. Many had never shown links to one another before now. Wallace, the only suspected werewolf on the list, operated all the way out in Riverside.

The sender wasn’t among the monitored numbers. “A.” meant nothing to Amber, nor the name of the target. She sat down to follow the steps for a trace, double-checking her memory with the sticky note from Lanier. Numbers and codes in the results meant little to her, but she doubted the origin point listed in Croatia was legitimate.

More than one “Evan Murphy” came up on Amber’s first public search. Dozens, in fact. None seemed promising at first glance. Adding Hawthorne to the search parameters eliminated most of the clutter, yet also made Amber wonder if that cut out too much.

“Damn,” she sighed. “I’m not getting much more on this guy than the bare basics. No priors, hardly any internet footprint. We can’t call local PD for help without a plan and a cover, either. We can call the boss, but I don’t think we’ll get anywhere on it before they all get here in the…”

Her head turned. She thought he’d been beside her all along, but Bridger never moved from the window. “Doug?”

“Um. Amber.” He pointed to the sky. “You see that, right?”

“See what?”

“The stars.”

Amber came to the window and craned her head for a better view of the sky. LA’s light pollution made it one of the worst possible places for stargazing. “Same as always. Pretty sure it’s mostly satellites.”

“No. I see stars.”

The sky seemed no different to her. “Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“I’ve got magic powers, a repo’d Lamborghini, and probably an APB,” Evan said to the winding road. “How is that last part the biggest deal?”

He didn’t stay put. He’d reached the observatory unnoticed, but Mitu’s departure was brighter than lightning. It was bound to attract security guards, if not cops. They probably come up here to kill time on the graveyard shift, he thought as he drove. That put a new pit in his stomach.

No. They’re not here yet, anyway. Focus. You’re in trouble. Figure it out.

Magic had to wait. He needed to get home before the cops knocked down his door and scared off or hurt the cats. Delivering the repo would help, too, but he needed to talk to Brett. That meant holding onto the car until at least nine, and it wasn’t likely to go overlooked in morning traffic. If he got pulled over…

On-the-job training taught him to search any repo right away. Nobody wanted to get stopped by a cop in a car with unexpected drugs or guns. The lower park offered access turnoffs with greenery for cover. At the first chance, Evan pulled over and popped the trunk—remembering it was in the hood on this model once he heard the clunk. The gym bag merited a search, but thankfully he only found normal clothes. A look through the hood and under the seats revealed no entire bricks of cocaine, assault rifles, or human remains. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised by all three.

Sinking back into the driver’s seat, Evan popped the glove compartment. The owner’s manual, tire pressure gauge, and flashlight were all standard. No smokes. No napkins or tabasco packets; this car was too new and too expensive to let anyone eat inside. The thought notified Evan of the hollow yearning in his stomach. His search finished with an envelope from the compartment: Christian’s car registration, insurance, and in between a thin stack of hundred-dollar bills.

“Oh, holy shit, are you kidding me?” Evan breathed. What was this? Bribe money for traffic stops? My documents are right in here, officer… Was this enough for such a bribe? Was there a going rate? And did Christian have the audacity to try?

“Hell with it.” Evan put the money in his wallet. He never considered stealing from a repo before, but tonight was different. Christian and his buddies and boss mangled and planned to murder Evan. This was all beyond any professional rules he normally observed.

I killed a cop. And a vampire. Maybe others; I dunno how badly I hurt everyone.

They were gonna kill me.

Evan stared at the trees and bushes, exhausted, overwhelmed, and unsure where to begin.

Who the fuck are these guys?

He still had Frank’s cell phone unlocked and waiting. That couldn’t stay the case; the last thing he needed was someone tracking the chip. For now, Evan input a new passcode and then checked the browser, texts, and email for the most recent activity.

Nothing raised a red flag. The lack of immediate action on Evan’s identity was all the relief he could expect. Deeper snooping would have to wait. Evan popped the cell phone open to remove the SIM card. The car was built with multiple trackers, but Christian had already disabled or circumvented them all or Evan never would have had this job in the first place.

“Evan Murphy, lives in Hawthorne,” one of the goons had said. Donny? Whichever. Frank had a good look at his license. He saw the Arneson Recoveries card, too. If no one wrote it down, it might all be forgotten in the chaos, but Evan couldn’t bet on that. What were the odds someone like Anatole forgot that kind of detail?

The bad guys had money, people, connections, and literal magic. Anatole was cold and rational. And I killed a cop, Evan repeated in silence. Dirty as hell, in deep with supernatural bad guys, and still a cop, with all the trouble a dead cop might bring. The pit in Evan’s stomach deepened.

You’ve gotta clear out. Now.

What kind of lead time do you have? Any? Is it too late already?

He had to get home before anything else. Had to get the cats to safety. Life as a homeless teen taught him to minimize his belongings, and it wasn’t like he had the money for a materialistic lifestyle anyway. Those years also taught him how to disappear fast. The cats were the only wrinkle. He needed to get home in a hot Lamborghini and probably under an APB.

Mitu didn’t explain how she concealed his trip up to the observatory. If magic could hide an entire car, he didn’t know how. His magic wasn’t even an hour old. He could see in the dark, cast spells to protect and heal and clean… and Mitu said he’d never be lost, whatever that meant. He looked up and sighed.

Stars shined across the night sky, brighter and more numerous than Evan had ever seen. Light pollution in LA drowned out all but a couple planets and satellites on most nights. He’d normally have to go out into the desert for a view like this.

Magic. Star magic, whatever that means. If you’re never lost, then maybe the stars guide you? Mitu felt them even in captivity…

“Show me the way home,” Evan asked the stars. He closed his eyes, breathed, concentrated… and felt stupid for it, but what did he know? Another deep breath. Focus. It felt right, anyway. “Show me the way… no. I know the way home.” He knew his way all over town. Evan closed his eyes and softly clenched his fists.

“Show me the safest way home. Get me around the cops.” He thought about police cars, about sirens and light bars, and raised his now-open hands without conscious intent. His fingers snapped rigid and upward to the sky. A heavy tremor ran through his chest, stealing his breath like he’d just sprinted around a city block.

Pale shafts of light ran from high above to the ground beyond his line of sight. The effect looked like spotlights shining to the sky, but the lines were all wrong; these were completely vertical. Many of them moved. Some came closer than others. He could feel their relative distances.

The lights directly marked patrol cars.

“Holy fuck.”

One such shaft crossed his rearview mirror. This one was close, and drawing closer.

Evan drove. He kept the headlights off, too.

The approaching cop forced his choice of exits, so Evan curved along the lightly-winding road down the east side of the hill, watchful of deer and other wildlife. The route took him past the tunnel he’d seen in ten different movies and the bird sanctuary. Both places offered the chance to hide, but neither seemed worth the risk. He needed to get home.

The longer stretches of road gave him a better sense of the car. Pressure and worry kept him from savoring the car’s performance, but the Lamborghini felt good to drive by the time he reached the Greek Theater. The shaft of light marking the patrol car behind him grew distant. Evan indulged in the accelerator and shot down straight lanes deserted at so late an hour.

Hedges and gates separated expensive homes from the street. Evan tracked another nearby shaft of light crossing his path. He rolled along in silence until the patrol car passed him by, well within sight but with nothing to pique the driver’s notice. Then he flicked the headlights on again like any normal driver as soon as the cop was gone.

Los Feliz and Vermont. He’d only been at this intersection a couple times, but he saw the way to the 101 clearly in his mind. A supercar on open road made great time.

Despite the hour, Evan worried about the open, street-facing parking lot. He rolled around the back of the two-story complex and parked behind a dumpster instead, providing at least some shadow and concealment. With no one in sight, Evan circled back on foot at a sprint.

The Shady Palms Apartments lacked any gate or access control. Three two-story structures connected in a “U” around a courtyard of palm trees, untended grass, and a pool that hadn’t held more than rainwater since the place was a motel in the previous century. Like all the other residents, Evan accepted shitty management and handled his own repairs in exchange for minimal documentation and low rent—at least until that notice of a sharp price hike yesterday. He suspected the property had been sold and the new owners wanted to run everyone out.

It didn’t feel great. The prospects of leaving even sooner felt worse.

If anyone watched his place, Evan didn’t spot them. He launched up the stairs to the second-story walkway, and then reached his door overlooking the algae-stained pool. Everything looked nondescript and normal. The door held, still requiring his key. Nobody had broken in.

With his newly magical vision, Evan forgot to turn on the lights. He entered his “studio” apartment with a wary sweep of its single bed, nightstand, Craigslist television on the dresser, and apartment-supplied “kitchen” of a mini-fridge and hot plate. He’d spent most of his teens in nicer places, though without the owners’ knowledge. Evan kept his humble space clean because it was his.

Lily stayed in her perfect curl on the bed, barely opening her eyes and lifting her head to verify it was him. The little grey tabby had plenty of energy for crazytimes, but otherwise stayed generally mellow. Beside her, Flip-Top stood as a black shadow and immediately complained.

“I know, I know, I should’ve been home sooner.” Evan kept his voice low as he checked behind the bathroom door and shower curtain. Flip-Top complained again. “Hey, you had dinner before I left, and goodies, and I cleaned the litterbox like normal…” Evan finally paused and looked at his cats. “Yeah. Okay. You used it before I left, but please don’t have an accident in the car, okay? Please?”

Flip-Top meowed as if to say, “No promises.” Lily closed her eyes.

His heart cracked: two sweet kids found as kittens a year ago, thrown out through no fault of their own. Evan could relate. He’d been on his own until they came along; they all took care of each other now.

By cat standards, Flip-Top and Lily were resilient and brave. The little apartment wasn’t enough room for 24/7 living, but they both accepted a leash and harness if it meant exploring the outside world. Evan wished he had the time for such a gentle exit. Instead, he pulled the carrier from his small closet, stuffed a folded towel inside for comfort, and added treats to lure them in. Flip-Top gave a wary look but took the bait, while Lily stirred slowly enough that Evan scooped her up and put her inside. Flip-Top clued in on the trap, but Evan was quicker. With the cats secured—if complaining—Evan could rush through the rest.

Nomadic teen years taught him to travel light and prioritize. His ancient laptop went into the backpack first, reminding him to grab his real phone and wallet from the nightstand. He kept important papers like medical and vet records and his hard-won reissued birth certificate in the little leather folder of his high school diploma. His two yearbooks felt like an indulgence when he bought them, but now they represented personal connections he couldn’t leave for someone else to find. Other keepsakes sat in a little tray in the nightstand. It all went into the backpack.

Think. Think. Cat food! Cans and the bag of treats followed the keepsakes. He only needed a few. He could improvise a litterbox when he got them to safety. Flip-Top meowed, soon joined by Lily. “See, I thought of you without being reminded,” Evan replied, but the complaints prodded his own hunger. He kept moving.

Chargers and cables. All the clean boxer-briefs, socks, and a pair of jeans. God, I’m still in this server’s outfit, he thought, but he didn’t spare the time to change. A few seconds determined his attachment to only a couple of shirts. They went into the backpack. Everything else could be replaced. Thrift shops had carried his wardrobe since Dad threw him out.

Lily scratched at the carrier walls. Flip-Top reiterated his objections. “I’m sorry, buddies. I’m really sorry. We’ve gotta go.”

He scanned one last time for important belongings, but suddenly everything felt important. Nothing meant enough to fuss or delay. In the bathroom, Evan waved his open hand in a clockwise motion and closed his fist. Tiny bits of grime, water spots, and lint rushed up toward his hand, all of it disappearing before his grip closed. The bathroom looked as clean as it ever had. He repeated the spell in the main room, purging all manner of tiny, hidden debris. Investigators wouldn’t even be able to match the cats.

Evan shouldered his backpack, grabbed the carrier, and looked before stepping out. No one waited outside. He threw the latch on the doorknob to lock it and turned for the stairs.

“Hello, Evan.”

Her taunt turned him around. She was nearly his height, dressed in baggy black pants and a red tank top over mesh, with jet black hair tied back. High cheekbones and copper skin gave her a look of youth, but at second glance something about her features felt rough. A necklace of bones decorated her throat, all connecting like an animal’s spine. Her dark eyes and wide grin held no warmth.

Something about her seemed off—brighter than her surroundings, spot lit… or highlighted. She pulled on his attention. Mitu told him he’d know real magic when he encountered it.

“Cats? You came back here for cats,” she said, revealing a Chicano accent. “No, don’t put them down. It’s safer for you to hold them. Tells me you won’t get stupid.”

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he asked steadily. As steadily as he could, anyway.

“I’m Sunday, and I want you. Not in the fun way—for you, at least.”

Casual or not, the threat was unmistakable. Evan considered what he could do about it. The fight at the house worked out, but Evan had been desperate and the enemy didn’t expect magic. Sunday presumably knew better than Anatole’s goons. He didn’t know if his protective spells and shooting stars would carry him through this.

Lily or Flip-Top or both shuffled in the carrier, making it awkward.

“The call went out maybe an hour ago. I was at a bar with nothin’ going on,” said Sunday. “I’m only the first to find you, or maybe the first to get here. Maybe the competition’s busy, maybe I got lucky. This took some guesswork.”

He didn’t reply.

“I’ve always been good at hunting people, but it’s not what it used to be,” she went on. “No more blood trails and watchin’ the birds. Now it’s all the attachments, ’cause everyone’s got so many. Records, networks, social media. Not you, though. Only the basics. Only Evan Murphy in Hawthorne.” Her head tilted side to side as if chewing on the thought. “Maybe the simplicity tripped up my competitors. But once I got close, I could sense prey.”

“How’s that work?” he asked.

“Taste of blood on the wind, mostly. Prey stands out from the rest. And no, I’m not a vampire. I get that a lot. Rude of people to throw that word around in ignorance.”

“Then who are you?” Because it’ll totally make sense to me, he grumbled inwardly.

“That’s a long story I don’t really tell. Starts with a scary man and a plan, needin’ an innocent girl for some magic. Ends with a dead scary man and a much tougher girl. It gets bloodier from there. More than one thing happened to me.” Her grin twitched. “Sometimes the serpent brings you an apple, sometimes it’s lookin’ for a home.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to unpack.” Evan wanted to search for an escape. He didn’t dare take his eyes off her.

“Nah, I keep it tight.” Her gaze stayed locked on his. “All them feelings and memories drag you down. Keep what I need, shed the rest. I wouldn’t be good at what I do, otherwise. Wouldn’t be talkin’ to you now.”

“How much is this paying?” he asked.

“It’s not cash. Well, not only cash. I’ll bring it up and Anatole will throw me a tip, because he’s polite, but the nightlife runs on favors and trade, not cash.” Sunday’s eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Funny how you don’t already know that.”

The cats clawed and thumped at the carrier. They had to be scared. Evan knew the feeling.

“Anatole’s message said you hid your magic until you used it. Not many Practitioners can do that, and not the greenhorns. He said you’re dangerous. Hurt people. Stole from him. Not many manage that, either.

“I’ve never heard of you, and I’ve been around. A Practitioner who can do all you did should have more than this. Even the kind who don’t chase dollars live better.” Sunday gestured to the apartment door and the belongings hanging from his shoulder and hands. “This says, ‘It’s not much, but it’s mine. It’s enough for now.’ How long you been on the run, Evan Murphy?”

He didn’t mean to answer the question, but his face gave him away.

“Oh. A long time, then, and you’re young. That’s gotta be family. Daddy issues? Mommy? No, it was Daddy, wasn’t it?”

Evan thought less about her taunts than his options. He could throw shooting stars. Mitu suggested conjuring blades or terrifying an enemy with the void, but he didn’t know how to do that. He utterly disintegrated a vampire by “punching him with magic.” That had been all instinct, but it worked… Evan held the cat carrier lower. Sunday didn’t object.

“You’re new at this somehow,” she said. “You’re new, but you stole from Anatole and got away, and that’s not easy. I’ll confess, curiosity brought me out here more than anything else. You took more than a car, right? Something important.”

“It’s a pretty good car,” said Evan. It wasn’t worth his life, and therefore worth offering.

“You tryin’ to buy me off? That’s smart. You don’t want this to go the hard way.”

“Not if I can avoid it, no.”

“Tell you what interests me. Somethin’ happened tonight. Somethin’ big.” She pointed to the sky above the walkway overhang. “You see all those stars? I haven’t seen the sky like that in decades. Not from the city. They weren’t there when I went into the bar. Mortals don’t see them, but I do… and so do you.

“I’m betting the rest of the nightlife see it, too. Between that and Anatole hiring freelancers, lots of folks will be looking for you. His enemies will catch wind of this, too, and they’re not any nicer. Anatole’s a smart guy. He knows that. He cares enough about this to take that hit.

“Somethin’ big happened tonight. What is it, Evan?”

He saw her patience and amusement wearing thin… and he did not think telling this person his story would work out well. He couldn’t avoid this. Dammit.

“You can talk now, or talk once you’re hurting,” said Sunday.

Sorry, kitties.

Evan dropped the carrier and threw a pair of stars. Sunday dodged them easily, snapping left and bending right in one move. “Aw, Evan! I warned you!”

He threw again, still hitting only the wall at the end of the walkway, and then closed with her to shorten her line of attack and throw a right jab. The hatchet appeared in her hand from out of nowhere and slammed into his head—but didn’t penetrate. She pushed his punch away and tripped him all at once. He barely managed to twist and control his fall, dropping his backpack.

Evan flung another little orb. This time, he caught Sunday’s shoulder. “Ouch,” she hissed, flinching in pain. The grin vanished. Her eyes turned from brown to yellow with narrow, vertical pupils. “Little shit!”

Scrambling backward, Evan threw again while Sunday pounced. The hatchet knocked away his right arm, though again the blade didn’t sink in. His left arm rose in time to meet Sunday’s unhinged jaw, her canines now extended into long fangs.

Flip-Top and Lily howled.

Five kinds of agony shot through his arm and spread to the rest of his body. Sunday’s bite punctured flesh and cracked bone. Venom pumped into him. Everything hurt so badly he couldn’t scream, but his gasp conveyed his pain. Her bite would kill in seconds.

Sunday’s reptilian eyes snapped wide and alarm rose from her throat. Something about this hurt her, too. All those tiny stars of his armor flared across his arm. That explained the hatchet’s failure, where her teeth had more power. The stars also gave him a shred of hope.

Evan couldn’t miss this target. He punched her head with all he had. Brilliant light flashed, this time leaving cinders and charred flesh all over the side of Sunday’s head. She went slack long enough to drop from his wounded arm and slump against the walkway railing.

She wasn’t down, and neither was he. Panicked by pain, Evan waved his good hand in the circling motion of his healing magic. Venom evaporated from his veins; his wrist eased back into form. Blood marred his sleeve and the rest of his clothes, but it stopped pouring.

The faint, tiny dots of light all over his body had vanished. Everything from his protective enchantment had gone into his punch. He could renew that protection, and needed it to survive this, but he dared not let up.

“Urgh,” Sunday grunted, on her hands and knees already. Evan kicked her against the rail. She swatted away his next kick and rose with ashes and burnt scales flaking off her face. One cracked fang fell from her mouth. “What the fuck did⁠—?”

Evan punched at the burn. Something beneath it crunched. Sunday wailed and clawed at him, but he made it to his feet. Granted half a moment by her woes, Evan curled both hands into fists and pulled them in close. All the tiny lights of his armor renewed.

When Sunday lunged in frenzied pain, he met her with a swift uppercut into the chest. Light flashed and burned while muscle and desperation took her off her feet. Instinct did the rest. He had a rail and gravity to work with, and she wasn’t heavy. Evan hurled Sunday from the balcony and into the empty pool.

One spell wasn’t enough to overcome all the harm she’d done. Evan collapsed to his knees, still hurting badly and smeared with blood. The cats stared at him from deep within their carrier. A two-foot fall wasn’t pleasant, but they were unhurt.

“Hey, shut up out there!” some neighbor demanded.

“Fuck off with that shit,” complained another.

No one turned on a light. No one opened a door. Evan glanced over the rail at a thin plume of black smoke rising from a smoldering, decaying corpse in the pool. Sunday looked like she’d been there for months already and crumbled further with every breath.

Evan swept away the blood and debris on the walkway. The rest was too much to worry about. He grabbed the cats and his backpack and ran.

Oscar stepped out of his SUV in the parking lot but stayed behind the open door. The second group was only delayed by a single stoplight. The wait gave him time to throw on his Kevlar vest, and then his dark blazer. He still wouldn’t rely on magical trinkets alone for protection, and the vest might help him pass as a cop to any onlookers.

“You two take that side. You two, cover there.” He pointed to the outer corners of the complex. “Hold the exits and collapse inward when we signal. Be careful. This guy’s dangerous, and others might be after him. Don’t take chances, but don’t let him get away.”

His team spread out with their guns low and close. Thankfully, the second car arrived before they moved in. Oscar waved everyone out and led the handful of armed men into the complex.

At the top of the stairs, a roaring engine nearby told him he was too late. “Shit! Boss!” someone warned over his earpiece, but he could already hear the path of the car. “Fuck—damn it, he was too fast. One more second and I would’ve had him.”

“Hush,” said Oscar. “Keep it together. We’ll be out in a minute.”

They wouldn’t catch that car. Without the driver, this site was pointless. Oscar holstered his pistol with a glum look down the second-story walkway, where a couple of discarded items caught his eye. Curiosity pulled him forward.

He knew that hatchet and the rattlesnake bone necklace. The fading scent of burnt flesh lingered. Down in the pool, Oscar recognized the silhouette of a human body in dark ashes.

He got on his phone.

“We just missed him,” Oscar reported. “Also, the problem is bigger than you advertised. This guy killed Sunday.”

“Sunday? You’re sure?”

“Yeah. There’s nothing left of the body, but I’m sure.”

“Witnesses?”

“None as far as we can tell.”

“Pull out,” said Anatole. “I’m happy to pay a finder’s fee for your trouble, but don’t take the risk of pushing into his home. We’ll have to handle this carefully.”

3

CONSTELLATIONS

Onyx grumbled in dismay at the ringing phone. Still half-asleep and forgetting her partner’s needs, she jerked a pillow from beside Molly’s head to cover her face. “Stop it,” Onyx complained into her muffling shelter.

“Sorry.” Blearily, Molly fumbled at the nightstand. Then memory and direction clicked into place. “Oops. It’s on your side. My bad.” Molly stretched over the love of her life to reach for the offending noise.

“No flirty. Phone,” Onyx complained.

“I’ve got it,” said Molly, though she knocked three or four other things to the floor.

“Why’s it on?”

“I forgot to silence it.” The awkward climb to her hands and knees on the bed and over Onyx was not flirty or fun. It got her in more trouble when Onyx let out another plaintive noise at the shift of blankets and exposure to cool air. “Sorry, sorry.”

The ringtone wasn’t one set for close friends with emergency privileges. Molly looked at the screen and nearly wrote it off as a spam call, but the area code clicked in her mind before she hit the red icon. “It’s the feds.”

“We’re not on call,” said Onyx. “What time is it?”

“Almost four.” Molly ran her fingers through her short, fire engine red hair. Consulting for the FBI team had been positive so far, but the couple’s reservations had grown. Still, it was money, and they were only consultants.

Against her better judgment, she answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, Molly? It’s Doug Bridger. I’m sorry to wake you. This should be quick.”

“I’m billing you, anyway,” Molly grumbled. They hadn’t formalized an actual billing process yet. Molly resolved to figure that out in the morning.

“Fine. Listen, I need you to look out the window.”

Molly frowned at her phone. “Is this a trick? Are you raiding us?”

“What? No, I’m in LA. We’re all in LA. I need to check something with someone who’s more Practiced than I am.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a weird code word. You sound like a cop.”

“I am a—Molly, can you help me out here? Please? I’m only verifying something. It’s a quick look out the window.”

Molly’s bare shoulders dropped. All of her doubts about working with the task force nudged at her mind and her gut once again… but so far the team limited their targets to actual supernatural trash, and they showed care for things like rights and procedures, and it was money. Molly and Onyx had been careful about what occult knowledge they shared. It wasn’t like they could make the team forget they existed.

“Hold on.” She grabbed underwear and her black On the Edge t-shirt. Molly had every faith in the wards and protective spells she regularly cast upon herself and especially the wards on their home, but she wasn’t about to face some magic or cop nonsense fully naked.

“What’s going on?” Onyx asked from beneath her stolen pillow.

“Dunno yet. He says it’s just questions.” Their bedroom had a window, but Molly saw no reason to keep Onyx awake with this. She ran a reassuring hand along Onyx’s leg on her way out.

Their hallway was quiet and still, as was the living room, and seemingly the entire neighborhood outside. Having a humble house like this to themselves felt like a real accomplishment. They even had a small backyard.

“Okay, what am I looking at?”

“The sky. Do you see more stars than usual?”

Her frown deepened. “Dude. We live in Seattle.”

“You have a clear night. I checked the weather. Please, Molly?”

She came to the window and tilted her eyes upward. Nothing stood out beyond the tall evergreens around their yard. Out of obligation or maybe annoyance, Molly opened the back door, watched for neighbors on the street beyond their faded wooden fence, and looked up. “Nope. Nothing new. Same old dark. Why, what should I see?”

“How do the stars look? Normal?”

“Yeah, it’s the city. We don’t get much in the way of stars. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. I caught a bit of a light show here, but I asked a couple normal folks to look and they didn’t see anything. If you don’t see anything, either, then it’s local. I needed someone to check.”

“Yeah, magic is usually localized,” said Molly. “It’s kind of a thing.”

“I had to verify. Sorry to wake you. Thank you. Good night.” He hung up.

Molly locked the back door, checked the front windows to see more of the same, and grumpily shuffled back to the bedroom. Onyx had at least returned the pillow, leaving her black semi-curls exposed. She murmured something unintelligible while Molly discarded her clothes.

A clearer question came when Molly slid in beside Onyx and draped an arm over her shoulders. “Everything okay?”

“The feds are dorks,” Molly grumbled.

“Mm-hm. ’s true,” Onyx agreed sleepily. “Feds are dorks.”

Sofia didn’t check her phone when it buzzed. Had to be spam, wrong number, some bullshit. She pulled the blanket over her head, not wanting to know who texted or the time. Knowing might make it harder to get back to sleep. She had work in the morning.

“Chinga tu madre,” she grumbled at the follow-up buzz, now awake enough to recognize it as a text rather than an email or a voicemail. Groggy, resentful awareness didn’t compel her to check her phone, but it did ensure she heard the knock at her door. “What the hell?” Sofia rolled over tangled sheets and anime plushies to look at the screen, figuring the buzz and the knock had to be connected.

“Hey. Coming by. Sorry. Please help. Urgent. Ev.” She identified the sender by “Ev” and his use of periods before she noticed the number wasn’t his. Also, Evan didn’t text her for help. Not since algebra class, anyway. Usually, their friendship ran in the other direction.

“Hold on,” she texted back before climbing out of bed. Light outlined only one edge of her blackout curtain, which meant the street lights were still on and the sun wasn’t up yet. By the time she donned the pajama bottoms and faded UCLA t-shirt, she remembered her apartment building’s security system—which Evan didn’t need her to unlock.

Because he was Evan. At her door, at five in the morning, needing her help. That put a tremor of worry in her stomach, but she picked up her phone and moved to her living room. The single-bedroom apartment remained dark and quiet. Unfolded laundry covered half the couch and a pile of delivery boxes waited by the door to be recycled. She decided it didn’t matter if Evan saw. At this hour, nobody had the right to judge.

A peek through the spyhole showed Evan alone in the hallway, a couple respectful steps back from the door. He held a paper grocery bag low in one hand, and in the other—“Oh no,” Sofia winced. This had to be bad.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she opened the door. “I need somewhere to put my cats for a couple days. Would you? I’ll pay for it. I’ve got everything you need.”

“Evan, what the fuck? Are you okay?” she croaked. Apparently, her voice hadn’t woken up yet. “Did you have a fire?”

“No. It’s not that. I’ve gotta…” He paused, wrestled with something, and came out with it: “I’m in trouble from work. The cops might kick down my door. I’m worried about the cats. Nothing points to you, so they’d be safe here.”

Sofia blinked, head tilted, fully believing that of all the people she knew…

“It’s only the cats. I’m not asking for anything else,” he assured. “I hate asking this much.”

“Yeah, but my lease doesn’t…” Sofia glanced at the carrier. That was her first mistake. Her second was in crouching to look at their adorable faces locked up behind bars. Sofia’s frown turned from reluctance to indecision. What if she couldn’t handle them? What if the managers came by unexpected? What if—God, worst of all—what if she didn’t want to let them go? “I’ve never had cats.”

“They’re good kids, they don’t make a mess, and they’re super sweet. Keep them in the bathroom. They’ll probably want someplace small and quiet, anyway.”

“I’m not locking them in the bathroom.” Sofia stepped back from the door to nod Evan inside and locked up after him. “What do I have to do? They better not pee on anything.”

“They won’t. I’ve got a litterbox. I’ll tell you everything. Thank you, Sofia. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Okay, but cops? What’s going on?”

He stopped short of the bathroom, grimacing with that constant apology. “It’s not like they’re chasing me. You’re a step removed and it’s just the cats. Worst case, they won’t come in hard at you. Tell them everything and⁠—”

Sofia interrupted him with a twirling gesture toward the bathroom. “Set up whatever they need and let them out. They look scared. What are their names?”

“Lily’s the grey tabby and the black kitty is Flip-Top. Girl and boy.”

“Flip-Top? Evan, you can’t give someone a name like that. You’re defining them by a single trait.”

“Wait’ll you see him in acrobat mode,” Evan mumbled.

The carrier went to one side of her bathroom. He put a disposable roasting pan from his grocery bag under her sink in the opposite corner and filled it with cat litter. Evan explained their routine: one big can split between them in the morning, the same at night, treats a couple times a day and whenever Sofia felt like it. The brand of litter was safe for flushing. He told her good websites for basic cat guidance if necessary.

“It’s five o’clock. I’m not gonna remember any of that,” she said.

“I know.” Evan produced the 24-hour superstore receipt for his cat supplies. Handwritten instructions ran down the back side. “I wrote that in the car before coming up. Look, they’ll be shy until you bribe them with goodies. Ball up some paper and throw it for them to chase. They like that better than any toy. They’ll love you in no time.”

“That’s half of what I’m worried about.” Motioning again for him to finish, Sofia stepped back while Evan opened the carrier and closed the bathroom door to let the cats acclimate. He turned to find her waiting with her arms folded. “Cops? What’s the deal?”

“I dunno, I… maybe the less you know, the better. I hate involving anyone else at all.”

“Hey, did I ask before I let you in with the cats, or after?”

That stopped him. He was tired, tense, guilty—Sofia fully believed he felt bad about her involvement—and worried. “I repo’d a car tonight from a rich dude. Turn out he’s a rich bad dude, with bad friends. I backed off, by the rules, and they tried to kill me anyway. I had to fight my way out. There were guns. People got hurt. It was nuts.

“I don’t know what they’ll do. I don’t know if the cops will get involved or not. I need to sort all that out. In the meantime, I need the cats someplace safe. None of my social media has my name and I can’t think of anything that links to you besides old school work. There’s no evidence or contraband with the cats. I don’t see the guys I fought tracing me to you, and if the cops do, you can tell them everything I said. It’s fine. I want you safe.”

“Evan,” she deadpanned.

“I’ve been in trouble before.”

“Yeah, I know. Not like this.” Sofia let out a breath. “Please tell me your phone is dead.”

“Battery’s disconnected. I did that hours ago.”

“Home computer?”

“Same laptop I’ve had since we met in college. It’s in the car outside. Also disconnected.”

“Car? When did you get a car?”

“I came away with the repo despite everything. Still have to deal with that.”

“Fine. You logged out of everything? Like, everything? Deleted your browser history?”

“Yes, before I went out for the repo. Always a chance of getting arrested.”

“Do you use a VPN? Do you have real passwords?”

“Yes and yes. Everything you tell people to do.”

She folded her arms, thinking. “You’re getting a lawyer, right? Today?”

“That’s on the ‘figure it out’ list, yeah.”

“You need to stay here?”

“Sofia.” His tense body language didn’t melt, but it softened. “No. Thank you, but I can’t.”

“You’ve been my rescue call for bad dates for three years.” She waved at her living room. “You moved me out of the Drama Condo in the middle of the night and built most of this Ikea shit yourself. You’ve always got my back. Of course, you can crash here.”

“I’ll think about it.” He pulled a folded set of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and stuffed it in her hands. “If they need more food, the brands in the bag are their favorites. The rest is… I dunno. Thank you.”

Sofia opened her mouth to object. Entry level software development easily paid better than repo work. “You need this more than I do. I’m only taking it if it makes you feel better.”

“It does. Anyway, you’ve gotta work today and I’ve gotta go.”

“Don’t go before you introduce me to the kitties. They don’t know me. And don’t leave me in the dark. ‘Ride or die’ doesn’t work on autopilot.”

“Okay, I’m sold on the reality of magic and monsters, but like…” Chris Marino held his hands out in an open gesture. “I didn’t expect weird shit in the office.”

“Not really seeing any magic yet,” said Darren Patrick. The second broad-shouldered newcomer to the team stood beside Marino. “Maybe he needs new crystals?”

Bridger knelt with his back to the cubicle intersection, facing the window at the center of arcing trails of soil on the carpet. His jacket and tie were gone and he kept his hands spread out to his sides, head low. Outside, the LA skyline stretched toward the hills under typical morning haze.

Colleen Nguyen half-leaned back on her desk to face the center aisle of cubicles, but she didn’t look up from the printout in her hand. “The voodoo stuff is real, guys. I’ve seen it.”

“So have I,” said Amber, likewise sitting with her desk to her back. Beside her, Matt Lanier tapped away at the surveillance station keyboard.

“Voodoo is a legitimate practice and it’s not what I do,” said Bridger. “But what I do isn’t giving anything new. Damn it.” He picked up his quartz and turned back to the team without embarrassment—until the turn brought him to the arrival of the new boss.

Amber grimaced in reflexive sympathy. Sanderson had been professional but distant and frosty with most of the team since he came on last week. His general resemblance to a school administrator didn’t help. He was slim, white, clean-shaven with dark hair starting to grey, and typically wore glasses. Today’s suit leaned into blues with a red-striped tie. He held coffee in one hand, a briefcase in the other, and a new frown as he looked over Bridger and the trails of potting soil on the floor.

“Trying a ritual of insight,” Bridger explained. “I’ll clean it up.”

Sanderson looked over the other waiting faces. “Is everyone caught up but me?”

“Just the heads-up,” said Nguyen. “We wanted to wait for you. Only a couple minutes.”

“Gimme one more sec, please,” Lanier said from the monitor station.

Sanderson’s attention returned to Bridger. “Do you keep that dirt in a bag in here?”

“No,” answered Bridger. “It’s from the greenspaces outside.”

“He used all the spare coffee mugs,” said Nguyen.

Bridger rolled his eyes and said again, “I’ll clean it up.”

Sanderson set down his coffee and briefcase to take up a spot in the informal circle between cubicle rows. Some sat for the morning gaggle while others stood. The new boss liked structure, but didn’t expect formality. Amber appreciated that much about him, at least.

She wanted more reason to like him, but he was still too aloof to get a good read.

“Okay.” Lanier turned to the rest of the group. “Needed a minute to double-check searches and read up on what Doug and Amber found. We’re good.”

“The heads-up indicated a busy shift,” said Sanderson. “Agent Maddox, start us off?”

She blinked, expecting Bridger to start them as the senior agent, but she recovered fast. “Most of the night seemed quiet. None of the early nighttime traffic stood out. Subjects Juliet and November referenced a party and trackers put them in the hills until about one, then they left and split. Most subjects seemed low-key and normal.

“At three-thirty, we saw a bright flash of light going straight up from the observatory. No noise, no lightning, and nothing online or in media to anticipate it. We’ve got a little local news coverage now, but nobody knows what happened. Local police report no damage. Everyone assumes a prank or a stunt. We’d think so, too, but…” Amber turned to Bridger.

“A couple minutes later, I saw stars all over the night sky,” he explained. “Lots of stars, like I’m out on the ocean on a clear night. Amber saw no change, and we didn’t see anything online—except from traffic on the surveillance desk. Some of our subjects noticed the same thing. They started asking each other if they saw stars.”

“I was up before the sun for my workout and I didn’t see shit,” said Marino.

“That fits the pattern,” said Amber. “You don’t have any supernatural connection or awareness. The vampires sure saw it. Practically every one of them on our watch list texted or called someone to ask if they saw the same. Both of the werewolves, too, and Subject Kilo in Venice Beach. Chatter indicates it’s mostly Southern California, running from Santa Barbara to Palm Springs and south to Tijuana. Couple people saw it as far as Phoenix and Vegas. Nobody had answers.”

“We checked with our consultants in Seattle, but they were in the dark,” said Bridger. “That confirms some limit.”

“Do you have any idea of the significance of this?” asked Sanderson.

“I don’t,” Bridger answered. “Plenty of myths and ancient beliefs connect to stars, but nothing in particular came to mind. I need to do research I can’t do here. And again, all our call traffic seems clueless, too.”

“What did Molly and Onyx say?” asked Nguyen.

“Just that magic is local, which is true, and things usually don’t last more than a night or day. That’s also true. I haven’t seen stars since sunrise. We’ll see about tonight.”

“And then there’s the other thing.” Amber handed out copies of the same printed page Nguyen had already read. “A bunch of our subjects got this message, only a couple minutes apart from our mystery light.”

Sanderson scanned the paper and frowned. “This was four hours ago? You could’ve called.”

“Not to argue, but it didn’t fit the protocol,” said Bridger. “We had no solid leads besides Murphy’s name there, and data points were thin. We kept a close eye waiting for more. Nothing came up except more star talk.”

“We debated calling anyway,” added Amber. “We’ve got an address and a workplace for Murphy, but that’s not enough for our rules of making contact. The cell phone trackers don’t pick him up. He’s only got the bare minimum of records and online presence, too, so that was another warning flag. We’re still not organized for rapid reaction and we don’t have tactical backup. Didn’t seem reasonable to wake people up without something actionable.”

“The source of that original text is a ghost,” Lanier spoke up. “Whoever sent it paid for good rerouting and cover. I double-checked their work on traces. Maybe I can run down more, but I’d have to sit with it.”

“This team has to take things slow,” said Nguyen. “Considering our limitations, I think they made the right call.”

“I agree. I only wanted to understand the thought process. That said, we’ll need to revisit the call-in protocol, starting today.” Sanderson kept his irritation to a single breath, but everyone noted it. “How much have we got on Murphy? Does he seem legitimate, or is this an alias?”

“It’s thin,” said Amber. “Age and address checks out. No warrants, no priors. High school in South Pasadena, associate degree from LA community. Bunch of low-income assistance stuff after he turned eighteen. I found a few tagged pics on other people’s social media, but nothing that links to him. Street view of his home address looks like a slum.”

“Kid goes from South Pasadena to a dump in Hawthorne?” asked Patrick. “So he’s a fuck-up.”

“The trail’s full of holes. I’ll dig into it,” said Lanier.

“Alright. It’s daylight and we’re all here,” said Sanderson. “I’ll take some of you to make contact with Murphy. We should also look into this light.”

“That’s probably where I should go,” said Bridger. “I’d like a closer look in case it has some supernatural origin.”

Sanderson’s frown remained as he looked over the rest of the team. “Lanier, you have things to follow up on here?”

“I can dig more on that bounty message or whatever it is. Murphy, too,” Lanier answered.

“That also gives us someone here to coordinate,” said Nguyen.

“Right.” Sanderson folded his arms, considered, and nodded to Nguyen. “You’ll take Bridger and Patrick to the observatory. Lanier stays here. The rest of us will try to reach Murphy.”

“If he’s got people after him, do you want extra hands?” asked Patrick. “The observatory will be public. Shouldn’t need three of us.”

“I’d rather not send only two in either direction, just to be safe,” said Sanderson. “We’ll be on our toes. Nguyen, you can head out. Maddox, we should have a word before we go. It won’t take long,” he added for Marino, left waiting by the divide.

Amber followed Sanderson to his office, trying to feel less like a student about to be chewed out by the principal. You’ve got two science degrees, a badge, and a lease on an apartment, she told herself.

It didn’t work.

Sanderson keyed the security code and entered. “I’d have you take a seat, but we’re about to roll out,” he said. Unconscious habit still put them on opposite sides of his desk.

“At the risk of rehashing my introduction, I served on this task force earlier in my career,” he began. “It’s been a decade, but I know how crazy this can get. The team has unique responsibilities and operates mostly in isolation. That means unconventional tactics and procedures. I expected to see unusual things in the recent case files. You’re unusual yourself: undergrads at twenty, three years in a crime lab. Only two years in the Bureau.

“Your first assignment went well beyond our standards for ‘unusual.’ Your team leader violated a number of standards and ethics, including sending you undercover. I think it’s clear you weren’t ready for that, even in an ordinary case. That investigation included the largest number of supernatural suspects we’ve faced to date, with exceptional violence and danger. The casualties of the operation speak for themselves. Despite those losses, the investigation removed many dangerous supernaturals from the board and brought major breakthroughs for our subject knowledge… and none of that justifies your conduct.”

Harsh, but accurate, thought Amber. “No, sir. It doesn’t.”

“I’m not overlooking Agent Bridger’s misconduct, either. This discussion isn’t about him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You opened a romantic relationship with a subject of the investigation.”

“I did.”

“You’re still involved with him.”

“Yes, sir. Just moved in with me two weeks ago.”

Without knowing him better, she had to take his stony expression and flat statements at face value. She had long expected something like this meeting.

“I’m inclined to fire you. Under task force rules, you wouldn’t have the usual recourses with personnel or legal action.”

“I understand. What I did was wrong.”

Sanderson stared. “That’s all?”

“I’ve given this a lot of thought. Regardless of the results, what I did was wrong. We have rules against this, and they’re good rules. I can’t exactly apologize when I’m still with him, but I can’t argue policy, either. I’ve been ready to face the consequences. If you don’t fire me, some future supervisor might. I have to live with that.”

“Do you want to stay with the Bureau, Agent Maddox? With the task force?”

“Yes, sir. I think I can do a lot of good here. The team needs a physical sciences expert, and I think I’ve proven myself. I can stand up to the suspects we face. Without making light of my breach of conduct, I’ve established valuable connections outside the task force. And I own my mistakes. The rest of the team knows that.

“But you have to want me here, sir. That’s the bottom line. If you don’t, I understand.”

He stared. She waited.

“Do you have any reservations about the rest of your teammates?”

“I have reservations about how the broader task force handles trials and protects civil rights,” said Amber. “I think our interpretation of statutory authority could use some reexamination. We’re operating in secret, applying legal standards to people in magical situations that were never considered when those laws were written. And I think law enforcement in general could stand a little more reflection and a little less defensiveness.”

“That sounds more rehearsed than your other answers,” said Sanderson, eyes narrowing.

“It’s been on my mind.”

“I was asking about Agent Bridger,” he admitted flatly.

Amber nodded. “I think he screwed up—differently than I did, but he screwed up. He also didn’t hurt anyone, and he pulls more than his weight. If you feel like that’s not enough, that’s your call. I’m comfortable with him and the rest of the team.”

“Consider this your warning and your reprimand,” Sanderson decided. “Don’t misinterpret this as going easy, either. I won’t be inclined to cut you slack on another violation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Let’s go find our guy.”

“Could I get the check when you have a chance? I may need to leave quick. Oh thanks,” Evan said when the server set the slip on his table. She left him to his window seat, his breakfast, and his prepaid cellphone. He wasn’t sure which one brought more relief.

The gate across the street hadn’t opened in the thirty seconds since his last glance. Arneson Recoveries occupied a small industrial stretch up against the refinery in Torrance. Blue paneling mounted behind an iron fence provided privacy. George would be on shift right now, but Evan didn’t need to talk to a security guard. He needed the owner and boss. Maybe don’t jump the second he gets in, Evan told himself. You can’t do anything until he shows. No cops or any weirdness yet, anyway.

He scoped out the neighborhood around the yard twice after stashing the car. If Anatole or the police had anyone watching, they were good enough to evade his active search. He couldn’t do anything else about that. In the meantime, the burner phone’s internet browser and the diner breakfast at his table had him occupied. The first forkful of eggs and hash browns to go in his mouth immediately made him consider a second plate.

God, it’s been more than twelve hours. He hadn’t eaten since before his server gig began at Christian’s house, and hadn’t slept since the night before. Necessity and urgency held his hunger and fatigue at bay until now. Magic had kept his server outfit clean, but he felt better once he changed into jeans and sneakers. The difference pointed to a clear rule: when it came to self-care basics, magic was a Band-Aid, not a remedy.

Actual goddamn magic did not replace bacon and eggs.

He didn’t eat out much, or at least not at sit-down restaurants. He liked it, but didn’t trust his money to hold up to such a habit. His situation justified the indulgence. It was much nicer than the grab-n-go rack and the microwave at a random grocery store. Nicer than survival shoplifting, too.

You’re not there yet. Not homeless again—yet. You’ve got options and a little cash, and hopefully more in a minute. And whatever magic does for you.

Evan had nowhere to begin with that. Mitu said magical types varied as widely as ordinary people. She also said he’d recognize magic. So far, that seemed spotty, but his encounters had all been fast and heated. Maybe he needed to pay more attention?

The only magic Mitu didn’t talk him through came on instinct. Those same instincts told him magic was complicated. Regardless, he needed to know more about this part of the world. He needed to know just how much trouble he was in.

A refresh of his browser didn’t change any of the local media. Nothing spoke of Christian turning up in the emergency room, or a stolen Lamborghini, or a dead cop. He had found motels that accepted cash. With those concerns at rest for now, Evan opened a new tab and started a search: “Where can I learn—” No, dummy, that’s gonna be all stage magic. His next few thoughts were all bound to nosedive straight into gaming wikis and fan websites, but at least his gaming experience gave him a couple of reasonable ideas.

“Occult bookstores Los Angeles,” he typed. Aggregators and review sites naturally cluttered the results, but his clunky search gave him a map with twenty hits. Even if most were probably bullshit, it was a place to start.

Movement pulled his gaze across the street. Of course, Mary’s here first, Evan grumbled inwardly as her Bronco waited for the gate to open. With the longtime office manager on site, the gate would stay open for business. Though Evan saw nothing new or strange, his tension rose. He considered going in to wait in the office, but worries of being hunted remained. He stayed in his seat until the boss’s black Mercedes pulled inside the lot.

No cops and no dodgy strangers. Nothing in the news. Cats safe, places to stay and next steps figured out, at least tentatively… nothing left but this conversation and wherever it lead. “It’s only Brett, only business,” Evan muttered out loud. “You don’t need magic here. You have fallbacks. You’ve got this.”

He paid up with a good tip and headed across the street.

Old pavement covered part of the repo lot, leaving the rest as bare dirt. Convenience and timing dictated the arrangements of repossessed vehicles of all shapes and sizes: average cars and SUVs, pickups, a few bikes, a tour bus, and a semi. Covered car ports and a small repair shop lined one side of the lot. Evan waved to the security guard sheltered by the shade of the shop. Opposite them stood the single-story office in all its tan-and-white prefabricated glory.

Brett had inherited the office from his father, along with the business itself. He spoke sometimes of building something nicer and more permanent someday, and in fact mentioned it right before bringing up the Lamborghini job. Evan didn’t know whether to feel sympathetic or angry, but he supposed he would find out in a minute.

Simple office furniture and tall fake plants gave the main room a reasonably businesslike tone. As office manager, Mary kept things professional, if light. She always struck Evan as too good for this place, but she had her reasons for working there. Everyone did. “You can’t claim it’s traffic when we take the same freeways,” she told Brett from the center desk, and then looked up. “Oh hi, Evan.”

“Mary, what do you want from me? It’s my business.” Brett appeared in the doorway to his personal office, middle-aged and bald except for his salt-and-pepper five o’clock shadow, and dressed in slacks and a grey shirt. He blinked at the new arrival; “recovery agents” weren’t held to regular office hours. “Hey. You need something?”

“Yeah, got a sec?” Evan did his best to keep cool. No need to alarm anyone. Not yet.

“Sure. I just got in. Mary?”

“Coffee run,” she muttered as she passed Evan for the door, eyes rolling in a good-natured note. Evan considered it a lucky break. He couldn’t be sure anyone else should know of his night until he had Brett’s reaction.

“C’mon in,” Brett beckoned, already turned to get behind his desk. “I had a late night. Haven’t checked email or anything yet. What’s up?”

“I got the Lamborghini.”

“You did?” Brett’s face brightened. “Did you text? I didn’t see anything. How is it?”

“Perfect condition. No scratches. I searched, didn’t find any contraband.”

“Great! Where’d you park it? I want to see.”

“I put it nearby.”

Brett finally noticed Evan’s deliberate calm.

“How much do you know about Christian Miller and the people he runs with?”

“What do you mean?” Brett’s brow furrowed.

“I mean what do you know about the guy with the Lamborghini and his people?”

“Where the hell is this coming from?”

“I need your answer before I tell you more.” Years on his own taught Evan to avoid confrontation rather than seeking it. He still felt those instincts—practical, rather than cowardly. Sometimes he doubted his resolve, right up until he ran into something like Brett’s authoritarian turn. “And I need to feel like I can believe you.”

“No, no, no,” Brett pushed back. “You don’t interrogate me. I’m the boss. You work for me.”

Evan turned for the door.

“Alright, fine! He’s a hockey player,” Brett fumed. “Has a podcast or whatever. You said he’s a douche, shitty to women or whatever. He’s rich, but not rich enough to make his car payments, apparently. What more should I know?”

“I’m already not thrilled with how this conversation is going.”

“For fuck’s sake, what do you want from me?”

“You said this wasn’t a standard repo,” said Evan. “Limited edition, but bought through a dealer rather than company direct. Financed through the dealer, too, not a bank. Trackers disabled. You figured they’d send the car out of the country for resale, maybe alter the odometer and chips to get the most out of it. That’s not normal. The car is worth a bajillion dollars. A repo is an embarrassment to a pro athlete, but all that stuff says the dealer knows Miller won’t lawyer up over it.”

“Speculation,” Brett pointed out. “I was only speculating. You are, too.”

“You knew this was shady, Brett,” Evan pressed. “How shady? What did you know?”

“I don’t know anything. The dealer’s got international connections. I figured if Miller didn’t get a normal bank loan, there’s probably something going on, and the dealer had to know that. I’ve heard they do some creative paperwork, but nothing else. I know fuck all about Miller. It’s not my first sports car repo on a dumbass celebrity. Now will you tell me what’s up your ass?”

“Miller rolls with scary people with guns. Not like your ‘trailer trash with a Glock’ story; I mean serious, sober guys in suits.” Evan stared, hoping to be taken seriously. “They caught me and beat my ass. I gave up like I’m supposed to, all legal-like. They decided to kill me, Brett. I got away mostly out of luck. I had to hurt people. Badly.”

“You don’t look like you got beat up.”

That tripped Evan for half a breath; he had forgotten that part. Thankfully, he recovered well. “Yeah, I’m not bruising yet, and they didn’t go for my face. I feel fucking awful.”

“And you still got the car?” Brett asked.

“Only because it was the fastest way out of there.” Evan held up his phone, showing the picture of himself in front of the car he knew he’d need for this conversation. “Do you think I would make this up? Two years, I’ve been doing this. Have I ever lied to you? Ever pulled any bullshit?”

Brett bit something back, rubbed his face, and tried to put practicality over frustration. “Okay, did you call it in? You notified?”

Then it was Evan’s turn to bite back a response. “Not yet.”

“Not yet? How many times have you done this? You’ve got one hour to notify the police after a repo. One hour. And you fought over it? Jesus, Evan. You didn’t repo the car, you stole it.”

“They were gonna murder me, Brett. They fucked me up and took my wallet. They saw my business card. They know where the car was supposed to go.”

Brett’s eyes widened, anger and fear crowding into a single frustrated, “Fuck.” He turned to his desk, thinking, and turned back with a pointing finger. “I didn’t send you out for that car. You did this on your own. My agents are all freelance.”

“You also made real clear this car was a priority and told us to get creative.”

“I didn’t tell you to get violent!”

“Should I have let them kill me?”

“That’s not my—!” Brett stopped.

“What? That’s not your problem?”

Brett waved his hands and shook his head. “You did this. I can’t do anything with that car, anyway. The repo is invalid. That’s not on me.”

“Okay,” said Evan. “So you knew the repo was shady, you were ok with me going after it, but the second there’s trouble, you throw me under the bus. Got it.”

“What do you expect me to do? You pull all this shit and then bring it all to my door? What am I supposed to do?”

“I dunno, but your first impulse is to dump it all on me. That’s what I needed to know.” Evan scowled. “Do whatever you want. That’s on you. But you might want to know that one of the scary guys who decided to murder me was a cop.”

Brett’s mouth fell open. He didn’t have a retort for that.

“We are both in serious fuckin’ trouble,” said Evan. “I needed to know if you wanted to get out of it together, but I guess I’m on my own. It’s not the first time. Goodbye, Brett.”

The boss didn’t try to stop him on his way out.

“These guys are the worst,” Marino grumbled as they crossed the yard of repossessed vehicles. “They only show up to kick you while you’re down. Legalized car thieves working for the banks, and we all know how trustworthy banks are.”

“Yeah, ’cause civil asset forfeiture is so much fairer.” Amber’s quip turned both Marino and Sanderson’s heads. She shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

“Christ, you’re one of them,” Marino sighed.

“Focus on the job,” said Sanderson.

“I’m just saying, these guys are usually shady,” said Marino. “You don’t make a living taking people’s cars out of principle.”

Amber didn’t raise any more counterpoints about their job. Sanderson was right; this wasn’t the place for an argument about morality or humility. Marino might not be entirely wrong, either. She only wondered if he gave his own career the same degree of reflection.

“Let me do the talking. Keep your eyes open.” Sanderson opened the office door and held it for the others to follow. The office was quiet and clean: work desks, a table, a blonde woman at the desk facing the door.

“Hi, how can I help you?” she asked.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Agent Sanderson, FBI.” He showed his badge wallet with routine calm. “These are Agents Maddox and Marino. We need to speak with one of your repo agents.”

“Nah-ah. Hold on.” A bald man emerged from a private office with his hands up in a stopping gesture. “I’m the owner and operator. What’s going on? You here on a warrant?”

“No, sir. You’re Brett Arneson?”

“Yeah. Lemme see your identification. I don’t take anyone as law enforcement for granted.”

“Sure.” Sanderson held his wallet out again for a better look. “Mr. Arneson, we’re looking for one of your employees, Evan Murphy. Have you seen or heard from him in the last twenty-four hours?”

“We’re not talking to law enforcement without a lawyer present. Sorry.”

Sanderson’s brow rose. “Mr. Arneson, you’re not in any trouble.”

“That’s great. We can discuss anything else through my lawyer. You can have his card and I’ll take yours if you’ve got one.” Arneson offered the card as he spoke.

“This is an unusually defensive posture for a first meeting,” said Sanderson. “We haven’t gotten into what this is about.”

“If you want to tell me, we can listen, and then I have to ask you to leave,” Arneson maintained. “We don’t talk to law enforcement without a lawyer.”

“You’re repo guys. You talk to cops all the time,” said Marino.

“I’m afraid I can’t say more without my lawyer present,” Arneson reiterated.

“Mr. Arneson, again, this isn’t about you,” said Sanderson. “Have you seen Evan Murphy recently? Could you put us in touch with him?”

“Lawyer.” Arneson held up his hands. He also cast a glance to the blonde behind the desk, who watched in attentive silence. “Without a lawyer or a warrant, I’m asking you to leave.”

Relenting, Sanderson produced his business card for Arneson and a second for the woman at the desk. “We’ll be in touch with your lawyer right away. This is urgent, Mr. Arneson. I advise you to make it a priority. And if you can reach Mr. Murphy, please pass on my contact info. It’s in his best interests. Thank you for your time.”

They left. Crossing the lot, Marino grumbled, “Maybe we should’ve pushed a little?”

“We don’t know what we’re getting into, and we need to keep a low profile,” said Sanderson. “You need to keep that in mind. The fewer people we explain ourselves to, the better.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t get anything out of that,” said Marino.

“I dunno,” said Amber. “The boss is sweating in an air-conditioned office at nine in the morning. He was instantly defensive and didn’t volunteer anything about Murphy. If nothing else, that feels like a connection.”

Almost at the gate, the boss paused them to answer his phone. “Sanderson.” He listened. “Hold on. Let me put you on speaker for the others.” He tapped the screen and held the phone between Amber and Marino. “Go ahead.”

“We made it up here quick,” said Nguyen. “The day’s just starting. It’s business as usual. No damage, no disruption. Security has already talked to LAPD, so they didn’t have a problem answering questions.

“The observatory and the park are both closed at night. Someone picked or unlocked the chains on the park road overnight, but nobody saw a thing until the flash happened. A guard came out to find a red sports car driving away. Says it was fancy and new, but he’s not sure of make and model. The cameras on the parking lot blanked out with that flash, too—and never recorded any car. They had to reboot the cameras to get them working again.

“Doug is, um, looking around with his crystals. He says he can detect a magical ‘resonance,’ but it’s all after the fact. No active effect, he says. Like a residue. Right now, that’s all we’ve got. This place is already filling with tourists.”

“Understood. See if Bridger has any other ideas. We don’t have much else here. Arneson blocked us.” Sanderson glanced at Amber. “But I think we’re looking for the right guy.”

4

DEAD RECKONING

“You know I don’t actually care about cars?”

Red carbon fiber and tinted glass gleamed in the early morning sun without a response. Evan stood in front of the hood, flanked on three sides by a dumpster, an old white van, and the tree on the grassy border behind him. He’d needed someplace quiet and out of view from the street to park the seven-figure burden while he confronted Brett. The little chapel’s back lot provided.

“This goddamn city is built for cars. Every fucked-up thing about LA that didn’t come from racism happened for cars. A lot of it was both. They broke public transit and built the sprawl to sell more fucking cars and gas, and they walled off all the Black and brown neighborhoods with the freeways. It’s history. Look it up.”

The Lamborghini made no effort to look it up.

He half-expected it to be gone when he returned from the repo lot. A sheltered, quiet spot was an ideal place to steal a car, if a thief spotted it. That was the sort of calculation Evan had to make with a car like this. That, and lying low from the cops, and the magical assassins and crooks out to kill him, and what the hell he could do with a hot Lamborghini now that Brett disavowed the repo and Evan with it.

“You can’t get a good job in this town without a car, because nobody can afford to live near the good jobs, but you can’t get a car without a job,” Evan fumed. “I got thrown out of my house at fourteen. You think I could ever afford a car? Why do you think I’m ranting at you? I’m not talking to a car. I’m talking to myself.”

He turned away, folded his arms, and let out a breath.

Figure it out.

“You’re too flashy to go unnoticed, too hard to protect, and too valuable to abandon,” he told the car. “I don’t have anything else of value. I’m down to the cash in my wallet and two scared cats at a friend’s place, and now no fucking job. Most of my real skills aren’t legal. God, I don’t want to go back to squatting in vacation homes. I can’t do that with the cats.

“I got magic last night. Fucking magic. How is a car my biggest stress right now? Oh, right, because of all the people out to kill me. People who were ready to kill me over you.”

He needed a buyer. He had no contacts, didn’t know fences or chop shops. If Brett wouldn’t take the car, the original dealer might. Some of the papers were still in the glove box. The dealer was independent and sounded shady. Evan had to look them up online and do some homework, but they represented his best bet.

Magic helped him get this far, but the shafts of light that marked out police cars faded with the morning. The difference between pre-dawn traffic and the LA workday in full swing mattered, too. If the police were after him, he was driving around in about the most distinctive and conspicuous ride possible.

And of course, it’s fire engine red, Evan grumbled inwardly. Magic won’t fix—he stopped.

“Color comes from light.” An object’s color is the wavelength of light the object reflects; so said Mr. Packer in seventh grade science and the cool nerdy guy on YouTube. You marked out the cop cars with light. Your protection spell shows up as light. You see in the dark. You can do other stuff, too, but your best magic seems to be all about light.

Evan inhaled and released slowly. Gentle sunlight and a breeze graced his hiding space. Traffic rolled along a block away, audible but normal to Evan’s mind. The little parking lot provided an island of urban peace. Evan put his fingertips on the hood of the car, felt for that sense of power again, and imagined.

Red faded into a perfect glossy black all across the car. Evan blinked, already past disbelief in magic but still surprised at his own efficacy. His spell took hold over every formerly-red surface and panel across the car, whether directly connected to the hood or not. The two-second shift matched the original paint job in quality and consistency, like it had been chosen from the same dealer’s catalogue.

“Holy shit. Holy shit,” Evan gasped.

Color alone reduced the car’s visibility—still a Lamborghini, but black stood out less than red. No one would expect a change in appearance overnight. Cops might disregard the car entirely, at least for now. Evan’s mind raced. Color wouldn’t be the only identifier. Only enthusiasts would notice the limited-edition distinctiveness of the Countach, but any casually alert eye might read a license plate.

He turned to the van, but quickly disregarded it. “Okay, no. I’m not stealing a plate from some church van. I can’t steal it from some rando, either. That’s shitty.” This called for something impersonal, something that would do less harm to an individual. “Rental car,” Evan realized. He knew hotels within walking distance; they’d have some options. That would work.

The dealership was in Santa Monica. Evan could relocate closer before doing his online homework. High-priced cars at least stood out a little less on that side of town, too. Hopefully, the cops weren’t pulling over every single Lamborghini regardless of color and plates. Evan didn’t know for sure if they were looking for him at all. Anatole and company might have reasons to cover up the whole incident. If not…

He didn’t expect a jackpot. He didn’t run on greed. This was the difference between some money to run on versus none at all.

He had to try.

Santa Monica Elites offered a variety of high-end cars for sale or rental, but the latter provided the bulk of their business. Flashy sports cars lined a row of display spaces facing the street. The showroom held a handful of considerably more expensive choices, all of them kept shiny and spotless under carefully adjusted lighting. Black tiles lined the floor and walls in a minimalist style meant to keep every visitor’s attention on the merchandise.

Despite serving a niche market, SME’s showroom and service department were as big as a full brand dealership—because the building once filled that exact description. Evan ran down that detail in his online search, along with a couple tiny media profiles and a brief appearance in a years-old reality show. None of it raised any flags, nor did the online reviews. If SME played rough with anyone, they did so out of public view.

Evan didn’t expect to find much dirt, but he had to look before he walked in. At least he knew the owner’s face. He took a good walk around the block, too, alert for anything that might look like police. A single patrol car rolled by on the main drag without incident. Nobody stood watch in the display lot. The sweep revealed a rear service entrance and a convenient, low-profile pedestrian side door.

Nothing alarming. Evan gathered his courage and went inside.

Pop music from overhead speakers grated on him rather than bringing comfort. Scattered customers and employees across the show floor gave most of their attention to the display cars. At a central desk, a sharp-dressed Filipino man looked up with a professional smile. “Hi, welcome to Santa Monica Elites. How can I help you?”

“Hi. I need to speak with one of your managers about a repossession.” Evan kept his voice low, but casual. “Not my own car,” he added for the receptionist’s raised brow. “I’m an agent. It’s about one of yours.”

“Oh, okay. Are they expecting you?”

“Maybe.” Evan shrugged. “My boss should’ve called ahead for me, but I don’t know if he got to it. I’m from Arneson Recoveries.”

“Sure, lemme call it in.” The receptionist picked up his desk phone, hit a button, and waited. “Hey, I’ve got someone here about a repossession. Says he’s from Arneson Recoveries?” The receptionist glanced up at Evan for correction, but received none. “Okay.” He tilted the handset away from his mouth. “They’re asking, one sec.”

Tension pulled a full minute out of every second that followed, at least as far as Evan’s nerves were concerned. Nothing is wrong. Act like you belong. Say less. His glances around the showroom were casual. He relied more on reflective surfaces than turning his head.

No changes. No cops. No security guard in sight, though their presence wouldn’t surprise him. Nobody looked like a magical mobster, though he still didn’t know what to expect there. The run-in with Sunday had been too fast and too stressful to track everything.

A bearded man in a black pin-striped shirt approached with the same confident grin everyone else wore here. “Hi, I’m Peter. Our manager’s tied up with a customer.” He extended a hand. “You’re here from Arneson?”

“Yeah. Mike, hi,” Evan lied, shaking hands. The shop had no Mikes. He hoped it didn’t matter.

“Can I bring you back to one of our offices?”

“Sure.” Evan walked with him across the showroom. His nerves kept firing, but Evan expected this much. They wouldn’t talk repossessions in front of customers.

Peter said nothing until they reached the hallway, and then only directed him to a door with a placard for the owner. Going straight to his office seemed like a good sign. They wouldn’t delegate a sketchy deal to just anybody.

“We don’t run a lot of repossessions, so I already know which car this is about,” Peter said amiably. “Have a seat. I’ll go prod the boss to get in here.”

The office looked like any other: white drywall on four sides, a big wooden desk with a computer and folders, manager and guest chairs to either side. The brag wall held plaques and pictures with celebrity clients. The sole window faced the showroom and had its blinds drawn—a detail Evan only noticed as Peter disappeared into the hallway.

Possibilities sprang to mind: they might want to stall him here until police arrived, or until they could call Brett. As soon as he’d left the repo yard, Evan knew Brett might call SME to warn them off. It was one more chance Evan had to take. Conversely, this might all be perfectly normal. Evan rarely made deliveries, and never directly to a dealer. Repos usually came from banks, because they held most loans.

Evan waited one minute and then another. He worried about being cornered in the office, but he couldn’t stand in the doorway without raising suspicion. This was already a sketchy deal. He’d have to take any confrontation or danger as it appeared. The door remained open, at any rate. Sounds of normal business drifted in. With the third minute, he pushed himself into a chair.

Look normal, he told himself. Nobody so much as blinked when you showed up. The boss didn’t warn anyone about you. It’s probably fine. You’re committed, anyway.

Another minute. He didn’t count, but the clock on the wall said what it said.

A man appeared in the doorway, thick-shouldered under a leather coat. Evan recognized him from the chairs outside the service center, though the man’s face had hardened. He held out a phone with a glowing screen. “Take the call. Don’t be stupid.”

“Shit.” Evan stood and took the phone. The screen held no name for the caller, but he knew before he heard the voice. What was the greeting for an enemy over the phone? “Talk.”

“I’ll ask you not to do anything rash to my associate,” Anatole began. “He’s a reliable man, but only mortal. I’ve instructed him to refrain from violence. He won’t get in your way.”

The guy did, in fact, stay in the doorway, but Evan didn’t read an imminent threat from his eyes. Beyond him, conversation and low-key pop music still drifted along the hallway.

“You made a memorable introduction last night,” said Anatole. “The natural questions are, ‘Who are you, who sent you, and why?’ The more interesting questions are, ‘How did your power go unnoticed, and why didn’t you fight back in the basement?’ Christian wanted to shoot you. I broke your bones, felt them crack. You did nothing. Your fear and helplessness seemed so genuine. Are you that talented an actor, and were you so confident in your ruse?”

Evan didn’t speak.

“Christian’s car is a paltry goal for such a daring venture. I believed your story in the basement, but not once you escaped—and you did, in fact, take the car. His payments are in arrears. Then you ran to that slum apartment. Now here you are, trying to deliver the car to the dealer. All of this supports your story.”

Wordlessly, Evan turned to the window and pushed the blinds apart. Everything appeared as it did when he arrived. No cops, nobody ushering the customers away.

“At first, I thought you must be the agent of some rival, or an enemy unto yourself. The car was absurd, given the danger you faced and the power you demonstrated. You infiltrated, you fought off my guards and escaped, therefore you must have had those powers all along and your story was all lies—except you ran back to the life you claimed, and we did go to great lengths to screen for supernatural dangers.

“You’re no vampire, no werewolf, not one of the djinn and certainly no demon. Your displays suggest sorcery, and skilled sorcery at that. Your home and your actions say otherwise. Some Practices restrict the use of sorcery for financial gain; I know of none that impose poverty.

“I think you are Evan Murphy. You live in that slum. You came to the party without magic, seeking only that ridiculous car… except the car isn’t the only thing you stole.”

“Alright. You’ve got me there,” said Evan. “That car is fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“And not as valuable as your other stolen loot. You gained significant power, and then the stars appeared for all those with eyes to see.”

Evan hesitated before replying. He gained nothing by volunteering details. Anatole was clever, insightful, and knew far more about all this supernatural business… but he clearly didn’t know everything. He had Evan on the phone, not captured or killed. Not yet.

The man had limitations.

“What else have you figured out?” asked Evan.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” said Anatole. “You didn’t believe in magic and monsters until last night. Not seriously, anyway. Again, you’re not djinn, not part of any Practice, not easily categorized. Many are drawn deeply into the night by some event, some experience that leaves them changed. Not everyone fits into a neat box. We have that in common.”

“Really? What’s your story?”

“I was once a mortal with an ordinary life, but one of use to certain supernaturals. Rather than accept a subordinate role, I discovered the secrets of their power and claimed it for myself. Then I discovered more. I acted with intent. I built upon success with further success. My experience spans centuries. You stumbled into this hours ago.”

Anatole’s “associate” watched from the doorway. Nobody else came by. One way or another, the dealer and staff knew not to get involved. Evan wouldn’t get anything for the car here.

Still, nobody jumped him. He saw no sign of reinforcements.

Say as little as possible. This is worse than talking to a cop without a lawyer.

“Why are we talking?”

“I want my property, Mr. Murphy. Return what you stole and give a full accounting of your experience. Do that and we’ll have no further trouble between us.”

“Thought you’d say something like that.” Evan saw no use in volunteering information, nor had interest in dancing around the inevitable. It wasn’t like he gained anything with a bluff. Despite all that, he was curious where Anatole would take this, if only to know his enemy better. “What if that’s not really possible?”

“That would be unsurprising,” Anatole sighed. “Matters such as these often frustrate the hopes of a simple resolution. You acted without knowledge, and what is done is done. If the idol cannot be returned, service in recompense is acceptable.”

“Motherfucker, you tortured me,” Evan scoffed. “Your ‘associates’ are trash. You were gonna kill me over a car. I can’t trust any deal you offer, and I sure as fuck won’t work for you.”

“Mr. Murphy, you won’t survive the alternatives. We have established your ignorance. I have agents and allies everywhere. You have nothing and nowhere to turn. No one will aid you.”

Evan froze, but not in fear. Rage crawled from his hands up his arms and shoulders. He knew this routine. Abusers always want to box you in. They always pump themselves up. It’s always bullshit.

“Plot twist: I’m used to being on my own.” Evan tossed the phone over his shoulder to a random corner of the office, walking straight for the door and the observer. “Get out of my way.”

The guy moved. Evan saw restraint in his reaction rather than fear, but that was fine. He didn’t want to fight in a car dealership—or anywhere, if he could avoid it. Anatole’s messenger hurried into the office to find his phone while Evan crossed the showroom. The way he came in probably still beat the main entrance.

Nobody loitered outside the door. Nobody jumped out of a vehicle. Evan turned away from the main boulevard, walking with purpose and fuming rage. Side-street traffic trickled past along two lanes, with houses and apartments filling the block behind the dealership. Sparse palm trees allowed glaring sunlight on almost every parked car.

Fuckin’ dumbass move. Of course, he had someone watching the dealer. It was the only other lead besides your stupid identity… except, no, Anatole had to ask basic questions about repossessions last night. This was always risky, but it was worth a shot. Now you know.

Get to the car and get the fuck out of here.

Sirens wailed in the distance, startling Evan until he recognized the sound of an ambulance rather than police. He looked over his shoulder toward the dealership without subtlety, because why not? Nobody watched or followed—nobody he could see, anyway. That confirmed nothing. Get to the car, but not directly.

City blocks ran short along the boulevards and long on the side streets. He nearly hopped a residential fence to run between a driveway or alley, just to get out of sight, but the instinct to play it cool won out. Nobody followed, as far as he knew; he hadn’t seen the messenger watching from the dealership, now separated by trees and parked cars and most of the block.

Nearly at the corner, a dark SUV came off a left turn from the boulevard and stopped suddenly on the side street. Evan locked eyes with the driver behind the tinted window. The man in the passenger seat pointed and shouted.

All three men understood how badly they’d flagged themselves.

Evan broke into a run, reaching the street corner and banking right along the sidewalk. Facing the wrong way and blocked by passing traffic on the boulevard, the SUV was stuck in its spot—or so Evan hoped. He didn’t waste energy or speed on a look over his shoulder. That mechanical noise behind him had to come from swiftly-opening doors.

“How the fuck are you here already at this time of day?” Evan huffed. The busy boulevard might keep them from shooting, or might not; he’d met a few people in his life who wouldn’t think twice. At the end of the block, Evan hooked right again, then darted across the street for another long row of apartment buildings spanning the width of the block. He wished he’d chosen such a path only twenty seconds earlier.

The roar of an engine and screech of tires declared the end of his head start. The SUV had caught up fast. Evan charged for the nearest gated apartment driveway, clearing the tiny strip of grass beyond the sidewalk and its low row of snapdragons in a single breath.

The wrought iron gate made for an obstacle, but not much challenge. Fear for his life did wonders for Evan’s jump and his grip. Pulling hand-over-hand and pushing with his feet, Evan flung himself upward faster than he could doubt his choices. As he cleared the top, the SUV’s doors flew open. He saw dark jackets and pistols with long, blocky barrels. One man already had his aimed Evan’s way.

Then Evan’s shoulder and hip met the pavement. A strange crack! preceded his landing, or his sense of time might’ve been jarred by impact. While Evan rolled away from the gate, he heard another such crack and saw pavement explode inches past his face. He dove for the back end of an F150 that jutted from the overhanging car port of the apartment building.

Sharp, breath-stealing pain struck his left shoulder blade and lower between his ribs. The bullets seemed to push him along his path, with more flying by before he made it to cover. Though Evan gasped, the lack of gaping holes through his chest and his ability to stand attested to his magical defenses. He hurt, though, and felt his magic strain to its limits.

Many guns could blast right through the back end of the truck. Evan couldn’t stay; he knew that before he arrived. His attackers, at least three in number, had to be at the gate. They already hit him twice while he ran. He wouldn’t survive an open run, nor did Evan expect a shootout using his stars would work in his favor. Not this close, or in this light—“Oh, right.”

Evan hurled a tiny glowing orb over the truck’s side, wanting to give his pursuers something to worry about while he thought the rest through. The shooting star slammed against the gate loudly, answered by a bullet against the concrete carport wall behind him. Amid the exchange, Evan saw one shooter climb over the gate. He shut his eyes and focused on the simplest primal image in his mind. The results flared to life as he opened his clenched fist.

Late morning left the driveway shaded, and the car port doubly so until the sun appeared in Evan’s hand. “Fuck!” blurted one of the shooters. Evan kept his head turned away, but the change against his eyelids confirmed success. The light lasted only a moment; Evan made the most of it in a sprint away from the carport.

A backward glance counted four men, two turned away and one with a hand up. Most wore sunglasses, including the one who fired across the driveway despite the glare in his eyes. The one inside the driveway gate found a control box. Clenching his fist tightly for more magic, Evan hurled another little ball of starlight behind himself without stopping to aim. As long as it made them worry, the orb did some good.

Evan cursed the apartment’s builders for blocking every car port rather than leaving him space to run under cover. None of the other vehicles stuck out like the F-150, and more than half the spaces were empty at this hour. With only one attacker firing blindly, Evan covered ground as fast as he could.

The far end of the driveway was identical to Evan’s entrance. He was halfway there and running at full steam when a dark figure leaped into view to grab the top of the gate with one hand, kicked against a bar, and swung over the top. Evan saw a dark motorcycle helmet atop dark clothes and the glint of metal in the stranger’s free hand. They came over the side and landed with far more grace than Evan had managed.

Bullets struck his back again, stealing breath and thought. Battered forward and tumbling face-first into the pavement, Evan’s mind lurched with alarm. Bad, this is bad, he realized before he flopped to a halt. The pain ran through his back deep into his chest. He couldn’t sense if his magic armor still held. He could barely sense anything through his hurt.

Fix it, Evan shouted inwardly. Vision blurred as footsteps rushed toward him. He heard shouts and more gunfire. None of it mattered if he died here and now. He grasped and clenched with empty hands to focus his magic. Heal!

Breath rushed into his lungs. Flesh mended with a distinctly unpleasant relief.

Black sneakers under black cargo pants hit the pavement nearby. The stranger reached back in a wind-up, and then a hatchet flew from their hand toward his pursuers. A twisting counter-turn produced another flying bit of metal, perhaps a knife, while Evan heard the crack of more gunshots muffled by silencers.

Someone cried out in pain, another in shock. “Stop! What are you doing?”

“I never fuckin’ liked you!” shouted the stranger, their voice light yet furious, with an accent Evan knew.

Oh god, not her. Not again. He still shook with pain. One spell wasn’t enough. He felt the limits of power, struggling for more. “H-heal,” he murmured with shaking lips. “C’mon, heal.”

Shadow passed over him as the stranger ducked and spun away from a gunshot. One black sneaker stepped past Evan’s side. Flowing black hair hung from beneath the motorcycle helmet, whirling with the rest of her. Then he was alone again.

Blood flew from his mouth in a rasping cough. “Heal… heal!” Power returned to his hand, less than before, but enough to slap against his chest opposite the wound in his back. His magic flowed weakly, but even a little made the body stronger. It all tied together; he knew that now. He had to learn all this through experience, including his limits. Magic granted armor and healed injuries, yet one guy with a gun could still take him out. Two guys or more could definitely do the job—let alone the nightmare they now fought.

Once more, he thought. Need to heal maybe once more.

Curled on his side, Evan looked back to the fight. Two men laid on the ground, one not moving and the other clutching at some injury to the chest. The other two shot at the stranger now close enough to brawl; whether by magic, kung fu, or sheer speed, she twisted and ducked away from their weapons as the motorcycle helmet came off her head.

Sunday clobbered one shooter squarely in the face with the helmet and slapped the remaining foe’s pistol away. She kept moving into him, hooking her leg around his to bring him down. They landed on the pavement together, though he clearly got the worst of it.

Mending muscle and flesh clouded Evan’s mind and eyesight with a strange blend of discomfort, strain, and salvation. His vision cleared to the sight of Sunday beating one shooter senseless with that now cracked and visorless helmet. Behind her, the last shooter recovered and tackled her from behind. The move looked like it would work until she twisted and flung him off of her, right beside his friend. Another swing of her shattered helmet sent blood flying. So did the swings that followed.

“Fuck that.” Rasping, Evan pushed himself to his hands and knees, then got one foot on the ground. Healed or not, the drain of using so much magic ran deep, like he’d run a marathon in this driveway. He had to run much farther now—or fight.

“Whoa! Whoawhoawhoa, hold on.” Sunday straightened from her brawl with blood-soaked hands out and open in a motion of peace. “We don’t gotta go again. We’re good. I’m sorry, okay? Lemme talk. Just chill.”

“The fuck?” Evan huffed. He had neither the energy nor sense for anything wittier.

“We’re good. You an’ me,” she reiterated, complete with hand motions. “I’m sorry about before. Shit’s been crazy. I want to explain. Maybe not here, tú sabes?”

“You tried to kill me.”

She winced. “Yeah. I did. I mean, I was gonna kidnap you, but⁠—”

“I thought I killed you.”

“You did.” Sunday nodded with wide eyes. “You sure fuckin’ did, and that’s another reason I don’t wanna fight again. Mostly ’cause I’m grateful. I needed that.”

“…what?”

“Shit’s. Been. Crazy,” she repeated. “I’ve been crazy, for a long time. I needed the reset. Okay? You helped me. I owe you. I’m not gonna hurt you. I don’t wanna fight. We both know how that goes, right?”

Evan blinked and glanced at the four men laid out in the driveway at her feet.

“Yeah,” she said, catching on. “Why didn’t you—? Never mind. Look, we gotta get outta here, and I really wanna talk. I wanna help you, okay? I’m not with them. Fuck Anatole, and these guys, too. We gotta go before more show up.”

“You threatened my cats.”

“I—” Sunday took a breath. He saw frustration, and with it regret. “I never would’a hurt your cats. I never needed to. It was shitty. I’ve been shitty. Now we’re both in deep shit. I’m sorry. Can we talk about getting out of it together?”

Sirens wailed in the distance—another ambulance, Evan thought, but he took the point. He couldn’t stay here and chat. “What’s your plan?”

“Fuck, man, I don’ know.” Her shoulders fell. The broken helmet at her feet spoke to an obvious problem: without it, whatever bike she rode would attract the attention of the first cop she passed. Evan thought he saw the sort of weariness he felt … and maybe something else he sympathized with, too. Something he couldn’t name.

“Do we do anything about this mess?” asked Evan.

“No.” The note of cooperation lifted Sunday’s hopes. “No, Anatole’s guys will deal with it. He wants a low profile. This was already a big reach for him.”

“Where’s your bike? Would they recognize it? Is that a problem?”

“I don’t think so. Doesn’t stand out, and it wouldn’t help them.”

“Grab the helmet bits, anyway.” Evan waved his hand over the pavement at his feet in a clockwise motion, cleansing blood and debris from the ground. Sunday reclaimed her hatchet and knife from the fallen, along with her broken helmet. He had to trust her judgment about the rest—and the things she said. It was hardly his craziest decision since yesterday.

She saved his ass. She seemed more human than before. Almost relatable.

“Car’s this way.” Evan staggered toward Sunday’s path of entry, then stopped. “How did you find me?”

“Only so many places sell Lamborghinis. Two are nearby.” Sunday easily outpaced Evan, making quick use of the gate control at the other end of the driveway. “Then I saw those assholes tearin’ down the street.”

“Hope half the neighborhood hasn’t already seen us,” Evan grumbled. Each step unclenched muscles and made the next step easier.

“Middle of the work day, hasn’t been more than two minutes. Silencers help.” Sunday pitched her broken helmet behind a bush around the corner at the gate. “Which way?”

Evan gestured left and across the nearest intersection from the apartments. “Mini-mart.”

“You left a car like that at a gas station?”

“No, I left it behind the gas station, and behind a dumpster,” Evan grumbled. “Parking that thing anywhere is a pain in the ass.”

His pace improved as they reached the corner. By the time they crossed the intersection, he jogged steadily. City traffic carried on without a clue for the violence and dead bodies half a block away. Evan’s head moved as if on a swivel.

“You look too worried for an ordinary pedestrian,” said Sunday.

“I am too worried for that. I’m worried about more gunmen. And cops.”

“If the sirens aren’t going already, we’re doin’ good.” They rounded the corner of the gas station mini-mart and the dumpster, bringing Sunday to a curious halt. “They told me it was red.”

“It was.” The car sat alone without scratches or scuffs. Evan got behind the wheel and let the crazy magical killer lady take the passenger seat. Presumably, she wasn’t angling for a chance to shoot, stab, or bite him while he drove. Maybe, possibly, he had one less enemy.

As she got in, she pulled a pair of pistols from her waistband and put them on the floor. Evan glanced at them only once—semi-autos, maybe Glocks, he didn’t know guns—before his eyes turned back to her and stayed there.

“What?” she asked.

“Did you take those from the other guys?”

“No. They’re mine.”

“You had guns the whole time? Why didn’t you shoot them?”

“Tryin’ to keep it quiet. They had silencers. People don’t always know that sound, but they’d know these.” Sunday gestured to the pistols at her feet. Their mutual, awkward stares held. “I’m not gonna shoot you.”

He kept staring.

She pushed the weapons under her chair—using her feet, which wasn’t graceful in a low ride like the Lamborghini. “Better?”

He turned the car on, and with it, the radio.

“Police haven’t yet released details to the public, including the fallen officer’s name,” said the voice on the speakers. “Sources say the officer was a detective and that he was off-duty at the time of his death. They also say evidence points to violence and they have identified a suspect. A citywide manhunt is already getting underway.”

Growling, Evan slammed his head back against his seat. “Fuuuuck!”

“Wow. Most people don’t get road rage ’til they’re actually driving,” said Sunday.

5

CHARTING STARS

“I’ve had a literal demon stuck inside me for the last few years. I was possessed, but not like he completely replaced my brain. You ever have a dream where you’re doin’ shit you’d never do, but you’re still you? Like that. Fucker turned me into the shittiest version of me.”

Sunday held every shred of attention Evan could spare from the road. She showed less concern for traffic and potential tails than he did—and less concern for seatbelts or sitting straight, given how she was turned toward him. Her face held five kinds of tension, and behind it, all the exhaustion they could create.

He knew the feeling.

“Possessed,” said Evan.

“You blew me up with magic an’ walked away from our fight last night. You killed a vampire. An’ you just got up from gunshot wounds. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Yeah, I get that magic is real. Possession is a new one.” The side street brought them to a red light on Wilshire Boulevard. Only a couple cars pulled behind them in the rearview mirror. None stood out, but that told him nothing; a good tail would blend in, right? Someone could jump out of the cars behind or the one in front with a gun. Lots of things could jump out at him. “Demons, too,” he muttered. “Heard they’re real, but haven’t seen it.”

“You saw it with me. They’re assholes. You don’t want none of that. I didn’t, either.” Sunday followed his gaze. The traffic light changed, releasing them into an eastward turn onto Wilshire’s line of businesses and palm trees. “Where are we going?”

“Away. Figured turns would help me spot anyone following us.” He realized his answers came too easily; he wasn’t thinking enough about privacy or deception. He was used to playing things close to the chest, but not at this level. Better to be blunt than look stupid for clear lies, he supposed. “I’m not going anywhere specific until we get things straight between us. I don’t know you. As long as we’re moving away from trouble, that’s enough.”

“Yeah, I guess that works. Why’d you run from those guys?”

“It’s not obvious?”

“No. You’ve got magic—fighting magic, and that’s rare. You took me on. Why not them?”

“Fighting wasn’t my first thought. Once I ran, I felt kinda committed.”

“You’re not used to this shit,” Sunday observed.

“No, I’m not,” said Evan. “All this shit is crazy. Guns, monsters, all of it. You were possessed? How’d that happen?”

“Anatole. Same bastard who’s after you.”

“Who the fuck is this guy, anyway?”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I never heard of him before last night. I—” Evan cut himself off, wary of saying too much to a dangerous stranger. He decided it couldn’t hurt to tell her what his enemies already knew. “I repossessed this car last night from a guy who works for Anatole. That’s how all this started.”

“How long have you been using magic?”

“I dunno, what time is it?”

“Huh. Yeah. Okay.”

“I know Anatole is crazy strong and he’s got money and monsters working for him. What is he, some supernatural mob boss?”

“That’s not a bad way to describe it.” Sunday’s posture eased as they put time and distance between themselves and trouble, though she didn’t exactly relax. “He turned up here in the forties, after the war, but he goes back way longer than that. Seems like a Practitioner—a wizard, right?—but they usually have clubs and traditions and shit. None of them claim him.”

“He gave me some self-made-man bullshit,” said Evan.

“That might be kinda true. I don’t know. He’s got connections across the nightlife, and that’s rare. Most people keep to their own. Exceptions happen, but Anatole’s got connections across the whole field. He showed up with money and favors and leverage. Been a power player ever since.”

“The forties?” Evan glanced at her while he drove. Until now, her dark eyes, sharp jawline, and flawless light brown skin only represented danger to him, ranging from casual threats to predatory rage. She was more than pretty; he hadn’t noticed that before. Her youth had been irrelevant, too. “You say it like you were there.”

“We don’t really got time for my life story.”

“No. No.” Evan kept himself from slamming his hand on the wheel or his foot on the accelerator, but the impulse was strong. “I’ve gone back and forth from cryptic bullshit to dead ends since this all started. I want answers to something. Anything. We’re in a fuckin’ car, we’re moving, and not being shot at. I don’t know who the hell you are or what you’re about. If you want to work with me, you can start talking. I’ve been in the fucking dark long enough.”

Sunday didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stared.

Evan remembered which one of them was more accustomed to fucking people up.

“You feel better now?” Sunday asked, frowning.

“Sorry,” he grunted, but frustration kept him riled up. “This is all insane. I can’t operate on ‘trust me.’ I’ve been burned too much.”

“Jumping into that fight just now doesn’t tell you enough?”

“It’s enough to have you in the car with me. It doesn’t tell me who you are. As far as I know, everyone wrapped up in this is a threat.”

“I’m not threatening you. I just don’t share much. Not at all, since Nahash took over. That’s the demon. Didn’t trust anyone with anything once he showed up.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” Evan grumbled. He drove. Reconsidered. Felt bad. “Or tell me about something else. Whatever explains what’s going on, as long as it’s true.”

He kept driving.

“I’m almost two hundred years old.”

Evan blinked at her, wide-eyed, but didn’t lose track of the road. He was getting good at driving amid existential shock.

“My family came up from Mexico with the earliest pueblos.” Sunday waved at their surroundings. “I grew up here, before any of this was here at all. Hundreds of people, not millions, you know? After the Tongva had been all pushed around an’ used as slave labor, and… that was all before my time, but some of the people who did it were still around. Still rotten fuckers with smiling faces and shiny crosses. People say not to judge the past by present standards, but nah, man. That kinda shitty was always shitty.

“I was eighteen when a Franciscan named Estevan hit me over the head one night and dragged me to the basement of the chapel. I woke up tied to a table. He had candles, pentagrams, chicken blood, all kinds of crazy shit, talkin’ about some ‘immortality’ he found in old records from the Inquisition in Spain. I don’t really remember, ’cause I was screamin’ and cryin’, clawing my way outta the ropes while he chanted or whatever. Fucker grabbed my mouth to shut me up. I bit him so hard I nearly tore his fingers off.

“Then he finished his magic bullshit and had a heart attack. Grabbed his chest and fuckin’ died right there. Left me screaming all night. Nobody found me until morning… and when they did, the reverend in charge said it was too bad both of us didn’t die. He didn’t want witchcraft spreading through the pueblo. They slit my throat right there.”

“Jesus!” said Evan.

“I woke up in the hills with coyotes sniffin’ at me. Bastards took me a long way from the pueblo and left me for the critters. But when I woke up, I was fine. No scars, not even a headache.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, I dunno if he got involved or not. I got a resurrection, but it was his church and his priests who did it in the first place, right? So did he help me or…?” She shrugged, and watched Evan’s appalled face. “You believe me?”

“Yeah. If I know magic is real, then yeah.” He reached for something to say, but what could fit that? “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“Nah, nah, don’t,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “It’s two hundred years. I’ve dealt. Been dealing. I’m more focused on the recent shit.” Sunday frowned in thought, still watching him. “Ain’t just the magic you believe, though.”

“I know what it’s like when people think you’re disposable,” said Evan. “You probably had it ten times worse. I’m not blowing off everything else, but… still sorry. So, what did you do?”

“Pff. I was a scared, traumatized girl with a story nobody would believe. What do you think I did?” said Sunday. “I went home and told my family I got lost. Then I walked right into church the next day and stared the reverend an’ his goons down. They didn’t dare say a fuckin’ thing. What if I really was a witch, you know? Right there in the church? I carried a knife everywhere after that, but they never tried anything. They ran outta town as soon as they could.”

“Gutsy,” said Evan.

“I am,” said Sunday.

Evan turned off of Wilshire onto a narrower, quieter lane. The 10 wasn’t far if he wanted to get on the freeway, but he still had no destination. Sympathy for a rough story didn’t make them trusted allies or friends. “So, you’ve been around since then? How’s that work?”

“What, living? Same as anything. Life went on, shit happened, except I’ve only gotten a couple years older since then. I can barely tell. But I’ve been shot dead, got caught in a fire, bad falls. Every time, I got up again before I got buried. Died in an earthquake once—that was bad, ’cause I was stuck for a while. Never been sick for more than a day. I don’t know how it works. I don’t know why. Eventually, I found people who knew magic, fell in with the night life. They tell me sometimes magic can backfire if the process gets fucked up. Maybe that’s what happened. I don’t know. Along the way, I picked up a few magic tricks and started taking on risky work. Mercenary, you could say. I don’t advertise the resurrection stuff, but people know I’m tough. They know I get shit done.

“A couple years ago, I heard someone in the nightlife was grabbing young people. Sounded a lot like what happened to me; lots of these assholes are lookin’ for immortality, you know? I wasn’t having that, so I looked into it. Anatole said he could help, and he’s a long-lived fucker, so I went to hear him out. Didn’t trust him, so I was careful, but it’s hard to prep for demons. Never ran into them before. I fought, but my head got fuzzy fast. Don’t really remember it all.

“Anatole had a different plan than Estevan. He needed some trade with Nahash, and Nahash needed a body. They didn’t know all my secrets, but Anatole knew I’d been around a long time. That meant I’d last longer than someone off the street. I blacked out and when I woke up, I just… didn’t care.”

“Is that how you started working for Anatole?”

“Sort of. Seems like Nahash mostly wanted to live on Earth. My whole personality changed, but I was still a person. Still needed money. I didn’t take orders from Anatole, but I took jobs here and there, from him and others. Nasty jobs.” Her eyes turned downward. “I killed people I wouldn’t, normally. Hurt more. Didn’t feel the least bit bad about it. Having Nahash in me didn’t bother me at all. That’s the creepy part. I wasn’t me, but I didn’t care.

“Then I ran into you last night. Somethin’ about your magic made that death different, snapped me out of it. Snapped him out of me. I woke up an’ all the shit I’ve done caught up. All the shit I’ve been, an’ what was done to me.” Her eyes hardened, watching the road. “I had to do something about it. That’s you. You’re the first thing, anyway. And you know about Anatole.”

They passed sparse trees and packed buildings, many of them apartments—long apartment buildings, with alleys like the battleground they had fled. California sun shined down on the car. The moment felt safe, except for all the reasons Evan knew better. He wasn’t used to this kind of danger. He wasn’t used to talking so openly, either.

“What happens with Anatole and this demon’s deal now?” he asked.

“It was short-term, something specific. That’s how they operate. They go way back. Anatole and Nahash both got their sides of it, and it ain’t like they’re buddies. I don’t think Anatole knows my secret, either. It’s not something I ever shared around, and I was even less trusting while I was possessed. I think when you killed me, you killed Nahash, too. What little I know of demons says they don’t come back right away. I need to look into that, but it seemed less urgent than finding you.

“Not many people know my story, but I dunno what you say to build trust after you’ve tried to kidnap or kill someone. If you ain’t used to this life, this has all gotta be a mind-fuck. Can’t blame you for not trusting.” Sunday ventured a question: “Your kitties are okay, right?”

The survivor in Evan knew a question like that could be manipulative. People played on sympathy and warmth to get leverage. Sunday’s story had convenient parallels to his own life of hard knocks and the sudden upheaval of magic. Those guys in the alley might be disposable tools for Anatole and Sunday alike… but it all seemed awfully sudden and complicated for a con.

He hadn’t slept since the night before last. He was worn down, scared, worried about Flip-Top and Lily and Sofia. He worried about magic. Monsters. His future.

The same survivor in Evan knew he hadn’t come this far entirely on his own. Not really. For all her strength and violence, Sunday looked worn down, too.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Oh my god, yes,” Sunday realized. “I’m fuckin’ starving.”

“Hey, I’m okay,” Evan typed into his phone. “News is bad and good. Boss screwed me. Might have found help with the rest. Talking now. I’ll let you know.”

A soft breeze came off the street, cooling the sunny patio along the mom & pop restaurant’s driveway. Evan reviewed his text and hesitated; he promised Sofia updates and wanted to make good on that, but he dreaded false hope. Then the door to the restaurant opened. He hit “send” and put the phone in his pocket.

Sunday emerged from the restaurant’s side door without a weapon in hand or hit squad at her side. Immortal or not, she needed restroom stops like anyone else. She moved like an ordinary person. Made ordinary small talk.

Except she wasn’t ordinary at all.

“The best street food usually comes off the actual street,” she said, digging into the foil bundles on her paper plate. “You want that taco or tamale straight out of somebody’s car in a parking lot. This is great, though. Family joints always beat the chain stuff.”

The breeze rustled her locks of jet-black hair over her shoulder as she leaned into another bite. Ordinary aluminum foil and plain white napkins covered her remaining tacos, all of it unbranded. The restaurant’s signs offered burgers and tacos with equal pride; Sunday and Evan leaned toward the latter. A convenient driveway layout allowed Evan to park the car off the street, backed-in for a quick exit. The table gave them a decent view of their surroundings. With his vigilance satisfied, Evan found himself focusing more on his company.

“Oh my god,” Sunday groaned with her mouth full. Her eyes fluttered as she chewed.

“You sound like it’s been a while since you had this.”

“Possession is weird, man. Demons are weird. That fucker had me on a mostly-meat diet, usually cold. Just eating hunks of deli meat with maybe a little sauce. My clothes are all weird,” she continued, gesturing to herself. “An’ you don’t wanna hear the music I’ve been listening to. Like seventies TV variety show shit.”

The corners of his mouth pulled into a grin. He wasn’t ready to let his guard down, but he couldn’t ignore her personality. “You, um… you don’t sound that old.”

“I don’t feel old. Never have.” Sunday balled up her napkin and reached for the next bundle of barbacoa, onion, and tortilla. “I never felt like I built up any abuela wisdom or fell out of touch with the times. It’s more like being twenty-three forever.”

“Twenty-three?”

“I was eighteen when shit went sideways. I’ve gotten at least a little older, physically. I figure I’m on the older side of college, maybe a little past that? Not any further. I’ve seen lots of stuff. Lots of change. Still feel like me.” Sunday bit, chewed, and watched him. “You’re around the same, aren’t you? I didn’t get much info, but I’m guessing.”

“Almost exactly.” The grin stopped threatening at his lips.

“Coincidences like that happen a lot more in the nightlife than for regular people.”

“Yeah, I heard that.”

“Yeah,” she echoed, and waved her half-eaten taco at him. “You’re new at this. Real new. You don’t know your own strength, and you’re strong, ese. Got up from bullets, got up from my demon-powered best. Got away from Anatole. I dunno what that involved, but I bet it wasn’t nothing. And then there’s the stars.” She nodded skyward. “That seems like a big deal.”

“The demon’s gone, but you still took all those guys down yourself,” said Evan. “How strong are you?”

“I’ve been kind of a mercenary for a long time. Bodyguarding, running people down, got paid to take a side in a couple feuds. Seems like some of what Nahash did to my body stuck, too,” Sunday conceded. “I’m stronger and faster than before. More flexible. But my mouth doesn’t feel weird anymore, or my bones, or my skin. No more snake fangs. Won’t have to shed ever again.”

“You shed? Like an actual snake?”

“How personal are you ready to get?” Sunday crumpled and deposited her foil and napkin on her plate and waited patiently, but a response didn’t come. “The stars got weird last night, and you got magic for the first time. Lots of magic. You haven’t been studying for years and then hit some breakthrough last night. Somethin’ happened to you, like it happened to me, right?”

He hesitated.

“Except somebody told you about magic and coincidence. Somebody told you about demons. How much else do you know?”

“Not a lot,” he said.

She tilted her head in a sideways nod. His guard was back up; she knew it, and so did he. “I don’t blame you for not trusting, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

Neither did Evan. Since his years on his own, too many people “helped” him by pursuing their own interests. Too many others offered some exchange of favors only to never deliver. Yet as Evan watched and listened to Sunday, he found no anger or resentment, nothing predatory in her patience. She never pushed a “trust me, bro” line. Nothing hinted at a trap or a hope of somehow taking advantage of him.

“Why did you trust me enough to help me?” he asked. “You know people can be horrible. Anatole being out to get me doesn’t mean much. How do you know I’m not another asshole like him?”

“Fighting me wasn’t your first, second, or third choice. Maybe you didn’t know your own strength, but that means you don’t throw it around. And yeah, having the right enemies doesn’t always say that much—but with people out for your head, you ran back to your tiny home to take care of your cats.” Sunday shook her head. “That’s not what a hard-assed killer or a backstabber does when they’re in trouble. So yeah, we know people can be monsters. We also know most people aren’t—not even people who’ve been through rough stuff. I liked my odds.”

Evan released a breath. Sunday waited like someone who understood.

“How much do you know about me? About what happened and why they’re after me?”

“My phone got smashed an’ burned in the fight,” Sunday grumbled. “Think the message said somethin’ like, ‘A. offers treasure and favors for Evan Murphy, thief and murderer.’ Physical description, Hawthorne. They don’t know if you run with anyone. They wanted you alive, but dead was acceptable. I pinged back for more. Anatole’s got like a secretary, Elizabeth. She said you killed a vampire who worked for them and stole that car. She played it kinda quiet, but I figured the car couldn’t be the real issue.”

“It’s not,” said Evan. “Do you know who Christian Miller is? Hockey player, podcast dipshit? He’s in Anatole’s pocket. I don’t know how. He had a party in the hills last night. I went there to repossess his car. I didn’t know anything about magic or Anatole or any of this shit. Anatole’s guys caught me, fucked me up, and tossed me in the basement. Anatole thought I was there for something bigger, but when he figured out I was legit, he told his guys to leave me in the basement until after the party and then kill me.

“The basement had a bunch of stuff taken from a guy named Cornelius.”

“Ugh.” Sunday glanced away in disgust. “That fuckin’ pendejo—wait. What kinda stuff?”

“Did you know him?”

“Yeah,” she said like it was obvious. “Not well, an’ not by choice. Guy was the head vampire around here since the twenties. I ran into him a few times. Heard about him more. He just died a little bit back. Some out-of-town vampire shit. What stuff did they have?”

“Lots of art, lots of boxes, fancy funeral urns. I, um…” Evan bit his lip, but then considered the phone call at the dealership. This was still all stuff Anatole knew, or had figured out. “I opened up a box, and boom: magic. Fixed me up, gave me some tricks. I got the hell out of there. The Lamborghini was on the way, so I took it.”

“Heh. Hah. ‘Boom, magic?’ That’s how it went?” Sunday laughed.

“No, it was more involved, but…” Evan trailed off. Sunday’s laugh brought out her smile—the biggest, brightest smile he’d ever seen. It seemed mild for her, too. She could go brighter.

“But what?’ she asked.

He recovered quickly. “That’s the long-story-short version.”

“Alright. S’okay. I guess I can relate. Do you know the long version? Do you understand what happened to you?”

“I know the bottom line, but I didn’t get a training manual. I’ve been figuring stuff out as I go. What doesn’t come naturally is all the factions and history here. I don’t know what’s what or who’s who, and I don’t know who I’ll piss off next.”

Sunday leaned back, folded her arms, and thought. “Okay. I believe you. Doesn’t fit anything I ever heard, but shit happens with magic. What about the car?”

“It’s just a car,” Evan sighed. “Couple million dollars of shiny bullshit. I told my boss things went sideways, so now he doesn’t want it. Now I’ve got no job, I can’t go home—oh. Yeah. And one of the people I… one of Anatole’s guys was a cop. Off-duty and dirty as hell, fully involved in everything. Now he’s dead.”

“Oh, the thing on the radio,” Sunday remembered. “Yeah, they don’t take that well.”

“No. I don’t know if Anatole can pin that on me, but probably, y’know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re in some shit,” she agreed soberly.

Evan huffed. “You still want to help me?”

“Help each other, maybe?” said Sunday. “It’s been a shitty few years. We’re both in trouble. You seem alright. Been a long time since I made any kind of friend.”

Something hit in his chest, like an extra-strength beat of his heart. His throat tightened. He thought to look away; he dismissed the impulse to run and hide, but it was there. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Not serious friends. People are out to kill me, so… this is serious.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I don’t look serious?”

“No,” she laughed. “You don’t seem shy. Maybe don’t smile much, but you’ve had a bad day an’ this ain’t a date. You don’t seem like the type to drive people away, either.”

“How can you tell?”

“I been around a bit.”

His chest, his throat, and his brain did their routine again. He hadn’t lied; he didn’t have many serious friends.

“Things have been rough for me for a long time,” Evan explained, choosing his words carefully. “I can’t compare to being murdered or possessed, but things have been… bad. It’s only in the last couple years that I’ve been okay. Along the way, I had to deal with most things on my own. Lots of people who were supposed to help only made shit worse. I learned to keep my head down and my mouth shut. That’s not how you make friends.”

“True,” said Sunday. “I can’t tell most people my stuff, either. What you’re talkin’ about? That sounds relatable.”

Don’t mess with me, he thought, meeting her eyes. Friendship and the thought of someone helping him in all this felt heavy enough, even without a jawline that could cut glass, and flawless complexion, and that voice and that accent… No. Stop. He pushed those thoughts aside before they started. Friendship seemed like a wild enough hope; he didn’t need to be more vulnerable than that.

“Maybe later,” said Evan. “What do you want to do? About all this, about your situation?”

“Take Anatole down. What he did to me can’t stand. He’s gotta go.”

Evan stared past her to the street, looking at nothing. “I don’t want a war. But I’m not gonna live in peace until this is settled, am I?”

“Not with a fucker like that, no. He’s not gonna let go,” said Sunday.

“I wouldn’t know where to start. This all kicked off last night. I haven’t slept, let alone figured anything out.” He shook his head. “I can’t just go at the guy.”

“Nah. That’d be dumb. We need a plan. Doesn’t have to be today. You’ve gotta lay real low until then, though.”

“That brings me back to all my other problems.” Evan rubbed his face. “I’ve lost my job and I can’t go home. I’m probably wanted by the police. I’ve got magic now, so I’ve gotta figure that out, but I also need a place to live and some way to rebuild my life. All of that means I’ve gotta deal with that fucking car.”

“Your boss doesn’t want it, right? And the dealer didn’t work out? It’s flashy. You don’t want flashy when someone’s out for your blood. You oughta dump it.”

“It’s worth literally millions.” Evan shook his head. “Everything I own is in a couple backpacks, with two cats to take care of. I’m not gonna see millions for that car. Maybe I get a tenth of its value somehow, if I’m insanely lucky. It’s not greed. I just don’t have anything else.

“But it’s not worth anything until I find a buyer,” he admitted. “Without my boss and if the dealer doesn’t want it, I’m not sure what to try next. It’s a stolen car now. I don’t have those contacts, and I can’t risk putting it in storage. It’s too valuable to abandon and too flashy to hold. This isn’t my biggest priority, and it shouldn’t be my first, but I’m stuck with it.”

Sunday considered the problem. “There’s no tracker on this thing, right? I figured they wouldn’t post a bounty if that was a thing.”

“No tracker. I’ve checked.”

“Are we workin’ together?”

Evan stared. She came after him at his home and then saved him from those gunmen. She told her story without any hint of lies… but he had been fooled before. People took advantage of him many times. His world turned upside down last night; she had a depth of experience with magic and mayhem he couldn’t imagine.

He desperately didn’t want to face all this alone.

“Looks like it,” said Evan.

“You can keep it at my place until you figure out what to do with it. I’ve got a garage. It ain’t a mansion, but a car like this coming through my neighborhood wouldn’t be too weird.” She anticipated his skeptical look. “If you don’t expect more than a few percent on this thing, I can give you collateral. I’m not worried about it. A car like this isn’t my style, anyway.”

Long, rough years taught Evan to never turn down help that came without strings attached. The thought of collateral seemed to qualify. “You’re sure?”

“I busted up your life when you didn’t deserve it, and we’ve got a common enemy. We need to trust each other. Better to start with something like this than to wait for the bullets flying at us.”

“I’m Special Agent Maddox, FBI. We need to speak with Aaron Murphy. It’s urgent. Is he in?”

“Hold up. Let me see that again?” The receptionist gestured to Amber’s identification, wanting a closer look. Her rising eyebrows were as perfect as her cornrows, makeup, and ensemble, but the young woman’s unfazed demeanor in the face of the badge made the real impression.

Music reverberated through the wall behind her, loud and frenetic along with the muffled shouts of a very live-and-in-person performer. Not every musician in the pictures and album covers on the lobby walls caught Amber’s memory, but some were recognizable enough. Gold and platinum albums in display cases spoke for themselves.

“You got a warrant?”

“It’s not like that,” said Amber. “This isn’t a search or an arrest. Mr. Murphy isn’t in any trouble. We only want to talk.”

“Uh-huh,” came her skeptical reply.

“It’s about his son,” Amber elaborated.

The receptionist’s stone wall cracked in surprise, but otherwise held. Frowning, she glanced at her desk. “Okay, hold up. I’ll call, but you need to give me some space. We get celebrities through here, and it’s my job to keep their privacy. You ain’t got a warrant. I’ll call once I can breathe.”

“That works.” Amber nodded in deference before backing away to join the other two agents looming nearby. True to her word, the receptionist tapped carefully at the buttons of her desk phone with her perfectly manicured inch-long fingernails. Her eyes stayed on the agents.

“God damn. Is anyone gonna give us the time of day?” Marino muttered under his breath.

“They deal with celebrities here, not peasants,” Amber joked. “She’s doing her job.”

“You could—” Sanderson cut off his reply as the receptionist spoke.

“Hey,” the receptionist said quietly into her headset, “I got the FBI here looking for Aaron. They said it’s about his son.” The reply on the other side sent her voice into a gossipy whisper: “That’s what I thought. Anyway, they say he’s not in trouble, but… you know.”

She stared. The agents waited.

“Alright.” She tapped her desktop phone again. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

Finished eavesdropping, Sanderson pulled out his phone to check messages. “You could be more assertive,” he advised quietly.

Amber thought that might be coming. On their way in, Sanderson had unexpectedly told her to take the lead. Now she was sure this was an impromptu personnel evaluation. Plenty of agents saw her relative youth as a potential hindrance… and Sanderson already had questions about her judgment.

“She took the ID seriously, and me,” Amber explained. “A receptionist at a recording studio deals with pushy showbiz shit and probably stalkers. Backbone has gotta be the first requirement of the job. If I come in aggressively, I’ll have to back it up. We’re not here with a warrant, so what’s the point of being confrontational?”

“Mmhm,” Sanderson replied—without doubt, or approval, or anything to signal an opinion. His eyes stayed on his phone, looking through email.

“I’m sure they’re hiding all the hookers and blow in the back,” grumbled Marino. It didn’t sound like a joke.

This time, Amber didn’t hide her skeptical expression. It took all of her willpower to reply with the gentlest response that came to mind: “Please tell me you know more about music than stereotypes.”

Marino’s scowl deepened. Amber realized she did not, in fact, sound gentle.

“Damn,” grunted Sanderson.

Amber expected another reprimand, but his eyes were still on his phone. “Something up?”

A door opened beyond the reception desk, prompting Sanderson to put his phone away. Whatever his news, he still paid attention to his surroundings. “Tell you later.”

The new arrival looked about as happy as everyone else in the small lobby. He pushed back on middle age with a fashionable haircut, well-trimmed beard, and tan. His green silk button-down shirt was open just low enough to make his gold chain visible. “What’s going on?”

“Are you Aaron Murphy? I’m Agent Maddox, FBI. Could we talk somewhere private?”

Murphy glanced to the other two agents, but accepted Amber as their speaker. He didn’t step beyond the reception desk. “Nah. I’m good here.”

Still at her seat, the receptionist’s brow rose, but she said nothing. Amber detected surprise rather than loyalty, as if bearing witness to interactions with the feds hadn’t been listed on her job duties until this very moment.

“Mr. Murphy, you’re not in any trouble,” said Amber. “My concern is for your privacy.”

“That’s fine. Look, we’ve got an act finally ready to record, and I’m the sound engineer. Everyone is on hold while I’m out here, so can we cut straight to it? What did Evan do?”

“We need to reach him. It’s urgent. He’s not answering his phone or his door, and doesn’t have much of an online presence. Do you have any way to contact him?”

“That’s all? This has nothing else to do with me?”

“Mr. Murphy, this is serious. We have evidence of dangerous people searching for him. We need to find him before they do. That’s all I can say. Have you had any contact with him?”

“Not in almost ten years,” Murphy scoffed.

“Could you point us toward anyone who knows him?”

“No. I’ve got nothin’ for you. When I say I haven’t had contact, I mean I haven’t had contact. Whatever he’s involved with has nothing to do with me.”

“Your son is a young man. If you haven’t seen him in ten years⁠—”

“My wife died in a car wreck when Evan was fourteen,” Murphy interrupted. “He couldn’t handle it and ran away.”

“Couldn’t handle it?” Amber blinked. “You said he was fourteen.”

“Yeah, he was. What should I have done, chain him to the house? Cops brought him back twice, but it didn’t change anything. After the second time, I never saw him again. He’s an adult now. Not my problem anymore.”

“He’s your son,” said Amber.

“I remember. I was there. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. I’ve had no contact. What more do you want me to tell you?” Murphy shrugged. “I’ve come a long way since he left, and I need to get back to it. Are we done?”

“Please take our number,” Sanderson said, handing Murphy his business card. “If anyone else contacts you about Evan, call us immediately. It could be important to your own safety.”

“Sure,” Murphy grumbled. He disappeared through the staff door.

In Murphy’s wake, Sanderson set another business card on the desk for the receptionist. Then he nodded for the other agents to follow him out. None of them spoke until they were outside in the studio’s small parking lot, flanked by cars, trees, and concrete retaining walls.

“Christ, what an asshole,” said Marino.

“You’ve got that right.” Amber stayed at Sanderson’s side. “I wasn’t finished with him, though. I thought I might get more to go on.”

“Maybe, but you already got the bottom line out of him,” said Sanderson as they reached their car. “I don’t think he had much more to offer if it’s been ten years.”

“Eight years,” Amber corrected. “Evan is twenty-two now. He was fourteen when his mom died. His dad remembers that part, but he hasn’t been counting years.”

The detail paused Sanderson with his hand on the car door. Then he nodded to the others to get inside. “We’ve had a development.”

Marino drove. Seniority gave Sanderson an unspoken priority in choice of seats. That put Amber in the back. Sanderson held the phone closer to the middle of the car, with the ringing tone of a call audible for all three. “Nguyen,” answered the recipient.

“You’re on speakerphone,” said Sanderson. “I caught your text while we were with someone. What’s the situation?”

“Lanier caught some message traffic from LAPD with one of his search bots,” said Nguyen. “Some off-duty detective turned up dead in Hollywood earlier. Looks like he was shot in the head overnight. They’re keeping details out of the media, but all the internal stuff points to one Evan Murphy. The description matches our guy.”

“He killed a cop?” asked Marino.

“And stole a red Lamborghini in the process. Car theft and an arrest gone bad. That’s all according to an anonymous tip, from what we’ve got.”

“Oh, come on.” Amber’s scowl picked up the skepticism in Nguyen’s voice. Thankfully, even Marino showed some doubt.

“The original message said, ‘thief and murderer,’” noted Sanderson.

“Yeah, and that message went out to a list of monsters,” said Amber.

“LAPD’s gonna be out for blood,” said Marino. “Everyone else, too. And a red Lamborghini is like a big flag marked, ‘Come Get Me.’ He’s gotta know that.”

“He’s survived on his own since he was fourteen,” said Amber, “or he had support we haven’t found yet. Either way, I don’t think he got by this long out of dumb luck. He’s not stupid, and I doubt he’s suicidal.”

“No,” said Sanderson. “But an ordinary innocent civilian doesn’t draw this kind of attention.”

6

PERIHELION

Good driving in LA required knowledge of side streets, shortcuts, and a sense of when to jump off the freeway despite what any traffic app said. Evan prided himself on his urban navigational skills right up until last night; now his tricks and knowledge seemed like a trivial talent. He drove east along the 10 with a wary eye for slowdowns, listening to a free orientation to the city he never knew.

“Nobody’s really in charge of the spooky side. We’ve never had that here.” Sunday seemed perfectly comfortable reclining in the passenger seat through the entire drive. Evan tried not to worry about her hold on her take-out soda. “Some spookies have their traditions or standards, but that only matters to their own kind and within their own groups. Outside that, it’s law of the jungle. Don’t say or do anything you can’t back up. The only deterrent is your own strength and maybe the chance of your friends avenging you later, if you’ve got ’em.”

“What about this Cornelius guy?” asked Evan. “He was the head vampire, right?”

“Yeah, was. Vampires are usually trash, but they outnumber everyone else. More organized, too. Cornelius was old and strong enough to push the rest around. The numbers and organization made Cornelius a power-player beyond just the vampires. Still law of the jungle, though. I dunno if anyone’s the new boss vampire now that he’s gone.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

“How many supernaturals?” Sunday tilted her head in speculation. “Nobody’s done a census, far as I know. Couple hundred, maybe? Some parts of LA don’t seem to have anything magical at all, and then you’ll run into a whole family of djinn living together in, uh… hm. Think I swore an oath not to say. That’s how it goes.”

“What do I need to know about them? Any of them?”

“What do you want to know? Like how to fight ’em?”

“Sure. Seems like it might come up. Self-defense, anyway. I don’t know what I did to that vampire.”

“Vampires are mostly dead and only come out at night, like in the movies. They’re strong and fast, and some got a hypnosis trick, but the worst part is how they’re kinda dead. They don’t need most organs. You can’t just poke a hole in ’em; you really gotta fuck ’em up. Fire’s good, too.

“Werewolves are all the scary of a wild predator, but smart like a human. Not such a problem if you’re prepared, but most people don’t pack silver bullets. Sorcerers are all over the place. Most aren’t really any tougher than ordinary people, but some have freaky magic. And djinn are the fuckin’ worst. Don’t get me started. You can hurt ’em with iron, but just try to avoid that kinda trouble. They’ll ruin your life for fun.

“Lots of other random spooky people don’t really fit a label or a type. Maybe that’s you. It’s definitely my deal. Never heard of anyone like me.”

“You’ve been around two hundred years, right? That give you any clout?”

She considered her answer with an uncomfortable, dissatisfied grumble.

“You’ve been here since the pueblos, so you’ve seen all this grow. Were you the first ‘spooky?’ What about the Tongva?”

“First off, yeah, this place had history before me, but I didn’t know it for a long time. Still don’t, really. I just know it’s there. As for what came after…” Sunday waved at the sprawl. “This didn’t happen gradually over all that time, right? It grew slow, and then took off like crazy.

“Most spookies don’t announce themselves. A couple real monsters trickled in after this became America. I put ’em down myself. But then things grew an’ grew, and next thing I know, I find out a coven of witches has been here for years. I turned around an’ we had packs of vampires actin’ like they’d been here all along. That’s kinda how it’s been. The nicer djinn respect things like age, but two hundred years is just kinda cute to them. I don’t try to assert myself as some kind of elder. I’m not into politics, and I don’t want to look like an extra-savory snack.

“Also, I haven’t been here the whole time. I’ve traveled. I didn’t want to take for granted that this was the best place for me, and moving makes it easier to hide my age. Never found anywhere I liked better, though. Maybe that’s how it is for most people, and why they never leave home at all,” Sunday mused. “I think it’s important to grow and branch out, but like, what if you really did start out in the best place in the world?”

“This is why everyone else finds people from LA insufferable,” said Evan.

“Hah! Yeah, but they ain’t here, so fuck ’em, right?” She gestured to the freeway ahead. “Comin’ up on the exit now.”

Surface streets took them from the freeway to the foot of Baldwin Hills. A handful of celebrities lived in the neighborhood alongside quieter success stories. Within a few side-street turns, Evan worried less about the Lamborghini standing out too much. Thankfully, he didn’t see too many people out and about with the work day in full swing.

Sunday’s directions took them to a single-story home nestled against a hillside rise. Two tall pines flanked the driveway of a garage beside a single-story home of white stucco and grey shingles. The lawn and small planters showed regular landscaping to fit in with the neighbors. A handful of brick steps led up to the front door.

Nice. Evan couldn’t think of another word. It wasn’t what he expected for a supernatural mercenary, but then, he didn’t know what to expect. Shows what I know.

Cars, SUVs, and minivans lined the street, not crowded but also not leaving a convenient space. “Park in the driveway,” said Sunday. “My clicker didn’t survive our fight. Gotta open from inside. Also, I’m warning you: Nahash turned me into a lazy slob. I paid for landscaping ’cause it kept the neighbors from snooping, but the inside’s a different story. Got some cleaning to do.”

Evan got out of the car with her, thinking little of it. He’d trusted her this far; either this was all an elaborate backstab, or it wasn’t. They crossed the small path from driveway to doorstep before he noticed the soft shimmer of the walls and windows—a grey shimmer, differing wildly from the glare of the sun and any other trick of light he knew.

Sunday already had her keys in the door.

“Hey, does your home have magic on it somehow?” he asked.

“No, why?”

They stepped into a spacious living room of modern décor with a southwest lean, plentiful natural lighting, a couch with a colorful wool blanket draped over the back, and small piles of take-out trash, pizza boxes, and discarded clothes everywhere. Crumbs and stains decorated the carpet. The place had been nice once, but not cleaned in a long time.

The painting supplies on the coffee table seemed out of place, just like two men taping a thin cloth to the floor at a far wall with a third man watching. The trio spun in surprise. One had a tool belt and a flannel shirt; the others weren’t remotely dressed for home renovation.

“Sunday?” The apparent supervisor wore black and purple business casual. He sported a goatee, slicked-back hair, and more than a little gold. The pair behind him straightened into wary hesitation.

“Carlo,” Sunday growled.

Evan took in more of the living room. Amid the bags and boxes, he saw a computer tower, a jewelry box, and a few wrapped stacks of cash from more than one country. He saw artwork and a large leather-bound book. The painting project against the wall looked wholly unnecessary and out of place—particularly with the amount of paint thinner on hand.

“He was watching my house?” Sunday demanded.

Carlo’s shrug fell short of an apology. “Knew where it was, anyway. Heard you died. Gotta be careful.”

“My house?”

“This doesn’t have to be a thing.” Carlo nodded at Evan, his face hardening. “Is he the guy?”

For half of one endless second, no one spoke or moved.

Someone approached from the right, where the living room opened up to an adjoining space. The other guy in business casual near Carlo reached for his belt. Sunday produced her pistols from out of nowhere and shot him down.

“Take ’em!” Carlo ordered as he, too, received the attention of Sunday’s guns. Unlike his companion, Carlo didn’t drop with bloody holes in his chest. A strange shimmer like the effect on the house flashed across Carlo with Sunday’s gunfire. Her bullets never touched him.

Despite his instinct to find cover, Evan flung tiny motes of starlight at Carlo. The dark shimmer broke as the starlight sent Carlo stumbling into the painters’ setup. Carlo kicked both cans of paint thinner on his way, unleashing loosened caps and the foul-smelling liquid.

Carlo pulled something long and dark from his sleeve. Is that a wand? Evan wondered, but Sunday broke his line of sight in a rush across the living room. She drove Toolbelt to cover with more gunfire as she charged the staggered leader.

Something blue and heavy flew into Evan’s shoulder and side, falling to his feet as a large gym bag. Weight and metal within it gave the bag some impact, but the real threat came rushing after the missile. The newcomer was built for pro football and tackled like it, too. Evan wound up on his side with a meaty fist driving into his gut. His mystic armor didn’t hold back everything.

“I’ve got more than bullets,” Sunday cried with a chest-high kick that sent Carlo into the wall. He tried to bring the wand to bear, but Sunday caught and twisted his arm. She turned back around, keeping track of everything in a single movement: control and redirection of Carlo, another shot down the hall to keep Toolbelt occupied, and a look back at her companion.

The linebacker battered Evan’s head against the floor with a stiff left hammer blow, but his right hand held a greater threat. Evan saw the knife and got his arm up in time to block it—and suffered no cut from the blade. His opponent’s weight and punches hurt more than the knife. Ignoring the pain, Evan punched his attacker in the ear.

Blood erupted from the man’s opposite shoulder with a loud bang. He jerked back before a second bullet slammed into his side. As he clutched at his wounds, Evan kicked the man away.

“No,” Carlo barked, still limited by Sunday’s twisting grip on his wand. “No!”

His free hand snapped open with a ball of fire that he flung at his feet.

Flames erupted all around Carlo, instantly roaring across curtains, upholstery, and the drop cloth soaked with paint thinner. The canisters of thinner burst and flew wildly, one soaring down a hallway and the other crashing closer to the kitchen. Covering up out of reflex, Sunday lost her grip on Carlo’s wrist. The hem of her pants caught fire.

Carlo burned, too, but appeared unaffected. His wand gave off a strange mist darker than smoke. He swept it upward with a dramatic, angry flourish and barked some word Evan didn’t recognize. Sunday’s whole body wrenched and convulsed in agony.

“Bitch,” Carlo spat. “And you⁠—!”

Evan threw up one arm as if blocking a punch when Carlo repeated that flourish of his wand. An electric sensation ran across Evan’s arm; Carlo twisted and staggered backward with the same wild, pained movement that overcame Sunday. Unlike her, Carlo screamed. The faintest white sparkle trailed across Evan’s vision, but faded before he could track any of it. He also lost sight of Carlo as the sorcerer staggered into the flames and smoke.

Mystic armor held back the worst of the heat, but Evan still felt it. In a matter of seconds and heartbeats, the fire had spread along the wall and crawled forward across the floor. Smoke and flame grew from the landing zones of the paint thinner.

“Guurrh.” Sunday groaned in pain, doubled over but keeping to her feet.

Rushing close, Evan grabbed her with one arm around her waist and a hand at her shoulder. “C’mon, we’ve gotta—” Toolbelt emerged from the hallway, gun in hand. “Shit!”

“No!” Sunday shouldered Evan out of the way. She snapped off a shot faster than Toolbelt, catching him squarely in the chest. Two follow-up shots made sure he’d drop.

Then Carlo came out of the flame and smoke with a downward swing of his shadowy wand straight through Sunday’s head. She went limp and fell against Evan’s feet. Carlo advanced without hesitation, blocked only by Evan’s wrist against his own.

Neither man thought in that moment; both merely acted with anger and experience. Carlo slashed at Evan with magic. Evan caught his wrist, planted one foot against his opponent’s, and pulled. Carlo stumbled past Evan and crashed headlong into the living room window.

Evan lashed out with another handful of tiny stars. Motes of light flung in desperate anger tore like bullets through Carlo’s face and chest. He sagged and dropped to the floor in a bloody, smoldering mess.

With Carlo down, Sunday filled all of Evan’s thoughts. “No, nonono come on,” he hissed, crouching beside her. The house burned and men bled out while Evan waved his hand over the black line across Sunday’s face and focused the magic he barely knew.

Nothing happened. He tried again, knowing he did everything right with both attempts. The magic felt different this time, lighter somehow, without a resistance he never noticed until he experienced its absence. He had nothing to heal because he felt no life to work with. Carlo’s wand had killed Sunday instantly.

Fear drove through his chest, deep into his core. Sunday’s lifeless face scared him more than the fire only feet away and the smoke now filling the room, even when he started coughing.

She went down protecting me. She had this under control, except for that. Everything that went wrong happened because she was protecting me.

She died before. You took her out with magic. She might be okay. Maybe.

The heat intensified. Trash burned as easy kindling, while smoke muted the light from the windows. The combination made it even harder to breathe than it was to see. Flames reached for the other sides of the room, with only a scattering between Evan and the door.

Can I put it out? It could be like his cleansing spell, he supposed; the fire wasn’t a mess, but something about the motion and the principle felt right. He waved broadly in a circular gesture at the room, drawing his hand and thoughts of energy close as he made a fist.

The flames diminished unevenly. He bought his side of the living room a few seconds of safety. The mess at the far wall and the accelerants burned unabated. It, too, felt different; rather than no resistance, he felt too much. He couldn’t pull those flames.

Magic. Carlo did this with magic. Maybe that’s the difference.

The fire didn’t allow him time to figure it out. He tried, he failed, and now they had to get out of here. Evan hooked his arms under Sunday and lurched toward the door. She was close to his size, but lighter. Desperation nearing panic helped, too. Evan heaved her to the door, hating how he had to fuss with something as complicated as a doorknob.

Burdened with Sunday and overwhelmed by circumstance, Evan stumbled on the short run of brick steps at her door. He grasped exactly enough wits as they fell to tilt himself and Sunday to the grassy lawn before they collapsed.

Though away from the flame and smoke, Evan still hurt inside and out. With Sunday outside and the fight over, Evan finally noticed his own body. He cast his healing spell upon himself, relieving the burn across his skin and in his throat and chest. His next breath came without strain or cough. He’d live.

Sunday still didn’t move. Despite her return from their fight, despite all she told him, he saw no hint of recovery or resurrection. He saw only a body, limp and… Dead. You can say it. She’s dead.

For now. You hope.

You’ve gotta take care of her.

The neighborhood had yet to notice the fire as far as he could tell. Nobody was outside, at least. It hadn’t been more than a minute or two since the fight started, let alone the flames. People had to be at work, or just not looking outside. He turned back to the house and saw much the same mess he had left. Inside, the fire built and spread.

We need to bail. Now. Leave everything and⁠—

Her couches hadn’t burned yet. Evan remembered what he saw on the other side: furniture, art, belongings, some of it gathered in a pile around file boxes. Sunday wasn’t getting up soon, and he couldn’t put the fire out. He could reduce it, and he could heal himself.

Evan pushed off his hands and knees, rushed the doorway, and faced down the flames at the entry with his cleansing magic. This time, he gave his full focus. The renewed blast of heat threatened his concentration and resolve, but he refused the pain and gestured in a broad circle, pulling at the inferno.

Billowing smoke and tongues of flame bent and flowed to his grasp. The cloud disappeared into Evan’s fist, clearing the flames and built-up smoke from the front half of the living room. He had a path to the boxes—some already ash, and others not yet touched. The conflagration ignited by Carlo still raged. Evan sucked in a breath and plunged inside.

Instant, awful heat washed over him. He couldn’t stay. The first thing he came across was the gym bag thrown at him by the dead man; Evan grabbed one handle and hurled it out the door. He pressed on toward the boxes, but the damage was worse than at first glance. Most had already caught fire. Sunday’s computer tower showed burns, too. All those wrapped stacks of cash were half-eaten.

The jewelry box laid on its side, scorched but intact. The thick leather-bound book hadn’t burned yet. Evan snatched them away from the relentless flames at the opposite end of the room. His breath ran out, forcing him to inhale again. Breathing hurt, but didn’t frighten him as much this time. He could escape as long as he didn’t linger.

Quick glances cut off any other direction, anyway. Flames spread and devoured the kitchen and the hallway to what looked like the bedrooms. He might put it out long enough for a salvage run, but his power and his body felt taxed and the inferno inched closer.

Only the mantle and the hearth remained untouched. Evan spotted knickknacks and pictures in frames. One file box still survived; he tucked the jewelry box and book inside, hustled to the mantle, and swept the collection into the box without grace.

Flames surged across the ceiling. He had to go.

Carlo laid across Evan’s path from the fireplace to the exit, bleeding and still clutching his wand but plainly dead. Curiosity prodded Evan, but he’d gotten this far without a magic wand. The wallet from the dead man’s back pocket seemed more important. On a last glance, he noted the colorful wool blanket draped over the couch and snatched it away from the flames. He didn’t stop to fuss about anything else.

Outside, Evan found Sunday still alone on the lawn with no one else in sight. The Lamborghini sat undisturbed in the driveway. Their privacy wouldn’t last. This end of the block might be empty right now, but somebody sees that smoke.

Evan set the box down beside his higher priority. He bent, gathered, and hefted in a careful rise to his feet. “We’ve gotta go,” he told Sunday. “Right now.”

He was on the way back for the last belongings when the first sirens announced the end of his head start. The file box wound up in his lap as he drove Sunday away from her burning home.

“Guuhh!” Sunday awoke in the passenger seat, startling Evan. The black scar across her face had vanished. She twisted right and left, eyes wild, and snatched the collar of Evan’s shirt to hold him against his seat. Her comment about the demon leaving her stronger had been no joke.

Evan was glad he wasn’t driving.

“Hey, you’re okay. We’re okay,” he said, calmly as he could with a supernatural mercenary’s hand so close to his neck. She’d been quiet—dead, really—for hours. Her body lacked some of the grosser developments he’d heard about death and dying, but otherwise gave no sign of magic at work. He had all those hours to wonder how this would unfold and somehow didn’t come up with a script for a wake-up freak-out. “I’m Evan. I’m not a threat.”

Sunday kept her grip, but her eyes hardened with control. She looked around inside the car and out. The gas station bag on the center console and the duffel bag at her feet were new. Shadows, old metal barrels, and tall concrete walls limited the view outside, but the alley lay open and quiet, with turns available before each end. “Where are we?”

“South Gate, I think. That’s where I started alley-hopping.” Evan nodded to dark loading docks and closed garage doors. “I only cared about finding somewhere deserted.”

Her eyes came back to him. She shifted in her seat. “My guns?”

“Lost them in the fire. Sorry.”

Tension eased with another breath. The hand at his collar withdrew.

“You went down in the fight. I didn’t know how to help, or when you’d come back. Or if.”

“Sunset,” she answered, identifying it with another glance at their surroundings. “It’s always sunset or sunrise. Whichever’s next after I drop.”

“Huh.”

“You got me out? What happened?”

“You covered me and put down the last guy, and then Carlo came back out of the fire and hit you from behind. I took him out and brought you outside.”

“Took him out? Is he dead? It’s important.”

“Yeah.” It seemed like something he shouldn’t say, but Evan saw her grave urgency. “He’s dead. Headshots. I killed him. Unless he’s like you, anyway.”

“Nobody’s like me. Nobody I know about.” The answer satisfied her enough to ease her back into her seat. She nodded to the duffel bag. “What’s this?”

“One of the bad guys threw it at me in the fight. I think it’s your stuff.” Evan grimaced when she held up the little bag of assorted snacks on the console. He hadn’t made the pit stop lightly, wanting to use Carlo’s cards while they were still good. “The car needed gas and I didn’t know if you’d wake up hungry.”

“Did you Weekend at Bernies me through a fuckin’ gas station?”

Perplexed, Evan frowned. He had heard that reference before. “Is that a boomer movie?”

“Oh my fucking god.” Her attention returned to the duffel bag.

“Sunday… I couldn’t stop the fire. It was magical. I tried to fight it, but it kept coming back strong and I didn’t have time to figure anything out. The news has pictures… I’m sorry.”

Sunday stared at the duffel bag as memory returned, or perhaps understanding. Her next breath shook as it left her chest. She covered her face with her hands.

“I grabbed what I could. It wasn’t much.” Evan thought about repeating his apologies and sympathies, but they felt empty in his mouth—No. Not empty. Selfish. About me.

He chose silence.

It felt like an eternity. She didn’t sob, didn’t shake. Evan feared she would lash out, but apart from that, he felt awful for her. The house hadn’t been some rental slum. Not everyone’s life fit into a couple bags and a pet crate. His didn’t, once upon a time.

Tears sat in her eyes when she straightened, but they didn’t fall. “You carried me out? Did anyone see us?”

“Not that I could tell. I think… there was something weird about your house, and the fire. You said the place didn’t have any magic on it, but I saw something. A glow. I didn’t catch it until we walked in, and then it was on.”

“Carlo, probably,” she said. “He’s a magician—was, anyway. Fucker. Good with fire, like you saw. Bet he primed the house to burn. Some know how to muffle noise, too. Maybe nobody in the neighborhood noticed anything until the smoke built up. Did any other houses burn?”

“The news said it was only yours.”

She nodded. “That might’ve been Carlo, too. Less investigation if it’s only one house. And just enough set-up to look like an accident.”

“We didn’t leave until I heard fire trucks, but they were quick.”

“Huh. ‘We.’” Sunday wiped her eyes.

“I didn’t see anybody around. The smoke was pretty high by the time I heard the fire truck, so the call could’ve come from anywhere.” Again, he hesitated. “The front of the house was fully engulfed when we left. Nobody else came out.”

“Good,” she murmured.

Evan took little comfort from that detail. For a fight where only his side walked away, it didn’t feel like much of a victory. “Was this about Anatole? Or something else?”

“Those were Anatole’s guys,” said Sunday. “He must’ve heard I was dead and sent them to loot and burn my place to cut any loose ends. I didn’t think he knew where I lived. I thought I was careful, but…” She stopped when her voice cracked.

“You haven’t been yourself.”

“No.” Sunday reclaimed her resolve with her next breath and pulled the duffel bag into her lap. “Did you look in here?”

“Only enough to know what I had in the car. Sorry if it’s nosey.”

“Whatever.” Sunday unzipped the bag to find the old, long-barrel revolvers and the belt with loops for ammunition. A couple more modern pistols and boxes of bullets filled out the bag, along with knives, a hatchet, and a few bits of clothing. Evan didn’t know if the older weapons were functional, but their value as mementos seemed obvious. Sunday confirmed it when she rested her fingers on the handle of one revolver.

“Do you use those much?” he asked.

“Not often. Too distinct. I don’t usually want to make a statement.” She withdrew a smaller pistol, checked the safety and magazine, and zipped up the bag. “Is this everything?”

“The computer was already burned and all the cash in sight went up in smoke. I got Carlo’s wallet on the way out. Mostly, I focused on this.” Evan twisted around. The lack of back seats didn’t pay off in storage space, but he’d managed to fit the file box behind them. It pulled out with a tug that bent only the cardboard. Everything inside was fine.

Sunday’s breath shook. She claimed the leather-bound photo album and opened to a random page, then another. Evan glanced away. He couldn’t give her much more privacy without leaving the car. True to his word, he had only opened enough to confirm the album was what it seemed. She looked happy in the page of ancient, black-and-white wedding pictures. He didn’t look far enough to see how that turned out.

The jewelry box held exactly what it implied: necklaces, earrings, bracelets of thin gold chain, a few rings. Evan suspected a range of value and personal attachment. Survivors from the mantle included a few framed photos, an old Band-Aid tin stuffed with concert tickets, a Pikachu in sunglasses, and tiny wooden dolls painted with festive traditional Mexican clothing. All of it likely held stories, all human and random, all none of his business.

“The blanket from the couch is in the trunk,” he added. “Seemed hand-made.”

“It is.” Her voice cracked.

He kept quiet.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Hhh. Yeah. Feel like I should apologize instead of saying you’re welcome.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know what I was doing in that fight. Everything that went wrong happened when you were covering for me.”

She watched him. No tears fell, but her eyes seemed wet. “Is that why you didn’t bail out? Fighting ain’t your thing.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave you there.”

“Why not? You don’t know me.”

“You saved my ass in the alley today. Then, in your house, you covered for me in the fight. You don’t know me, either.”

“Maybe. You seem like an okay guy.” She nodded to the box. “It’s not the first time I’ve lost everything. Earthquakes. Fires. You ever hear of Operation Wetback? I was a whole citizen and they still deported my ass. Lost everything. Took me a decade of searching to get some of this back.” She shrugged and then sniffed. “Houses ain’t forever. This stuff… losing all this would’ve hurt a lot.”

“I didn’t know what I was grabbing,” Evan admitted.

“Yeah, I got lucky. Point is, you tried. You cared. Helping you already paid off for me.”

“Or you’d still have a house if I hadn’t fucked up the fight.”

“Or not.” Her lips tightened. She sniffed, eyes turning to the box. “Maybe I had this coming. Now we’ve both lost everything we couldn’t carry.”

“Not my first time, either,” Evan muttered, and then shook his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say that. Scars aren’t a contest. I’m sorry about your home. Sorry you got hurt, too.”

“What do you mean, it’s not your first time?”

“It’s not important.”

“It’s important to you. I don’t know you. And I’d really like to not think about me and my life for a minute or two.”

Evan didn’t tell people often—not casual friends and acquaintances, certainly not strangers. Sunday still posed a greater threat than any of those. The same events he had just cited in staying with her spoke up in the back of his mind again.

“Mom died when I was fourteen. Dad… shoved her and me a few times, but he’d never been really violent until she was gone. After that, he kinda lost it. Resented me. Hit me. Threw me out within a few months. I had nowhere to go. The first couple times someone tried to ‘help’ me ended up with me right back home. Dad beat my ass and threw me out again. I figured out a lot of ‘help’ is just people going through the motions. Got a runaway? Run him through the system, clear the file, y’know? Not a lot of people have actually stuck up for me.

“You could’ve let me go and dealt with things on your own. You didn’t. You looked out for me when the shooting started—twice. Maybe your resurrection thing isn’t unlimited, and getting taken out still hurts. I don’t see how you could be running some long con. I think you’re telling the truth, and I don’t want to deal with all this shit alone. If you’ve got my back, I’ve got yours.”

Sunday nodded, and then slowly turned her attention to the belongings in her lap and at her feet. “I’m gonna kill that motherfucker. I don’t know how, but he’s gotta go.”

“Yeah.”

Silence returned. Her thumb ran over the photo album.

“Your kitties are someplace safe, right?”

“Yes.”

“You should go see ’em. They’re what you’ve got. You need that when shit gets crazy.”

“I left them with a friend,” Evan said carefully. Giving his trust was one thing; deciding that for someone else wasn’t right. “They’re—my friend isn’t part of all this. They know I’m in trouble and agreed to keep the cats, but they’ve got a normal life. No magic, no crime. I don’t want to put all this on them, and I also hate keeping secrets when they’re sticking their neck out for me.”

“I’ve been there,” said Sunday. “I can tell you that not everyone gets sucked into the spooky business just ’cause they’re close to you. Most people seem better off that way. Once they know, though, life changes. You can’t really ask if they want to know without telling them, right? Once that cat’s out of the bag, it’s out.”

“Sh—they worked hard to have a normal life,” said Evan. “Magic or no magic, this is still dangerous. I’m worried.”

“They know you’re in trouble, though. Do they know it’s dangerous?”

“Yes.” He nodded, eyes wide in sober reflection. “They don’t know anyone died, because I want them to have some deniability if it gets legal. But they know it’s criminals and danger, and they know I’m not telling everything.”

“You’ve gotta let people make their own choices. Don’t ever push someone away ’cause you think it’s what’s good for ’em, or that they’re better off without you. That’s bullshit. It disrespects their choices. If they care about you, they care.” She frowned at the question in his eyes. “Yeah, I speak from experience. Still don’t wanna talk about me.”

“I want to check in on them. Especially after all this.”

“You wanna go alone, or bring me?”

He hesitated again, but this still felt too genuine to be a con. Too human. “If something is wrong, you’d know how to handle it better than I would. But it seems irresponsible to bring someone else into her life with all this. Inconsiderate.”

Sunday frowned and nodded at his waist. “Motherfucker, you’ve got a phone. Call ahead. Ask how she feels about it.”

7

PATHFINDING

Evan knocked before using the spare key. It seemed considerate. Bringing company didn’t seem as fitting, regardless of the host’s permission, but the alternative seemed worse.

“Hey.” Sofia rose from her couch, video game paused on her big television. Her loose anime t-shirt looked comfy enough to sleep in, but she may well have worn it to work. Casual Everydays was one of her favorite professional perks. The tension in her face contrasted with her clothes. “How’s it going?”

“I’m fine. Sofia, this is—” Evan stopped as a sock flew off the pile of clothes on the chair beside Sofia’s couch. Flip-Top sprouted from the top of the pile, big golden eyes staring at Evan for a solid second. Then he leaped off the chair to bolt for Sofia’s bedroom.

“Doesn’t like strangers?” asked Sunday.

“No, strangers are fine.” Evan’s lips twitched inward. “He just used the litterbox, didn’t he?”

“Yes. And I cleaned it,” Sofia said with Evan’s instinctive steps toward the bathroom. “They’re not as much fuss as I expected, but you didn’t warn me they’d roll all over my clean laundry.”

“Cats do that, yeah. It’s a thing. They’re helping.”

“Lily is back and forth about hiding under the bed, like you expected. She comes out for treats.”

“Be careful. They know that word. Thank you for all this.”

“Sure.”

Evan glanced to the door to make sure he had closed and locked it on the way in. God, it was nice to talk about something normal for a minute. “Sofia, this is Sunday. She’s dealing with the same jerks I am.”

“Are you a repo agent, too?” asked Sofia.

“Nah, I did a couple gigs for these people and regretted it. Long story.” Sunday caught the wary look Sofia tried to hide. “Yeah. It’s sketchy. I’ve been sketchy for a bit. None of that’s on you. I’ve got reasons to help Evan and hurt them.”

Sofia’s eyes rolled back to Evan, no longer concealing her suspicion. “Evan, what the fuck?”

“This all got worse.” He gestured to the couches with a questioning look. Sofia held up her hands and sat back down, with Evan and Sunday taking the couch that cornered hers. “My boss left me hanging, like, all the way. He doesn’t want the car, says it counts as stolen, and that it’s all on me. Didn’t say I was fired, but I’m definitely fired.”

“How can he do that? He sent you after the car! You said things get dangerous sometimes, right? It’s part of the job.”

“I told him how serious it was so he’d take it seriously. He took himself out of the whole thing.”

“Alright, fuck your boss,” said Sofia. “You need a lawyer for sure now. Anyway, can’t you just give the car back?”

“It won’t be enough for these guys,” said Sunday. “This is gangster shit. They wanna cover up what happened, and they hold a grudge. Lawyers mean cops, and cops only make stuff worse.”

“That’s why I said get a lawyer first,” Sofia grumbled.

“This has already been violent,” said Evan. “I tried taking the car straight to the dealer, but the bad guys had people watching and tried to grab me. I only got away because Sunday helped me. These guys are trying to kill us. Anyone who gets involved could get hurt. I’m worried about you.”

“We went through that,” said Sofia. “Look, if somebody comes at me, they’re not gonna find much of a fight. That’s just being real. But I’m not leaving you hanging. If you’re careful about coming and going, I trust you. I took some precautions today, too.”

“Like what?”

“Privacy checks, mostly. I’m not buying a gun. I got wedges to jam the doors and windows shut and set up a camera. I made sure a couple people will call regularly to look in on me and I cleaned out my car and moved it to a safer spot. I stay private online. It’s all the travel safety and ex-who-won’t-go-away stuff. If the cops show up, I haven’t talked to a lawyer yet, but I know who I’m calling and how if it comes to that. Don’t worry. I should’ve done most of this out of general safety, anyway.”

Evan glanced to Sunday, who shrugged. “The building’s as safe as you can expect. Nothing’s perfect. If you’re not getting strapped up, this is as good as it gets.”

“Do you work in personal security?” Sofia frowned.

“I’ve had to learn from dealing with a lot of assholes,” said Sunday.

Though Sofia’s frown remained, she and Sunday shared a look of understanding.

“Look, as long as you know the risks and you know your limits, that’s all you can do,” said Sunday. “Evan’s careful coming and going, and this is all fresh. I don’t think these guys come at you unless you make yourself a target. They want less mess, not more.”

“If the cops show up, you throw me under the bus, right?” asked Evan.

“If the cops show up, I will absolutely throw you under the bus,” Sofia assured him. “You’d hold up in prison better than I would. Sorry.”

“No, that’s exactly how I feel.”

“See, this is the kind of friendship I envy.” Sunday grinned. “Can I use your bathroom? You need a minute to talk behind my back. It’s cool.”

“Past the kitchen and to the right.” Sofia gestured across her small apartment. She held her silence as Sunday followed her directions, waiting until the door shut to turn her much deeper skepticism on her other guest. “Evan, what the fuck?”

“You asked me that already.”

“Yeah, but now she’s not in the room.”

“Anyone wrapped up in this is gonna be a little sketchy. She admits to all that. But she really stuck her neck out to help me and it cost her a lot.”

“She ‘took a gig’ for these guys?”

“That’s how I got into this.” Evan shrugged.

“She’s what social media models look like without any makeup. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Is she helping you, or are you rescuing her from something?”

“Four guys jumped me,” Evan answered in a flat tone. “She broke a motorcycle helmet on one dude’s face. Yes, I noticed she’s pretty. It hasn’t been on my mind.”

Sofia closed her mouth.

“She also can’t go home because of all this.”

“Oh, hell.” Sofia stood, rubbed her eyes, and walked halfway to the kitchen and back again when she realized she didn’t have a plan. She sat back down. “Okay, so what do we do?”

“You take care of my cats and stay out of the rest. Please. I need that.”

“Deal. I can do that.” Her confidence only lasted until her next thought took her beyond herself. “What about you two? You can’t live under some mob vendetta. Or a warrant, if that car is declared stolen. Who knows what the hell else gets attached to that.”

Evan winced. “Pretty sure anything more than taking care of my cats and telling me to get a lawyer makes this a conspiracy.”

“Then it’s good we’re not taking notes. Your friend got all the warning she needs, too, right?” Sofia folded her arms. “What’s the plan?”

“Brett’s not gonna volunteer anything to the cops, and I didn’t use my name at the dealer,” said Evan. “Most of this will come down to witnesses. I can’t keep people from lying, but that’s life. I don’t think there’s much physical evidence tied to me except the car itself. It’s probably a lot better for me if the car goes away.”

“Great. Can you dump it somewhere?”

“I could. It’s gotta be better if it’s never found at all, though. Then it only exists on paper, and the paper trail makes the bad guys look bad.”

“What, you mean like a chop shop? I bet a car like that doesn’t get sold for parts.”

“Yeah.” Evan frowned. “It needs to go away. People take stolen cars out of the country. We don’t know anyone like that, but somebody does. It’s a matter of finding them.”

“That’s way outside my experience. Where do you start?”

“The street racing scene is the best I can think of. Most of that isn’t theft, but it’s crime and it’s cars. There’s gotta be some overlap. Somebody knows somebody. Neither of us have any contacts there, either, so that’s our first—oop!”

Evan leaned back and steadied his legs for the furry black shadow that hopped into his lap. Flip-Top stared up at him with golden eyes, sniffing. “Aw, hi,” said Evan, right before Flip-Top bumped his head against Evan’s jaw. “Needed that, bro. Thank you.” Another assertive head-bump followed, and then Flip-Top turned on Evan’s lap to invite a hug. The human half of the partnership complied. Evan held Flip-Top gently, petting and tilting his face against sleek black fur.

Sofia let them have the moment.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Evan murmured quietly against the cat. “I really thought I could take care of you two.”

Flip-Top purred with a low rumble that seemed too big for his size. It made Evan feel better and worse. This couldn’t last. He couldn’t hide here forever.

“Is this your idea or hers?” asked Sofia.

“Mine. She says it’s as good as any. I looked around online for leads, but it’s not like this sort of thing gets advertised. It’d be on private groups, if it’s talked about online at all.”

Faint sounds of plumbing accompanied the conversation, and then a door opened. Sunday returned to the living room and grinned at Evan’s companion. “Figured you needed this.”

“What, cat therapy?” he asked.

“Sure. Call it that,” said Sunday.

“I admit, a cat’s approval is pretty validating,” said Sofia. “They didn’t come out right away for me.”

“It’s not just strangers. New surroundings are a big stress, too.” Evan scratched Flip-Top’s head, getting a squinty-eyed look of gratitude. “I can relate.”

Sofia folded her arms, frowning in thought as she watched—until another cat, striped with grey and black, rounded the sofa behind her to rub against Sofia’s leg.

“Aw, is this Lily? Hi.” Sunday bent low, careful not to move too fast, and offered her fingertips. Lily sniffed with interest before resting on her haunches between the two women. “Skeptical, huh? Can’t blame you. It’s a good way to be.”

As soon as Sunday’s posture straightened, Lily rose to repeat the same tentative pass against the shin that she’d given Sofia. Sunday’s face softened with appreciation, but she didn’t lean over again to risk petting her.

Sofia watched the cat and the stranger, her frown enduring until she sighed. “Alright, fine.” She claimed the laptop computer from the coffee table, bringing it to life with a quick tap.

“Fine?” Evan wondered.

“Yeah, gimme a sec.” Sofia’s eyes flashed over the screen, fingers working quickly on the touchpad. Evan and Sunday shared a curious glance. Lily hopped up beside Sofia, prompting a new frown and a brief rub of the cat’s head. “Don’t worry, you made your point.” Sofia tapped out something on the keyboard. “Mark the time. It’s 8:32.”

“Okay…?” Evan’s eyes found the clock on her kitchen stove, confirming the same.

Still standing by the couch, Sunday made a brief gesture to ask permission before leaning in to read over Sofia’s shoulder. “Oh, it’s not gonna be that easy,” she said.

“Wait for it. And don’t worry, I’m good at online privacy.”

“What are you doing?” Evan wondered. “Flip-Top, hop down.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sofia set the laptop on the coffee table and turned it around.

Evan recognized the forum, but he didn’t use it much. The post at the top of the page came from Ladyofthe323: “Watching a movie with secret illegal underground street racers. This shit is so fake. You can’t do that stuff in LA.”

He looked up from the screen to Sofia. “No way.”

“I said something as a girl on the internet. Wait for it,” said Sofia.

A reply popped up: “Lol ur so wrong their in Santa Ana tomorrow.”

The clock read 8:34.

“Gardena couple times a month but you gotta know where,” declared the next reply.

Then, responding to the first: “Santa Ana is OC, dumb ass. Doesn’t count. Gonna be a rally in East Hollywood next Wednesday.”

“Meet up at the Johnny’s in West Covina tonight. Allegedly,” said the next.

It was 8:35. Sofia couldn’t see the screen from her side of the table, but she knew. “You got any follow-up questions?”

“So you mean it is a spotlight, or you compare it to one?” asked Sunday.

“You mean the cop thing?” The question prompted Evan to glance around the Lamborghini again. He thought the topic was finished before they left the freeway. “It’s definitely not a literal spotlight. It doesn’t tilt from ground level like those would. I see it as a straight up-and-down and it moves with the cop car.”

“Yeah, but is that how the magic always worked, before spotlights were a thing? Like, does your mind create a spotlight ’cause that’s what you know?”

“Hell if I know.” The conversation kept showing how much he had to learn about his abilities. He didn’t like the ignorance, but at least talking it out with someone helped. Talking also helped keep his mind off the hip-hugging jeans and crop top Sunday pulled out of that duffel bag. Evan reminded himself yet again not to glance at her too often.

“Also, can you still see those lights okay when the buildings are taller?”

The question was as valid as the last, if more practical. It wasn’t an issue on the freeway or on a main drag. As they drove along this two-lane street with many buildings reaching two or three stories, he had less of an angle on the skies. “It’s not hard to keep track,” Evan explained. “The lights kind of stand out, so I know they’re still there when something blocks the view. I don’t know how accurate it is, though. No clue if the magic includes unmarked cars, either.”

“And you got armor, but not invulnerability, right?” asked Sunday. “You said it breaks?”

“Mitu compared it to Roman armor. I sure don’t get as hurt as I should, so maybe it really is like leather and chain. And Kevlar, maybe, which was my first thought. It helped in the fire. That bullet to the head sure knocked the hell out of me, but I didn’t die, so…” Evan shrugged, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road. “Everything else feels normal, though. Like it’s not there at all.

“None of this came with a manual. I don’t know how far anything reaches, or what blocks it, or if the weather or seasons matter. I can feel myself getting drained as I use magic, but that doesn’t mean much more to me than running until I’m tired. I haven’t measured my limits. I haven’t had any time to test things out.”

“My bullshit didn’t come with a manual, either,” said Sunday. “Had to learn by doing. Still learning. This is the first time I’ve died twice in twenty-four hours. It sucks.”

“How are you feeling? Sorry I haven’t asked before.”

“You did, and I brushed it off. I’m tired and sore all over, but I’ll hold it together. Don’t worry about me.” Her brow dimmed with concern. “What about you?”

“Exhausted. I haven’t really slept since the night before last. Only got a couple-hour nap at Sofia’s this morning. The healing magic is helping me cheat on sleeping, but it’s only a cheat. I can feel it.” Evan shook his head. “Really need an instruction manual. Or a class. Something.”

“Get through this. That’ll be the next step. I’ve got some ideas.”

They came to a stoplight. Evan craned his head around to watch for shafts of light marking out police cars, but none approached their spot. Post-commute evening traffic still gave them other cars for cover, but they had room to maneuver if needed.

“What do you know about magic?” he asked.

“Mostly I know tricks for beating it,” said Sunday. “Salt and water can wear magic down, if you’ve got enough. Need a lot more than a little pinch, though. Having normal people around makes it hard to do the flashy stuff. Weakens magic somehow. And magic has its limits. Just because a sorcerer can shrug off a bullet doesn’t mean he can shrug off twelve.”

“Yeah, I’ve learned that one,” Evan grumbled.

“You’re stronger than the others I’ve worked with and fought. Maybe it’s your magic, maybe it’s you. Either way, you take more punishment and hit back harder. Hell, most sorcerers I’ve known aren’t about fighting at all. They can work magic, but they’re still mostly normal people, and normal people don’t usually want a lot of fighting and danger.”

“Neither do I!” His laugh was bitter, but not harsh. “All this literal magic doesn’t feel like it beats guns and technology. It’s only keeping me alive while I flail around.”

“Nah, you gotta think of how to apply what you know. Make it work to your advantage. You said your little shooty-stars can hit like anything from throwing a rock to shooting, right?”

“Please don’t call them that. I never should’ve said.”

“Too late, I’m gonna.” Sunday grinned. “Anyway, yeah, it may not seem much better than a gun, but you’ve gotta carry a gun, and ammo, too. You have to hide it. Guns are noisy and leave all that smoke and mess. They can be dropped or taken away. You don’t have any of that. You’re always strapped up. Same for your armor. Maybe it is like a suit of regular armor, but it’s head to toe, invisible, and you don’t feel a thing. Zero drawbacks. That’s huge.”

He drove on, considering her words. She wasn’t wrong. Mitu had spelled some of this out already, and he had leaned on those advantages, but his mind had been set on his stresses and his needs. “Is this how you look at your abilities?”

“Kinda, yeah. I’ve had lots more time to learn things than most people. I can lose a fight just like anyone else, but I ain’t afraid of dying. That’s an edge.”

Evan checked for spotlights, bit down on a thought—and said it anyway: “I do not want to see you die again. Ever.”

A heartbeat passed in silence, prompting the worry that he’d said too much or made it weird, as if the topic wasn’t weird enough already. Then he caught the smile spreading across her face. His peripheral vision was enough; he didn’t look directly at her. He didn’t dare.

“It’s not my favorite trick, or my first. More like my last and best, you know?”

The soft, easy drop in her voice tugged at him as much as the flash of a smile. Evan doubted she meant anything by either element. They were only talking. Allies. Strangers with a common cause. They’d only just met today.

“You’re pretty easygoing and patient with me for a two-hundred-year-old mercenary.”

“You comparing me to all the other two-hundred-year-old mercenaries?” Sunday scoffed. “I tried the bitter hard-ass vibe. It didn’t fit me an’ didn’t make anything better. Also, I’ve seen how some of the ‘immortal’ types wear their age. That doesn’t work for me, either.” She watched him. “If we’re talking about it, you don’t give off a lot of ‘teen runaway’ yourself.”

“It’s there,” said Evan. “I learned to hide it. Also, therapy.”

“That fix everything?”

“It’s the kind of thing you keep fixing,” he grumbled. He wished he had the money for that.

“Tell me about it sometime?”

Evan frowned. He survived those years largely by keeping quiet, and then it became habit. Not many people heard that story. Sunday surprised him by asking. The next surprise came from his own mouth: “Sure.”

He drove.

“Coming up on it,” said Sunday. “I can see the sign. We want a look before we go in.”

“I remember.” They made a plan before they got into the car—all of it tentative and subject to change based on whatever they found. Sofia’s online sources were naturally vague and not entirely reliable. The plan seemed feasible right up until Evan and Sunday rolled past the busy, brightly-lit parking lot. Johnny’s Chili Burgers had long relied on its low-tier, low-frills image as part of its charm. This location had only a drive-thru, a walk-up window, and plentiful parking rather than interior seating. Dozens of people milled about, most of them bathed in the headlights of muscle cars, modified sedans, and even a few hatchbacks.

Evan’s shoulders sank.

“That looked like maybe twenty cars? Twenty-five?” Sunday thought out loud. “Nothing looked like gang colors on first pass. No cops nearby, right?”

“Not that I can tell,” Evan grumbled, “but… shit. I was hoping to see more sports cars. Mostly it’s Mustangs and Chargers and tricked-out cars normal people can afford. I wanted to try a friendly approach. We’re gonna roll in with this big flashy dollar sign and look like assholes. We’ll annoy more people than we impress. Maybe everyone.”

“Eh. That’s more reason to show us up in a race, right?”

“Maybe. They might take us for rich dipshits, but I don’t think that’s an angle I can work intentionally. I wouldn’t know what I’m doing. Manipulation isn’t my thing,” Evan admitted. “The friendly approach felt like a stretch, too. My strongest social skill is shutting up.”

“Don’t underrate that. Shutting up is a good skill.”

“I’d like to go in with some kind of plan, at least.”

“Friendly is still good. I’m sure rich people do this stuff, too, and they aren’t all assholes. Give it a try. Worst case, nobody talks to us and we hit the next meet-up.”

Evan pulled a U-turn, mindful of both traffic and the shafts of light from the sky. For whatever reason, the unofficial car meet at the burger place hadn’t drawn police attention. “I can think of worse cases than that.”

“If anyone tries to steal the car, we stomp on them and find out how they planned to move it once they had it. That’d be easier than the social approach.” Sunday shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky.”

A deep grimace pulled at Evan’s mouth. That wasn’t his idea of easier at all—and not his idea of a worst case. Worry and tension rose not from thoughts of guns or thieves, nor from police or magic. Evan slowed to a crawl in the parking lot and soon had to stop as assorted figures in sports swag, denim, leather, and bare skin strolled to and fro across every empty space.

Most turned to look. Some brightened or gestured with interest. Others made double-takes that turned to scowls and eyerolls. Evan swallowed hard and looked around for a parking spot.

He didn’t fear violence or rejection. He worried someone might throw a bottle or scrape the car with keys out of annoyance, or to take the showboater down a peg, or just because they could.

Fortune smiled on him in the form of a customer pulling out of his spot under the long awning beside the restaurant. Evan turned for the space, smooth and slow. He had to stop when a girl with long braids and apple-bottom jeans strolled into his path, looked at the car as if she’d only just seen him, and waved her hands at him.

“Wait, whoa whoa, hold on!” she yelped. “I can’t pass this up!” The stranger spun, one hand going to her pocket to produce her cell phone. She laid herself across the Lamborghini’s hood without warning or asking to take a quick selfie.

“The fuck?” Sunday snapped. “Get off the car!”

The stranger laughed and tilted her phone for another angle and a quick flash.

“Honk or something,” said Sunday.

Rather than get noisy, he eased up on the brake and let the car idle forward. The unwanted passenger wobbled with the new movement and blurted a vague acquiescence before planting her feet off the side of the hood. Onlookers laughed.

Despite his stress, Evan backed into the open space. They wanted the car to be seen—and hopefully draw interest for more than a random spectator’s antics.

To the Lamborghini’s left sat a red two-door Nissan with its hood open. Three guys loomed around the car’s front end, all of them studiously looking at the Nissan’s remarkably clean engine and pointedly not at their new neighbor. The Challenger to the right of Evan and Sunday looked new and fresh in gleaming teal. Its presumptive owner and friends, tending toward sleeveless shirts and tattoos, didn’t try to hide their notice of the Lamborghini.

“No point being shy.” Sunday opened the door and stepped out.

Evan’s gut said otherwise, but he followed her lead. That put him on his feet beside the Nissan crew. The nearest of them seemed close to his age, with a masterful gel job holding his hair in place. “What’s up?” said Evan.

The stranger’s lip twitched and his eyes returned to the engine. Whatever he said to his friends didn’t carry far enough to understand. The others didn’t look Evan’s way.

That’s the point to being shy, he wanted to say with a glance to Sunday, but didn’t. He shut up.

Whether or not she noticed the non-exchange, Sunday caught his hesitation. She turned to her side of the lot and smiled. “Hi. Anyone running the show here?”

The nearest man looked her up and down. “If you’re looking for a man to take charge, I’ve got you, baby.”

“Hah! That’s cute,” Sunday laughed. “No, I’m good.”

His grin tilted into a frown as he nodded toward Evan. “You sure? With him?”

Sunday glanced to Evan before leaning closer to the stranger. Her voice dropped, but whatever she said reached the man’s friends. They held back laughs; he lost the rest of his smile. Still friendly, Sunday gestured to the crew and tried again: “Is this party open to everyone, or is someone checking invitations?”

“Talk to Scratch, probably over by the GT-R with the spoiler,” answered another of the Challenger crew. He motioned at his cheek to suggest the name had an obvious origin. “No one’s in charge, but he’ll set you straight.”

“And get some burgers,” said the third of the crew. “It’s a business. Don’t take up space.”

“Buy me one, too,” added the helpful one. The first, still scowling at Sunday’s answer to his overtures, whacked him across the shoulder. His buddies laughed.

“I might.” Moving as smoothly as she spoke, Sunday rounded the front of the Lamborghini and nodded for Evan to join her. They walked past the next couple of cars to take in the rest of the lot. Sunday’s easygoing voice dropped to something more conspiratorial: “Okay, what the fuck is a GT-R?”

“It’s a sports car. I thought they all had spoilers,” Evan muttered. “What’d you say to them?”

“Hm? Oh, I told him your car didn’t come from daddy’s money and asked if he could say the same. Guess it hit close to home. His homies liked it, anyway.”

“How’d you know someone would be in charge?”

“Every group has its top dogs. Figured we had to start somewhere. This seems better than pulling up and asking to race like we’re in some fifties movie.”

“That way, I think,” Evan nodded toward the left turn around the restaurant. Cars faced the building and the hedge-lined border of the parking lot. He couldn’t fully make out the GT-R, but it seemed right, and the bodies surrounding it provided another clue. “The popular people draw the crowds, right?”

“Good point. Alright, I can try to break the ice, but you’re the one who works with cars for a living. Think you’re up to it?”

“If they’ll talk to me at all,” said Evan.

“These people love cars and we came in with the flashiest one. They’ll talk.” Sunday’s slight turn toward Evan seemed odd to him until he noticed her glance back to their car. He wasn’t the only one who wanted to keep an eye on it. “Nobody knows us, but everyone starts somewhere. At least you don’t give off cop vibes.”

“I don’t?”

“No,” Sunday snorted. “Wrong hair, wrong shoes, wrong posture, no arrogance. You’re too young to be trusted with a car like that. The boss cops would never.”

Evan shrugged. She had a point.

“Act natural,” she advised. “You got this beast and you want to see if it lives up to the hype. Test driving alone ain’t the same as real competition. Don’t tell them how you got it. If we sound a little shady, that’s not the worst thing. Better than coming off like a rich asshole, like you said, right?”

Together, they ventured toward the small crowd. Evan wished he felt the confidence and ease Sunday showed. Maybe an extra-long life of violence and magic built that confidence, but none of his new powers countered embarrassment or awkwardness. He didn’t know this scene and didn’t belong. No matter how well he faked it, he knew the truth.

He and Sunday only knew what they saw and what Sofia gleaned from her online research—no small portion of which came from deliberate trolling. The basic racing process itself was fairly straightforward: find an interested opponent, negotiate goals and stakes, hand any money over to a reliable third party, go somewhere deserted where interference and accidents were unlikely, and race. Winner takes all.

In movies and television, a crowd like the one Evan and Sunday faced might part naturally for the leader to stare down the newcomers. Here, much as Evan expected, nobody noticed them or cared. The perimeter of bodies kept their backs turned. Banter and conversation continued.

“Nah, man! I don’t want your bullshit secondhand rims!”

“Smoked that fool so hard I got emphysema.”

“Can’t believe she’s runnin’ with him, man. Fuck.”

“He said, ‘I’m not racing again until I clean up my warrants.’ Like that makes a difference?”

Evan heard voices in Spanish and recognized a scattering of Vietnamese. The easygoing social atmosphere might have been infectious if he belonged. Searching the crowd, Evan found mostly people in their twenties and thirties, maybe a couple of teenagers in the mix. At the center waited the predicted GT-R in spotless bright blue paint and tinted windows.

Sodas and milkshakes sat in a cardboard tray on the hood alongside a torn-open paper bag of food. Beside them, only one man’s hips leaned on the car. His leather coat, dark complexion, curly hair, and goatee were striking. He listened to someone carry on in Spanish—until he noticed Evan and Sunday looking on.

“Hola,” Sunday opened. “Don’t mean to interrupt.”

He turned, giving Evan a glance at his left cheek. The marks didn’t look old. Evan gently touched Sunday’s elbow to pause her. “The guys who told us your name is Scratch were fucking with us, weren’t they?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, they were,” the man answered.

“Shit.” Sunday shook her head, then gestured to Evan. “He’s Kevin. I’m Silvia. What do we call you?”

“I don’t know you. Go ahead, call me Scratch. What’s up?”

“First time here,” said Sunday. “Seems like our kind of scene, but we don’t know anyone. We figured there’d be someone to talk to, and that brought us to you.”

“Talk to about what?” Scratch pressed coldly.

“Competition. Thought we might find a challenge.”

“For what? Jump rope? Half-court? Spades?”

Evan expected this, too. So did Sunday. She had to. “Street racing.”

“Whoa,” Scratch laughed. “People race around here? That’s illegal. We ain’t about that. Everyone here’s just chillin’. No racing.”

“Yeah, that shit’s dangerous,” said one of Scratch’s friends.

“Gets you in trouble with the cops,” said another.

“I saw you pull up,” said a third. “Who’s gonna race a Lamborghini?”

“Maybe someone with a backbone,” said Sunday.

Laughter and jeers erupted from the onlookers. Scratch let out a snort. “You pull up in that thing and expect somebody to race you? With what they’ve got here?”

“None of the other Lamborghini owners want to try,” said Evan.

“Why do you? Why do you want to race?” Scratch pressed.

“I want to know if my car is all hype or the real deal. Timing it out on my own isn’t the same. I’m trying to decide if I want to keep it or not.”

“Bro, what?” Scratch laughed. “If you want to keep it? I know you didn’t take that thing all the way out here on a test drive from the dealership.”

“Nah. I got it on a special discount.”

“So you stole it. Or you want us to think you stole it and for us to be cool with that.” Scratch folded his arms. “Either you’re bringing a bunch of heat down on us by coming here, or you are the heat.”

“Oh my fuckin’ God,” Sunday groaned in disgust. “Look, I get giving us the cold shoulder, but do some math, man. You think cops put a car like that to work on busting a local street race? Is your little club that important?”

“You’re strangers, chica,” said Scratch. “Most people here know somebody. You don’t, or we wouldn’t be talking. Also, I never said anything about a club, ’cause we’re not, and you’re the only ones talkin’ about racing. I think you two got the wrong parking lot.”

Faces all around them stared, waiting for escalation and perhaps consequence. Evan and Sunday shared a glance. Neither expected to argue their way out of rejection and had nothing else to offer. They turned back for the car.

“Pendejo,” Sunday muttered.

“Did I screw that up?” Evan winced.

“Nah. That all needed to be said. You did fine. I don’t mind getting turned down, but only an idiot would take us for cops. Too much TV, not enough sense.”

Her grumbling prompted a quiet laugh Evan didn’t know he had in him after all this. “Okay. Guess this meet is a bust. Maybe we try another, with a better way in first?”

“Nah, let’s not leave yet,” said Sunday. “Scratch is top dog, but not in charge. Nothing like this would work that way. Racing is mostly competing egos, right? Nobody’s the boss here. Let’s hang around and see if anyone talks.”

That made it Evan’s turn to grumble under his breath. “Then we probably ought to get food.”

“Not a fan?”

“Oh, the burgers are fine and the chili fries are great. I got jumped for my food at another Johnny’s while I was in high school. Haven’t been to one since.”

“Fuck. For your food?”

“I’m sure they had other reasons, but fuck if I know what they were. The assholes didn’t seem like they were starving.”

“You come out of it okay?”

“Bruises and an empty stomach. Their medical bills probably cost more than my dinner, but I still lost my bag. Feels like a sign now.”

“Ain’t happening again tonight. You’re not a kid anymore and you aren’t alone. C’mon.”

They ordered and waited at the window, largely silent and watching the rest of the lot. People and cars with an air of acceptance in the scene trickled in and out. Drivers talked and showed off their vehicles. Every machine showed polish and care, and all cost far less than Evan’s ride.

Evan felt all the poorer for driving around in a car he could never afford. Old feelings from days without a home or a job came back with the first bite from their to-go bag. “Damn it, the chili fries are still really good,” he muttered.

“Always have been,” Sunday agreed.

“You and Johnny’s go back?” he asked.

“I’m ancient and experienced. I’ve tried lots of fast-food places.”

His grin died as they returned to the Lamborghini.

Milkshake, soda, condiments, and cigarette butts littered the hood, roof, and one side of the car. The Challenger and its occupants were gone, replaced by an ordinary SUV. The tricked-out Nissan remained on the Lamborghini’s other side, closed up and lacking its crew. Others were in line of sight farther off; some glanced their way, while others minded their own business—or hid their observation better than the rest. Evan saw grins, laughter, and snorts of derision.

“God damn. Really?” Sunday fumed.

Seething anger coursed through Evan, clenching his hands. His blood ran cold rather than hot. The rational part of his mind recognized that as a warning and won out—mostly. He knew why people did this. He knew he wasn’t really the guy they took him for and wanted to hurt. This was all out of ignorance.

It still hit hard.

Evan barely glanced at the racers and hangers-on, now mostly looking away, before he waved his left hand in a circular motion over the mess and pulled back with his power. Liquids and ash lifted from the car as if pulled by a new source of gravity before fading into nothing. The cigarette butts tumbled to the pavement.

“Whoa, shit.” Sunday stepped ahead of Evan, hand coming to his wrist, eyes darting right and left. No one else reacted; the nearest people were a good ten yards out and turned away. Only a couple of onlookers farther off seemed to notice anything, and they did nothing worse than a double-take. Nobody seemed to catch the whole show. Sunday’s tension eased, but did not fully leave.

“Hey. You gotta watch it. Don’t do that shit in front of normal people.”

“I—sorry.” Evan bit back whatever argument came out of reflex. He didn’t know what to say, anyway. “This is new. I didn’t think.”

“Oh, really? I couldn’t tell.” That hit him, too—deeper than the mess on the car. It didn’t spark anger, either. Sunday seemed to notice. She let out a breath. “You could have worse reactions, I guess. Didn’t go off on any people or break shit.”

Evan winced. The hits kept coming. “That’s not me. I’m not—” Not my dad, he didn’t say out loud, but he had no trouble identifying that trigger. He also knew it was true. He carried scars, not traditions. “I’m not that guy.”

“Guess you’re not,” she decided.

“You’ve run into a lot of that?”

“What, guys who can’t handle their feelings? I’m two hundred years old. What do you think?” Sunday folded her arms. “I’m not afraid of guys and their tantrums, but it’s a problem. Too many think their temper means they’re suited to rough stuff. The truth is the opposite. Anyway, you didn’t hurt anyone. That’s not my point. We gotta be subtle with the magic. Keep it on the down-low. Don’t do shit you can’t explain, especially in front of…” She trailed off. “Huh. Yeah. Wow.”

“What?” asked Evan.

“I’ve seen some wild shit, but usually not with lots of people around. Maybe most weren’t looking our way or they didn’t have the angle. Still weird that you could do that out here.”

“It doesn’t usually work that way?”

“So they tell me. Sorcerers, anyway. I’ve seen a vampire show off his strength in a crowd, but it ain’t nearly the same as what they can do in a dark alley, you know? And this was…” She waved at the car, now as clean as when they first arrived. “This was a lot. What did you do? That mess fuckin’ vanished.”

“It’s a spell. I can clean up lots of mess. Blood, dirt, food.” Evan pointed to the cigarette butts. “It has limits, but as far as I know everything the spell picks up gets destroyed. One more reason I need a manual.”

“We really gotta work on that,” said Sunday.

“We do,” he agreed.

Evan looked over the car, finding no scratches or dents to go with the mess of food and ash. His antagonists meant only petty insult, not destruction. Maybe they respected the car more than him. He took what relief he could.

An engine revved, then another, with jeers and shouts as two thoroughly-modded cars pulled out and left together. Apparently someone had found a race. Two more cars rolled out as if to follow and watch. A blood red Camaro was the last to go, with a woman sitting halfway out of the window on the passenger’s side waving goodbye to others.

As she passed, Evan’s eyes hooked on a scene directly across from his parking spot: two young men and a woman around a gleaming white Mustang. The men shared a light brown complexion, dark hair, and medium builds, though their faces hinted at no relation. One wore an unbuttoned shirt over a white tee and a cross on a gold chain. The other tended to black and casual. The woman sat on the trunk of the car in a black leather jacket and mini skirt. Evan recognized her from the small crowd around Scratch. She was young, East Asian, and confident, watching him steadily with her dark sunglasses dipped down to the tip of her nose.

All three of them, in fact, looked to Evan and Sunday. The woman said something. The guys shared a glance and then approached. The one with the cross spoke. “Can we take a look at what you’ve got?”

8

UPSHIFT

“This is all stock?”

Evan didn’t know the answer, but he could read the man questioning him. The pair of inspectors seemed to know the car better than Evan did. “Yeah,” he answered.

The one with the gold cross shared another look with the one in black, and then they returned to their task. Evan let out a silent breath of relief for having looked over the whole car after Mitu’s release. At least he knew the engine was behind the cabin, and how to access it.

They looked the car over front and back, inside and out. They studied the engine and the tires. They pulled the floormats and felt around beneath the seats. They asked Evan to turn it on and rev the engine. Though the Lamborghini rode too low for anyone to crawl underneath, the pair laid on their backs and took pictures of the undercarriage with their phones for a decent look.

They also spoke and acted with an easier demeanor than Scratch and his associates. Despite their tight-lipped approach and their surroundings, the two hardly gave off the air of an insular group, let alone hardened criminals. They seemed like people Evan might hang out with. The only intimidation came from the knowledge they demonstrated in their search of the car.

Five minutes passed, then ten. The rest of the unofficial meet carried on with the occasional new arrival or departure. Scratch and his associates paid no mind to the scene at the Lamborghini. The third member of the interested crew stayed on the Mustang across the driveway, alternating between watching the inspection and looking at her phone.

Evan shared more than one questioning look with Sunday. She indicated nothing more than the same curiosity he felt about where this was going.

Finally, the guys straightened and shared a shrug and a nod. The one with the cross spoke again. “Kevin and Silvia, right? No corny nicknames? This is Pablo. I’m Erick.”

“Erick with a CK,” Pablo clarified, and then grinned when Erick side-eyed him.

“All good,” said Evan. “What do you think?”

“I think this is nice and shiny. I think it’s built right. I think it’s the real thing, which tells me you’re not cops. And I think I can take you.”

The boast was exactly what Evan hoped to hear.

“What makes you say that?” Sunday asked before Evan could jump too fast at the opening.

“I’m not telling you everything,” said Erick, “but it’s stock, not modded. No nitrous, nothing crazy. You let us look it over without getting nervous. And you’re new. Nobody knows you. Skill counts.” His confidence settled into a frown. “Not enough skill gets you killed, though. Or somebody else. We’re not here for that. This shit isn’t worth anyone’s life. Who’s driving?”

“Take your pick.” Sunday hadn’t suggested she drive before now, but Evan kept his mouth shut.

“I’d like that if we knew you better,” said Erick. “Until then, what matters is you don’t fuckin’ crash. This shit gets real, real fast.”

Sunday nodded in deference to Evan. “You drive it more.”

“Guess that’s true,” Evan agreed. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good behind the wheel, and I’m not out to get crazy. Straight shots are all I’m after. Gotta start somewhere.”

“Did you mean what you said?” Pablo tilted his head toward Scratch’s group. Evan didn’t remember him being in the conversation, but his focus had been on the leader. “You’re looking to test this? That’s why you want to race?”

“Something like that.”

“You didn’t buy this car, did you?” Erick probed.

“I don’t remember anyone saying anything like that,” said Sunday.

Pablo and Erick shared a look, and then both nodded to their other partner back at their car. Facing away from her, Evan and Sunday missed her response. “We’ve got a good spot,” said Pablo. “Mile and a half run, totally dead this time of night. Cops have better things to do. We bring a couple lookouts. What are your stakes?”

“Is there a standard?” asked Sunday.

“Make it worthwhile, at least,” said Erick. “We’re not driving a collection piece. Three K?”

“We can do that,” said Evan. It would be everything they had wrung out of Carlo’s wallet and cards.

“Who holds it?” asked Sunday.

“Jules. Big guy by the drop-top.” Evan and Sunday followed Pablo’s nod to a convertible in a corner parking spot, where an older, heavyset man held court. “He’ll be here all night. Doesn’t race. Everyone knows him.”

“Talk for a second?” Evan asked Sunday, tilting his head away from the pair.

“Sure,” said Erick. “Good partnership keeps your head straight.” He and Pablo backed off while Sunday and Evan took to the other end of the Lamborghini.

“On paper, I’m sure we’ve got the better car,” Evan said quietly. “In practice, I’ve got no idea how this is gonna go. We won’t wipe out. I don’t know if we’ll win.”

“He looked at our car. Don’t we want to look at his?”

“Oh, it’s gotta be tricked out. I’ve repo’d a couple cars like this. It’s bound to be full of hidden bullshit, and I wouldn’t know what I’m looking at. Probably better if I don’t go over there and embarrass myself. Whatever they’ve got in that car, I think we’ve at least got a shot, but we could be kissing away most of our cash.”

Sunday nodded. “Either way, it buys us credibility. I’m game.”

“You’re sure?”

Enough of her smile came out to make Evan forget half of the discussion. “I’ve worked with too many guys who run on ‘trust me’ instead of talking,” she said. “Also, you talk in ‘we’ instead of ‘me.’ We don’t have any other takers. I trust you.”

Evan swallowed. Instead of hoping for more of that smile, he turned back to Erick and Pablo.

“You know, in all the time I’ve lived here,” Sunday said, “I think I’ve never been to Pomona.”

In many ways, their surroundings hardly changed. The trip eastward from West Covina blended the same suburban sprawl of strip malls, palm trees, and overpriced homes. Density eased as one traveled outward from the city core, yet for miles and miles the sense of place largely remained the same.

“The fair is out here,” said Evan, watching the road. “Came a long time ago, as a kid. You’ve never been through at all?”

“Through, sure. Hung around, no. Not since this became Pomona, anyway.”

Evan and Sunday drove through cookie-cutter neighborhoods to the industrial stretch of the city, though “industry” meant mostly light warehouses and workshops rather than factories. The label mattered less than the lack of activity they found. Within only a block or two of driving, they were virtually alone on the road. Street lighting grew sparse.

Thankfully, Evan saw fewer shafts of light from the sky, and those few kept their distance.

They found the Mustang where Erick specified, parked along a stretch of warehouse loading docks with two other cars. The added vehicles amounted to a handful of extra people outside the cars as Evan and Sunday arrived. Erick and their still-unintroduced lady friend idly watched Pablo do something on a computer tablet until the Lamborghini pulled up.

Erick walked over to the open window on Sunday’s side. “Any trouble? You good to go?”

“We’re set,” said Sunday.

“Nah, nah, not yet. We go from here to the end of the yard with all the concrete pipes. Drive there and back so you know the track and the end point. Go slow and pay attention. Go twice if you want. We didn’t see anyone around and the road looks fine, but it’s better if you see for yourself. You don’t want any surprises.”

“You’re a lot nicer than I thought a racing opponent would be,” said Sunday.

“That’ll change once I tell everyone how badly I smoked your ass.” Erick grinned. “Wipeouts don’t help anyone. Speakin’ of: no swerving or crowding the track or any of that bullshit. We’re not playing chicken. If I drop out because you’re dangerous, that’s not a win for you. Got it?”

“As long as that goes both ways,” said Evan.

“Hell yeah. I can’t spend your money if I’m dead.”

“I can see intersections from here,” Evan pointed out. “I’m sure there are more. How many people do you have looking out?”

“Only a couple, but we’re good. Pablo’s running a drone overhead. Headlights stand out in the dark. We only need the track clear for a couple minutes. Go check it out.”

Evan pulled away. As advised, he drove slow and steady. “If he was any nicer, I’d worry about being set up.”

“Are you saying that because you’re already worried?” asked Sunday.

“Maybe. You?”

“Nah. They’ve got no fangs, no magic tells, and don’t carry themselves like normal hitters. All of this makes sense so far. That meet-up back at the Johnny’s is only one group. If we have a bunch of them in the city and they’re this active, they must be careful like this more often than not, or we’d have more crashes and more bodies. Maybe the assholes you see racing through traffic on the freeway are just random dipshits and not part of this scene.”

Their scouting run ended without warning signs. A few cars sat in the parking lots of businesses, but all were dark and still. Nobody wandered the area. As expected, the track included numerous side-street intersections and driveways, but some were gated and others dark. Two figures stood in shadow at the last block, one of them waving to confirm their purpose at the finish line. The road held no debris or significant potholes. The worst obstruction Evan imagined would be a stray critter crossing the road, and the environment seemed to discourage that.

He took advantage of the second run up and down the track simply because it had been offered. Lookouts, a drone, and multiple test runs felt far more reassuring than Evan expected.

“So, uh… you staying in the car for this, or getting out?” he asked.

“I’m staying. I haven’t done this before. Hell, you’re lucky I’m letting you drive. Besides, I’m the one who can walk away from the worst.”

“They seem pretty safety-conscious for a bunch of illegal street racers. Might be weird for them to include a passenger.”

“Then we’ll be weird. We’ve been weird all night,” said Sunday.

The track proved as quiet and still on their second run as the first. They returned to the starting point and their competition. Pablo and the girl kept fiddling with the tablet. Erick nodded to the track. “You ready to go?”

“Line up. Let’s do it,” Sunday said from the window.

“You might want to limit this to one car, one driver. Passengers are just added risk and added weight,” said Erick.

“Knew it,” muttered Evan.

“I know what I’m doing. I wanna see the whole show,” said Sunday.

“I’m coming,” said the woman stepping away from Pablo’s side.

“Lucy, no,” Pablo protested—without a shred of authority in his tone.

“Lucy, c’mon, no,” Erick agreed.

“It’s dangerous.” Pablo followed her to the Mustang.

“Hold on,” Erick grumbled, turning to join them. The friends by the other cars looked on in amusement.

“Um…?” Sunday wondered out loud.

“What is happening?” Evan echoed.

Lucy took in Pablo and Erick’s objections with a stone face. Posture and body language didn’t favor either young man, but none of their voices carried. Whatever Lucy said to them made both relent in defeat. She grabbed Pablo’s collar and kissed him on the mouth—and did the same to Erick. Then she rounded the Mustang in a giddy stride and got in.

Erick and Pablo shared a look of annoyance—but not, it seemed, jealousy. They both shook their heads as Erick got into the Mustang and Pablo returned to the others.

“Okay, then,” said Evan.

“That’s right, girl!” Sunday called through the window, and then grinned at Evan. “I like her.”

The Mustang aligned on a starting point laid out by an onlooker with a careful eye. “Don’t rev yet,” Pablo warned, coming to the other side of the Lamborghini with his attention on his tablet. “Couple cars passing by. Better if we wait.”

Evan looked to the sky in all directions. Scattered shafts of light seemed far away, though his sense of distance still felt uncertain. None of the lights moved in his direction. That seemed good enough.

“Alright, let’s go,” said Pablo.

Erick revved his engine with a low, loud rumble that seemed to justify his confidence.

Sunday grinned widely. Evan had to ignore it. Starting lights and track, he told himself, and revved his own engine.

The road remained clear and dark. The starter watched Pablo for her cue.

Suspense built for exactly two more breaths, and then the starter’s glowing hands dropped. Both drivers hit the gas.

Shit shit shit he’s got real racing tires and I don’t, Evan realized with the screech of his wheels and the forward leap of his competitor. He gained traction almost as fast as the thought clicked, but that was still too late. The Lamborghini’s zero-to-sixty advantage disintegrated.

Evan started the race chasing the tail lights of a far less expensive ride. Acceleration built, narrowing the gap, but Erick’s Mustang showed both muscle and fine tuning. Those tail lights stayed ahead amid smooth shifting and a steady hand at the wheel.

The risks of fast driving on dark surface streets closed in with the same rush of the vehicles. Every turnoff and driveway along the lane suddenly felt like a potential threat despite their earlier passes. Evan and Sunday felt bumps that hadn’t seemed significant in their slow test rides. Belatedly, Evan remembered the small pothole past the next warehouse gate, prompting him to nudge in slightly right—which kept him behind the Mustang for another precious second.

“Holy shit,” said Sunday. She didn’t need to elaborate.

Almost as soon as she spoke, the Lamborghini began to show its worth. Erick’s head start crumbled with Evan pulling back into his unmarked lane. Both cars roared, but the Lamborghini hit a tone of steady confidence. The initial nerves of Evan’s first race receded as one second built upon the next without a crash. He had room to build speed before the finish as he cruised nearly into line with his rival.

Nearly, but still behind, and then the Mustang surged ahead again.

“Fuck. There’s the nitrous,” Evan grunted.

“We gonna catch him?” asked Sunday.

“Nope.” The remaining track left no room to make up the difference. That didn’t stop Evan from trying. Cracks in old pavement sent shocks through the car, but he didn’t slow. Confidence kept building despite the certainty of defeat. They would lose, but they wouldn’t wipe out. Evan and his car could handle this.

Then the right side of the track lit up in red and blue and every thought flew right out of Evan’s head. “Oh fuck!” he blurted. The unmarked police car pulled to life from the dark warehouse parking lot.

Everyone had seen the handful of parked cars. Nobody had gone up to check them. No one had seen any occupants. The revelation confirmed the limits of Evan’s spotlight effect, too—and with that, he noticed shafts of light from the sky now drawing closer. Perhaps they’d moved in as soon as the race began.

The cop didn’t jump in front of the racers, but merely pulling onto the road changed the dynamic. Erick tapped his brakes out of reflex or fear; he didn’t screech to a stop, but Evan roared past the Mustang in the space between rapid heartbeats. The sudden loss of momentum would hurt Erick badly if he wanted to make a run for it—and not everyone wanted a car chase with the police.

All three cars continued down the lane, but only the cop built all possible speed.

Erick had already proven his skills. Overall, he probably drove better than Evan. He only needed a reason to take the risk of fleeing. The decision flashed through Evan’s mind as fast as everything else since their starter waved the “go” sign.

“Hold on!” Evan braked and twisted the steering wheel. The screech of his tires at the start had nothing on the way they shrieked when the car spun, spewing an arc of smoke and dust.

Sunday handled the turn without complaint. Her nerves seemed stronger than his. “Fighting cops is bad,” she warned, but didn’t have time to elaborate.

“We’re not fighting,” said Evan.

“Okay?”

He didn’t have time to elaborate, either. The Mustang, still moving, was right ahead of them. The gap between Mustang and police car left little room for error. Evan raised his left hand in a soft fist, ready to snap open, and gave all the focus he could afford while driving. Please let this work. “Close your eyes. This will be bright as hell.”

“What?” Sunday asked, but she had worked with sorcerers before. She caught on in time.

Understandably, Erick braked as Evan closed in. He didn’t swerve or get in the way. It was enough.

Searing white light burst from Evan’s hand as he crossed the Mustang and closed on the police car. Sunday had already turned away in her seat and covered her eyes. Erick and Lucy had their backs to the light. Still driving dangerously fast, Evan could only steer and hope. Thankfully, he wasn’t blinded by his own magic as the night turned just shy of daylight.

The cop slammed his brakes as the sun appeared right in front of him. Smoke erupted from his tires, skidding the car to a halt.

Evan’s spell endured only long enough to pass the cop. The light vanished, returning the street to darkness.

Despite the extended flash, Evan’s enhanced night vision remained. Now past Erick and the cop, Evan saw moving headlights back at the starting line. Pablo and the other spectators had presumably loaded in as soon as the cop appeared. The shafts of light in the sky closed in from a couple directions, but not everywhere. Evan tapped the brakes and threw the car into another tire-straining U-turn.

“We can still get out,” said Evan. “Tell them everyone has to go south. We’ll cover them.” The Lamborghini roared past the unmarked patrol car sitting completely still and its blinded driver ducking low for protection. Beyond him, Erick’s Mustang had gotten rolling again, but it didn’t take much for the Lamborghini to catch up.

“Got it.” Sunday had her window down before they reached their competition. She pointed ahead toward the lookouts at the finish line. “Grab your buddies and head south! We’ll clear the way!”

“We’re going,” Erick called back. Beside him, light from a cell phone illuminated Lucy’s worried face. Evan and Sunday caught only a glance at the pair before they drifted rightward to fetch the lookouts.

Evan blew past the finish line and kept going southward. “Hope the others catch on.”

“If they’re smart, they’ll drive away like normal people while we draw all the attention,” said Sunday. “Lucy’s got her phone. Hopefully, she’s coordinating.”

“Wish we were on the group chat,” Evan grumbled, though he understood. It only took one arrest to threaten everyone else. With a skyward glance, Evan took the next turn toward the nearest shaft of light. “Okay, confession: I don’t get into car chases a lot. Especially with cops. And I really don’t want to do it in open traffic.”

“Good. You’re not an idiot. Anyway, we’ve got magic and a Lamborghini. They’re only Pomona PD. Do they even have a helicopter?”

He hadn’t considered helicopters. The question didn’t reassure him.

The nearest spotlight from the sky closed in on Evan’s left. He would cross the cop’s line of sight at the next intersection. Industrial zoning tapered off into smaller warehouses on one side and a boarded-up hotel on the other. Neither people nor animals were on the street. They had some distance between the nearest headlights in any direction.

Evan gunned the engine to draw the cop’s attention as he crossed the intersection, only to think better of it at the last second. He didn’t need a dramatic escape; he needed to be chased. Rather than blasting forward, Evan made a hard, dangerous right turn at the intersection with plenty of smoke and noise.

The patrol car appeared in his rearview mirror with its light bar flashing.

The Lamborghini wobbled as it came out of the turn, drawing a questioning grunt from Sunday. “You good?”

“Yeah,” said Evan. “We want them to think they can catch us, right? Give ’em hope?”

“Right,” she caught on. “Give them hope.”

He was too focused on driving to hold back his grimace. “Sorry.”

The Lamborghini roared northward, retracing the outside of the warehouses and workshops that sheltered their undesignated racetrack. Thankfully, the cop continued straight through the intersection, chasing them as intended. They had a clear path ahead.

“Okay, he’s calling us in and getting backup,” Sunday predicted. “Keep within sight, but out of reach. He may not recognize what we’re driving yet.”

“Have you run from the cops a lot?”

“I’ve been through some shit, yeah.”

He grunted wordlessly. It seemed like a natural hazard in her line of work.

“Where are the other cops?” she asked.

“There, and there.” Evan pointed to the shafts of light ahead. One moved in from their right, closer to their entry at the racetrack, while the other rushed in on the left. They had several blocks, but: “That guy’s gonna get in front of us unless we turn.”

“Good,” said Sunday. “How many more?”

“Only a couple.” Glances to his mirrors and the sky brought one measure of relief: he saw far fewer spotlights to the south, and they were scattered clear. The others had plenty of escape paths if they didn’t do anything to draw extra attention—and assuming they received direction via Lucy as Sunday hoped.

“This is all won or lost in the next minute,” said Sunday.

“I think I can worry about the minute after that, too, and getting out of here ourselves. I’d like a better plan than ‘Drive Good,’ but… coming up on it.”

A patrol car zoomed into the next intersection as expected, halting to straddle most of Evan’s side of the street. A concrete divider near the intersection limited the path around the cop. “Shit, really?” Evan wondered, but the cop didn’t have much time for a better plan, either. Evan wasn’t unintimidated by the move.

It still didn’t slow him down.

The cop covered the center lane, most of the right, and poked into the turn lane on the left. The sidewalk on the right didn’t provide enough room to maneuver around the car, nor did Evan like that last stretch of the concrete divider. The other spotlight coming in from the right implied the next cop would see this play out. They would also present a new obstacle if Evan turned in that direction. The left lane gave him a better option as long as the cop didn’t predict it and adjust.

Penalty shots in soccer and hockey came to mind. Those all came down to opponents outguessing one another on what was as much a coin toss as a matter of skill, except their outcome wasn’t likely to be a car crash. Or arrest.

But they also couldn’t cheat like Evan.

“Close your eyes!” he warned, raising a closed left fist and snapping it open.

This time, the light from his hand wasn’t as bright. He had less focus, less forethought and more doubt, but the trick worked. Evan caught a glimpse of the cop flinching and turning away from the side window.

He maneuvered tight and fast without time for more than a glance. His left hand came down on the steering wheel in a split-second decision. The patrol car didn’t move. The path to the left looked barely safer than the right corner. A slight touch against the concrete curb at this speed would wipe them out. Evan’s stomach clenched and he held his breath. He nudged left on the steering wheel and hoped.

Nothing caught. In a single heartbeat, all that stress and fear passed into the rearview mirror. Evan didn’t look at it, nor did Sunday. “Okay, I don’t completely hate this car,” he exhaled.

They roared onward. A new pursuer rounded the intersection to follow. The first recovered and maneuvered around the blinded patrol unit with more care.

“Next left,” said Sunday. “Anything but an alley, we take. Can you keep doing that flash?”

“Maybe? I don’t want to try it on them and cause a crash. The first time was a straight shot on a deserted road. This is different.”

“Right,” Sunday considered. “What else can you do? I’ve seen you fight, you’ve got that flash, your cleaning trick—wait, if you can make light, can you use darkness?”

“Maybe? I don’t know.” He doubted it. Darkness was the absence of light, not something that existed in itself. Then again, he didn’t know if magic worked that way. He’d already caught himself destroying matter with his “cleaning trick,” at least as he understood it from Mitu. But if he could create and shape light, then… maybe?

The closest cop stayed in pursuit. His back-up wasn’t far behind. Spotlights in the sky were scattered and distant, but not enough of either for comfort.

“We’ve gotta get out of this before we’re breaking news,” said Sunday.

“Hold on. Hold on.” Evan kept the wheel steady and inhaled slowly. In quick glances, his eyes turned from the road to the cabin. He focused. He pulled.

The Lambo’s dashboard lights dimmed.

They missed Sunday’s preferred turnoff. The next intersection held both a red light and cross traffic. The trickle of slow cars was more than enough to sharply raise the stakes. “Okay,” said Sunday, “don’t get crazy, just⁠—”

“I’ve got it,” Evan declared. On their right, the low concrete wall of an office park turned in a corner, countered by an iron fence around a house. He banked hard into the gap between them.

“No alleys!” Sunday protested.

“Yes, alleys!” Evan flicked off the headlights. He didn’t need them to see, nor did he need extra light to burden his magic. Inhaling deeply, Evan clenched at the wheel. His mind pulled at the light all around them.

The car went dark, and with it the alley.

“I can’t see shit. What did you do?” asked Sunday.

“Darkness, I guess?”

They came to the first turnoff inside the block. Evan took the chance without hesitation, putting him in a new alley between the back of the office park and the row of apartments behind it. Ambient light from the street and the moon dimmed around them.

Headlights and flashing red and blue painted their alley and rushed past. The threat repeated with the second patrol car not far behind. Neither cop slowed to check the dark turnoff.

“Oh my god, did that work?” asked Evan.

“You tell me. I’ve got nothin’,” said Sunday.

“Yeah. Yeah, so do they.” The lane continued to an exit onto the streets, but Evan didn’t want to risk the police circling around to the same spot. He backed up, holding the shadows around the car until he made a three-point turn to exit the way he entered. The shadows faded as they came back onto their original street without a patrol car in sight. The spotlights from the skies were all behind them—close, but moving away.

“Sorry about the alley thing. I was listening to you, just⁠—”

“Nope,” Sunday interrupted. “No, that was slick. Don’t ruin it. Get us the fuck outta here.”

He didn’t argue.

Though sirens and searching police cars were only a block or two away, the street itself was already back to normal. Evan drove out and hooked the nearest turn and then the next. He was perfectly happy to go anywhere away from the spotlights.

“By now, they’ve told the nearby cops to watch for a black sports car,” said Sunday. “Highway Patrol, too. No clue if they caught the make and model. Hey, you changed the color with magic, right? Can you do it again?”

“Probably. I’d need a minute.” Evan kept his hands at ten and two on the wheel and his eyes on the road. He knew his muscles and his pulse would remain rocky until at least the freeway. “Hey, uh… thanks for all that. The guidance and the quick thinking.”

“We’re a team, right?”

“Yeah. Still. Driving like that is a lot. Trying to work magic at the same time is… it’s really a lot. I couldn’t have done all that on my own. It would’ve been too much to think about all at once, so thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They drove. Nothing kept them from the freeway.

“Everyone else is probably halfway back to West Covina already,” said Sunday.

“Huh. I kinda figured everyone would lie low, but I guess that’s adrenaline talking. Cops are a normal risk. If nobody got caught, there’s no reason to hide.” Evan shrugged. “We can kiss that prize money goodbye. Erick had the race in hand before that cop showed up. Can’t expect him to call it a wash out of gratitude.”

“Sure, but this was never about the money, right? Gratitude might help us more than cash.”

Johnny’s Chili Burgers still had plenty of visitors in the parking lot. The meet had partly diminished while Evan and Sunday were away. Some people and cars had swapped out; others hung around for the long haul. Evan wondered how many people were more interested in the racing scene than in actually racing.

Having been through a single race, Evan couldn’t blame anyone. He appreciated a good thrill. He appreciated friends much more.

The later hour made parking easier and made people easier to find. The man with their money hadn’t moved from his spot. Several familiar faces stood around Jules at his car, looking on at Evan and Sunday’s arrival with easier grins than before.

“Thought we might be waiting on you for a minute,” said Erick. “Or maybe a lot longer.”

“We’re good,” said Sunday. “Everyone else is here? I see all the cars.”

“Yeah. We’re straight.” Erick held out his hand to shake Evan’s with style and respect, and then Sunday’s. “Gotta admit, you thought faster than me.”

“What was that trick with the lights? I know that wasn’t your high beams. That was bright as fuck,” said Pablo.

“I’ve got one of those self-defense strobe lights,” Sunday answered before Evan, yet without any rush. “Little stronger than you find online, but it’s cleaner than pepper spray. Probably seemed extra bright on that road.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Pablo huffed.

Lucy stood beside her guys. She still had those sunglasses balanced at the tip of her nose, with her dark eyes watching over the lenses. “How did you know to go south?”

“We didn’t know, but you had us covered from up high,” said Evan. “We all checked the track. That unmarked car got by us, but I didn’t think it could be a whole sting operation. Figured we needed to pick a direction and go.”

“Shit,” Pablo laughed. “Guess you were right. We followed you out and saw one cop chasing you back the other way, so we took off. How’d you get out?”

“Fast driving and shadows, man,” Sunday grinned. “You know that’s a Lamborghini, right?”

Erick and Pablo seemed impressed, but neither spoke until they glanced to Lucy. She met their question with the slightest tilt of her head, so subtle that Evan thought he might’ve imagined it. Then the grins and warmth diminished for a more serious topic.

“Had you before that cop jumped in,” said Erick. “You did good for your first race, but second is second. Lookouts at the finish saw it, too.”

“You were ahead,” Evan conceded.

“Pablo’s out a drone now, and—hold up.” Erick’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t arguing?”

“You were ahead,” Evan said again. “Look, you beat me on the start. I saw you surge, and I know my mistakes. That was my first race. I’m not surprised.” He looked past the trio to the others listening in just beyond the circle. “Jules, give the man his money. He won.”

The handful of spectators from the race cheered and patted Erick as he collected his winnings. Beyond the group at Jules’s car, Evan noticed Scratch and his entourage watching from the other end of the lot. Nobody seemed particularly warm, but the air of rejection diminished. General neutrality seemed like a win.

“Losers usually argue if it’s even close to close,” Pablo explained while Erick counted his cash. “Bullshitting and bragging is almost mandatory, before and after a race. Kinda cool for someone to lose with dignity for once.”

“Still lost,” Erick quipped, laughing with his tongue out.

“The car did all the bragging for us,” said Sunday. “We’re new. Nobody knows us. You don’t walk into a stranger’s party and make a mess, right?”

“Why, though?” Lucy’s question turned Evan and Sunday’s heads. Her dark eyes hadn’t moved, still discerning, still cagey. “You’re not cops. We picked the place and time, so it’s no set-up. I’m not worried about that. But people race to show off and win. You’re not the type. Why are you here?”

“We didn’t come out to lose. We should’ve had this,” said Evan.

“Yeah. So, why?” Lucy stared. “Did you mean what you said before? About dropping the car?”

The encounter with Scratch seemed days in the past now, but Evan remembered Lucy in the background. “You heard all that?”

She looked to the car and back to him. “It’s hot, isn’t it?”

Evan consulted Sunday with a glance. Rather than warning, he thought he saw hope. Grinning faintly, Sunday tilted her head back toward the Lamborghini. Together, they led Lucy, Pablo, and a still-smiling Erick away from the rest of the crowd.

“If you know someone who moves cars, we’re interested,” said Sunday, mostly to Lucy. “It can’t stay here. Needs to go away. Far away, and quietly.”

“It’s limited edition, too,” Evan added. “That complicates things.”

“Yeah, we thought so,” said Pablo. “How’d you get—” Lucy silenced him with a gentle bump. He frowned, but he understood her point.

Lucy gave the car a long look. “You’re not getting close to sticker price from anyone, anywhere. You know that, right?”

“Sure,” said Evan.

“You know someone who knows a guy?” asked Sunday.

Lucy checked on Scratch and his crowd, then the others around Jules. She looked once at each of her guys and found open, questioning expressions. Then she pulled out her phone and walked toward the Lamborghini. “Give me a couple minutes.”

Evan, Sunday, and the guys stayed a step back. Lucy circled the car with that same discerning look she had in conversation before taking quick pictures of the front and side. Evan held back a grimace and a hint of worry in his stomach. He didn’t like having the stolen collector’s item photographed, but her confidence and seriousness spoke volumes. This had to be part of the process—whatever she was doing.

“Did you bang it up at all?” she asked without looking up.

“No,” said Evan.

She looked to her guys. They flanked the Lamborghini, looked it over quickly, and nodded.

Then she tapped her phone a few times and held it to her ear. “Wèi. Gàn ma ne?”

The greeting wasn’t one Evan recognized, but it wasn’t like he could follow anything outside of English or simple Spanish. Erick and Pablo offered no explanations; both men held up their hands in patient solidarity with their girl. Lucy spoke in short bursts, seeming equal parts chatty and curt. Her posture seemed playful. Hoping he didn’t regret whatever he’d just gotten himself and Sunday into, Evan looked to his partner—and found a grin.

“It’s her cousin,” Sunday murmured. “She already sent him the pictures.”

“What’s she speaking?” he whispered.

“Mandarin.” Sunday listened and waited while Lucy rounded the car, taunting her cousin over the phone. “He’s got money. She’s taunting him about it. Singapore, I think?”

Their quick back-and-forth in Mandarin carried on. Erick and Pablo waited patiently, mirroring Evan and Sunday’s quiet exchange. They, too, seemed surprised, but not the way Evan felt. The guys at least knew who they were fooling around with.

Lucy dipped the phone away from her mouth. “Take this to Long Beach right now and it’ll go straight on a cargo ship. Gone by morning. Two-fifty US, offshore account.”

The offer dropped Evan’s jaw. His expression recovered a second later, but not his doubts.

“Sold,” said Sunday.

“Wha—whoa,” he corrected quietly, turning to her. “This is too good to be true.”

“No, it’s not,” Sunday assured him. “It’s solid.”

“How do you know?”

“She pushed her cousin up to five hundred k. This means she’s keeping half for herself.” Sunday grinned. “I really like her.”

Strangers secured the Lamborghini into a cargo container with efficiency and care, using both tie-downs and padded blankets. Several layers of cardboard boxes on pallets provided a barrier on either end of the container, all of them marked with appliance labels. No packing method would defeat a serious inspection, but as Sunday relayed, the real goal was avoiding any such inspection altogether. Nobody was about to explain how that part happened.

Evan pulled the stolen license plates, figuring a link to the rental lot wouldn’t help anyone. Amid the task, he decided they might be useful later. No one noticed their absence. No one asked for a single slip of paperwork. No one asked any questions at all.

At Sunday’s request, Lucy arranged to follow the truck into the harbor. Evan and Sunday saw the container lifted by a towering crane and placed on an enormous cargo ship amid hundreds of others. Clearly, Lucy—or her cousin, or more specifically his connections—arranged some sort of cut in line to get loaded so promptly. Those cranes moved much faster and smoother than Evan imagined when he saw them from afar.

The process continued without interruption. Before the next crate went on, Evan and Sunday could already see how difficult any sort of swap or double-cross would be. Schedules mattered far more than any single container. Theirs wouldn’t leave the ship until it hit some other port far from Long Beach.

Evan stood on the dock, clear of the action, watching as another container went in behind the special order. The next already waited in line. With that, it was over. No double-cross, no sketchy changes, no sudden switcheroo. The car was no longer his problem.

Invisible, intangible weight fell from his shoulders. Enough trouble loomed ahead to twist his stomach into knots, but the car was gone. The difference mattered.

Fatigue set in. He desperately needed sleep. He finally felt like he could sleep.

“New PINs are set.” Sunday tilted her phone toward him, showing a screen of numbers on a clean white field and the subtle red logo of a bank he didn’t know. The most important line showed a quarter million dollars.

“This is all we need?”

“We should move it soon, but yeah. I’ve been paid like this before.” She glanced around the dock and their escorts. “Pretty sure they don’t ship people in those containers. They don’t seem like the type. I’m not worried about anything else.”

Evan sighed, blinking widely to wake himself up, and found Sunday watching. He shook his head. “Thank you. I’m way out of my element here. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Maybe. I think you’d have managed something else, at least. If anything, all this makes me feel better about the rest of our bullshit.”

“How?”

“I knew you could fight, and you’ve got some talents. You didn’t abandon me in that fire, and then you saved what you could. That means a lot. And the way you handled tonight?” Sunday twirled her finger to indicate both the cargo ship and the trio waiting by the Mustang. “You stuck out a gunfight for my sake, and then you dove in to save everyone from the cops tonight. You run from trouble when you’re alone, but you won’t leave anyone else hanging. Gutsy, but not cocky or stupid. You care about who gets hurt. Good judgment is more important than any magic.

“I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine,” she finished. “C’mon. Don’t want to keep our ride waiting. It’d take all night to walk out of here.”

“Yeah.” Another wide blink. “Yeah. Good point.”

“You okay?”

“Lack of sleep is catching up. Still gotta find a hotel.”

“No. Sofia said you can stay with her. Better for both of you, at least for tonight. You need your cats and they need you.” She saw the uncomfortable frown on his face and gave him another nudge. “Hey. When all my crazy shit started, I didn’t dive right in. I still had my family and most of my normal life. I’ve seen people lose everything, get dragged off to war or prison or wherever. That kind of loss fucks you up as much as the actual crazy shit, if not more. You don’t got much, but you’ve got something. You need them. They need you.”

Searching for an argument or defense, Evan glanced to their immediate destination. Lucy, Erick, and Pablo waited by the Mustang. He had a slightly different idea.

“Sofia’s got two couches. Pretty sure she meant both of us could stay. Tonight, at least.”

9

STELLAR DRIFT

Sunday knew how to find her way at night. One of the older men on the rancho had been a sailor before settling down, and taught her the stars purely because she had asked. She’d known plenty of kind men in her life—their kindness often limited by tradition and the opinions of the Church, but within those habits, kind. She learned much from such men. The old sailor taught her that a clear night was a blessing.

If you have the stars, he said, you can always find your way.

“Should never have used so much dynamite.” Walter’s English accent still hung on despite ten years in the New World. They had been rough years, first in the Minnesota artillery for the war and then building the railroad. He had a scar across his right cheek, a bounty on his head in the Wyoming Territory, and now a blanket pulled around his shoulders and guilty conscience. “We didn’t need to do that.”

Walter shared the campfire with three other men. John took a similar pose as Walter’s, hunkered down with a blanket and his hat pulled low. Nathan stood, swaggering and pleased with himself, seeming to rely on his bottle to ward off the night wind. The firelight made his white shirt glow, apart from the bloodstains. The last of the gang had settled a few yards farther away, never bothered by a chilly night.

“We needed to blow the door,” said Nathan. “We hit right at sunset. We didn’t have time to fuck around with half-measures. She didn’t have to stand there.”

“She did if she wanted to keep the staff down on the floor,” said Walter. “You knew the wall on the other side wouldn’t hold. You knew she was standing there. Doesn’t this bother anyone?”

“Don’t put this on me.” John hardly sounded upset. “I was outside, doing my job. If you were so concerned, you shoulda said something.”

“I did say something.”

“You said, ‘Nathan, you sure?’ And I was sure,” Nathan shot back. “I blew the door. We got the money and got out. Not my fault she didn’t take proper cover.”

“She couldn’t. Not with the layout as it was.”

“Walter, it was an accident. These things happen,” said the mastermind of the group. Like Walter, Lorenzo still had the accent of his homeland, but he’d left before Italy took its name. Lorenzo reclined on a blanket against a large stone not so close to the fire. Despite the distance and shadow, his pale hands and face caught the light even better than Nathan’s shirt. “As Nathan says, we had to be in and out before the town could organize a response. We had no time for experimentation and rearrangements.

“She wanted revenge on the bank. Dead husband, lost farm, whatever it was. She wanted to hurt the bank, and not the people, which is why she stood watch over the staff. That was more important to her than the money. She was perfectly clear, and she got what she wanted.”

“We wouldn’t have gotten an angle on the guards without her. She got in where we couldn’t. We owed her better than this,” said Walter.

“You were inside,” said John. “I had to come in with the horses and Lorenzo was outside of town with supplies. You saw how much dynamite Nathan used. Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I didn’t see everything. It was dark,” said Walter.

“Was it too dark to check on her before we left?” Nathan stared over the campfire. He didn’t bring up the other aspect that they all knew: Walter never really challenged Nathan. Or Lorenzo.

“You were pretty focused on loading up the money,” said John.

“The job is done.” Lorenzo raised his hands to the open night sky. “We are free and clear from pursuit. A four-way split is better than five.”

“By five percent,” said Sunday.

Startled, Nathan dropped his bottle. Everyone whipped toward her and stared. Even Lorenzo’s endless cool broke as he, too, sat bolt upright in shock. She’d approached from downwind and stepped with care, moving as she had been taught to hunt. It wasn’t hard, what with all the horses all tethered around the same tree, giving her generous cover to watch and listen.

Lorenzo also helped by being a smug bastard. They’d camped exactly according to his plan. Why wouldn’t they?

Ashes, dirt, and blood covered Sunday’s dress. She wore trousers and a shirt beneath it, wanting more functional clothes for their escape from town, but she was grateful for the extra layer as the night wore on. It had been a long walk from the wrecked bank.

The dress also spread out enough to cover her right hand if she held it low at her side.

“How… how are you alive?” asked Walter.

“One hundred split five ways is twenty each,” she went on. “Split four ways, it’s twenty-five. That’s how numbers work. You already had enough to live easy for years. Cutting me out gets you five percent more.” Sunday tilted her head toward the mounts behind her. “I only count four horses at the tree, not five. That makes this all look less like an accident.”

Unsure glances passed between stunned, awkward faces. John stammered. “I-I couldn’t wrangle more than⁠—”

Sunday snapped the revolver from the folds of her dress and shot Nathan in the forehead. Her next bullet went through the middle of John’s chest before his pistol was up.

Behind her, the horses bolted from the tree that no longer held them in place. She had untied the reins upon arrival. None of the men deserved any chance of an easy getaway. A long walk to civilization didn’t present the same problem for her as for others.

Walter backed off with his hands high. She didn’t know what he’d do once his wits caught up, but she didn’t spare him a glance. He wasn’t the real threat.

Lorenzo moved faster than the rest—much faster, but he’d set his gun belt aside for comfort, and probably to put the others at ease. Despite his speed, turning to grab the belt and rise gave Sunday time for a shot. She took four, in fact, fanning the hammer of her revolver, and hit him at least once. The bullet put a hole through his shirt.

It didn’t matter. Lorenzo had no fear of guns. Sunday’s appearance after death gave him good reason to suspect she didn’t, either. It was the only reason he pulled the bowie knife from his belt instead of the pistol, all while rushing at her much too fast for a man shot with a revolver. Only the campfire slowed his path, forcing him a few extra steps clear in his charge.

Sunday dropped the revolver with the first click of an empty chamber. The gun had been worth a try; she had only heard it wouldn’t work against his kind, which wasn’t the same as knowing. She knew he was fast, though, and strong. Much stronger than her. He charged in to tackle as well as slash, which forced her to dodge. She couldn’t match his strength.

She darted right and forward, forcing him to turn and lose momentum. That kept her clear from the first slash of his bowie knife. Lorenzo pursued and slashed again. He expected her to keep giving ground, but Sunday thrust her shoulder into his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist.

He was faster. Stronger. Fierce. Barely fazed by bullets, as she had heard about his kind. Allegedly, though, one sort of harm worked on just about everyone.

Sunday hefted Lorenzo off his feet and wrenched him into the campfire.

Lorenzo slashed his bowie knife down her back amid the tumble, but then came the crash and the blast of burning branches, hot rocks, and embers flying everywhere. Sunday locked in her hold despite the agony across her arms and waist. He roared with as much panic as pain, kicking and thrashing. Sunday endured the pain without fear.

Superior strength and terror soon won out. Lorenzo flung Sunday off and left her tumbling in the dust, but the fire had robbed him of all interest in the fight. He scrambled out of the little firepit, barely coming off the ground, flames clinging to his back and his arms. Once clear from the pit, Lorenzo stumbled and rolled in the dirt.

Sunday did much the same, though her intention was more obvious. Tongues of flame clung to her dress in several spots, but the real harm had happened at her hands and wrists. She smothered the burns by dropping onto her chest, gasping and coughing. Her focus held long enough to see Lorenzo collapse near his bedroll.

“Jesus,” breathed a voice above her. “Jes—oh my god, Sunday.” Walter ventured close, hesitating before he turned her over.

Most of the light around the campsite died with the fire, but the lanterns still burned. Sunday saw Walter’s face and the stars above him. After all this, she preferred the stars.

“Are you—your arms. Jesus, your hands,” said Walter.

“Told you,” Sunday coughed. “I said we couldn’t… couldn’t trust them.” Her hands hurt worse with every second, but she’d already dragged other kinds of pain all through the night. She’d get over the burns sooner than the rest. “You said you’d watch my back.”

“I’m sorry. I thought it would work out. I… your hands. What do I do?”

“Water,” she rasped. She didn’t really know, but anything to cool the burn would help. Then she could finish her break-up with Walter.

“Right.” He rose and looked around fretfully. “I’ll⁠—”

Sunday jerked at the first gunshot through her chest, and the second. She barely flinched at the third and fourth. Delirium took her almost instantly. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, saw only a glimpse of the smoldering Lorenzo standing over her with his pistol in hand.

It was an ugly death, and not instant.

“Lorenzo?” Again, Walter held up his hands in surrender.

“Who the fuck is she? What the fuck is she?” Lorenzo demanded.

“I don’t know! I don’t understand any of this!” said Walter. “I thought—I thought she was dead. I thought you were dead just now, too.”

“Dead,” Lorenzo spat. He took in the rest of the camp with a glance. “The others are dead or dying, and she freed the horses. They’ll never let me get near. She knew. Damn her!”

“Lorenzo, you…?” Walter pointed. Sunday’s dimming eyes and reeling mind couldn’t track much, but the gunshot through Lorenzo’s chest and the burns up and down his body were plain enough. His left arm crumbled into ashes. More drifted from his hip.

Her sight gave out as Lorenzo lunged. She didn’t see him bite, but she heard it, along with Walter’s cry. Then she saw, and heard, and thought nothing.

A child could have tracked Lorenzo from the camp. The loot weighed him down, and even his kind needed at least a few mundane supplies. His trail of heavy footprints and dripping blood lead northeast, out of the foothills, but not far. Lorenzo had already lost much of the night and Sunday moved fast.

She felt much better with the dawn—physically, at least. She always did. The horses hadn’t gone far, either. Animals didn’t fear her approach like they feared the undead.

She found Lorenzo under a buckeye tree, huddled beneath his coat, his pack, and a pile of blankets. He didn’t seem to hear her approach. He didn’t react at all until she tore the blankets away—and then he screamed and howled in abject terror, flailing at her with arms that cracked and crumbled. She’d heard vampires burned in the sun and feared he might cause a brushfire, but that proved unfounded now that she could see him. She needed only step back and watch him collapse into a pile of clothing and ashes.

Saddlebags full of cash and gold sat by the crumbling remains of Lorenzo’s body. Enough supplies for five people waited for her back at the campsite. Lorenzo’s plan had, in fact, taken them clear of pursuit. Sunday had everything she needed to start anew.

Rather than turning back to camp, Sunday sank to the ground and closed her eyes. None of this felt like a victory. She didn’t think of riches or revenge. She didn’t think about the friends she could help and the harm she could repair with the money now in hand, or the life she could start. Instead, she thought of all the mistakes she made and trust she had misplaced. She thought about that until the sun set and the stars returned.

She thought about it all again on Sofia’s couch, staring through the living room window at the same stars. City lights no longer drowned them out. Not for her. Not since Evan.

He had the other couch, perpendicular to hers. The living room had been quiet and still since their return. Neither of them had the energy to talk, nor did they want to wake their host. Evan fell asleep almost immediately. Sunday drifted off at first, but jerked awake with her thoughts spinning.

He had your back. He sticks out a fight when he’s got a reason. He listens.

He’s not Walter. Not much like Fernando or Dick or any of the other guys I’ve run jobs with. Not cocky, not cruel.

He also wasn’t José, or Matthew, or Tomas. Or Omar.

She’d had two hundred years to live and learn. Some people worked out, as friends and as more than friends. She saw the patterns. She knew what worked for her. She knew how much it hurt when it didn’t work out, too… and how much it would eventually hurt if it did. One way or another, it always hurt.

Sunday’s hand drifted off the couch. Her fingertips found the photo album right where she’d left it. She didn’t want to look, but its presence brought comfort. Everything was still there. And the jewelry box, and the bag.

No leverage. No expectation of thanks. Evan grabbed it out of sympathy and returned it without question. Hell, he apologized for not saving more.

She needed a partner in this. She needed someone capable and trustworthy. She kept that in mind all day and night, watching and evaluating. This was serious. Life and death. A blood feud of magic and monsters.

If she was honest, she evaluated him for other things, too.

Evan shifted to lay on his side. She didn’t think he was awake, yet something in that turn seemed mindful, intentional—and then she saw the fuzzy grey and black shape he accommodated into the space by his shoulder. Lilly settled into a new curl beneath Evan’s chin and went right back to sleep with him.

Sunday bit her lip. They were so cute together it hurt.

Of course it hurts, dumbass. You were just thinkin’ about how all this inevitably hurts.

They were cute together, though. She liked Evan’s face and his eyes. Liked his voice. He cared about cats and honesty and not hurting anyone. He was gutsy and smart. Whenever he forgot his stress, he was funny and warm. He had a ride-or-die friend in Sofia, and she seemed to have her shit together. A friendship like that said a lot. Hell, he had three ride-or-die friends, if cats counted. She saw no reason they shouldn’t.

Get it out of your head. Dead mom, abusive dad, ran away, and now all this shit. He’s gotta have six tons of baggage, and all the magic hasn’t really caught up to him yet. There’s no telling how that will change someone. You’re not seeing all of him. Gotta be all fucked up inside. He’s nice, but he’s looking for help, not…

Fuzzy black ears and golden eyes rose in front of her face, staring. Sunday blinked and refocused. Flip-Top stared, as if embarrassed to be caught peeking. He couldn’t have known her eyes would be open. She hadn’t known he was there at all.

Tentatively, he lifted his right paw, still staring. Sunday didn’t move. She hoped he would reach out, maybe touch her cheek, or do some other cute cat thing.

Flip-Top batted her nose, jerked backward, and scampered away.

Ride-or-die, she thought, holding back a laugh. Okay, kitty. Got the message. I’ll leave him alone. Not gonna catch feelings.

Another whack hit her foot. Flip-Top leaped away again, this time off the couch.

Then it occurred to her that Flip-Top interrupted when she was talking herself out of her feelings.

Evan awoke to a warm, familiar weight against his hip and another stomping across his chest. The bed and blankets felt all wrong, though. He opened his eyes to Lilly kneading right below his collarbone. His bleary first glance made sense of it all: Sofia’s living room, and her couch, and her blanket.

And his friends.

A grey-and-black tabby face gave him a slow blink. Whiskers tickled his chin. Tiny claws poked through the blanket. Evan opened his mouth and object, but another thought stopped him. He tilted his head back against a couch pillow not really made for sleeping to check the other guest.

Her smile hit him before the other details: dark hair spilling off Sofia’s one spare bed pillow, a fuzzy Costco blanket up to her shoulders, lying on her side with her eyes open. “That’s fuckin’ adorable,” said Sunday.

Claws poked him again. It was probably for the best, as it kept him from staring or imagining a different relationship with the other human. Regardless: “It’s rude,” Evan told Lilly.

She didn’t seem to care. She never did. At his hip, Flip-Top made his first grumble of the morning.

“Aw, pobrecito,” said Sunday.

“Me, or them?” asked Evan.

“Them, obviously. You’ve got nothing to complain about.”

“Flip-Top wants cuddles until he gets breakfast. Nothing in between. Lilly stands on business. No cuddles when it should be food time.”

“She’s nice about it, though.”

“You’re not the one getting stabbed.”

“Uh-huh. You’re the true victim here.”

With his right hand pinned by Flip-Top, Evan worked his left hand out from under the blanket. Thankfully, Lilly permitted his scritches. “I didn’t expect this. Figured they’d be too freaked out by all the change.”

“They know their human.” Sunday laughed quietly. “They don’t know me, though. Flip-Top crept up to check me out last night. He whacked me on the nose and then jumped away, like he was testing to see if I’m real.”

“Bro. Don’t whack,” Evan said to the cat at his side. Don’t whack the pretty lady, he wanted to say. But didn’t.

Don’t make it weird. Don’t get weird. Ditching the car and getting some sleep doesn’t fix the rest of this. You’re still in deep shit.

He did feel much better after getting some sleep, though. Daylight leaked around the edges of blackout curtains at the lone window of Sofia’s living room, and there was more ambient light from the hallway behind them. He heard the steady stream of a faucet. “What time is it?”

“Little after nine. Sofia’s been quiet, but I think it was enough to wake us both. Or it woke your cats.”

“Surprised they let me sleep that late. Guess that’s part of the disruption. Ow, hey, okay,” he said. Lilly’s kneading had advanced from his collarbone toward his neck. It was one of her standard escalatory steps. “I get the point. It’s food time. Let’s go.”

She hopped down from his chest. The magic phrase of “food time” roused Flip-Top as always. He sat up, front paws on Evan’s stomach, and yawned as if invisible fingers pulled on his ears to stretch out his entire face.

“Okay, now I understand the name,” said Sunday.

Flip-Top bounded off of Evan and onto the living room floor. Evan sat up, rubbed his eyes, and ran a hand through his hair. Whatever ridiculous bed-head he had upon waking up would probably replace any other impression he had made on Sunday, but he’d have to live with that now. Doesn’t matter. Nothing happening there. Don’t get weird.

“You ever have pets?” he asked as he rose.

“Off and on. Not recently. Glad for that, now that I think about it. I wouldn’t have taken good care of them while I had a passenger, you know?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to engage beyond a sympathetic tone. Either she’d talk about it or she wouldn’t; what else was there? “Kitchen. Bowls and food are in the kitchen,” he thought out loud.

The eye contact they made as he passed Sunday had to be his imagination. Either that, or real and probably awkward. Don’t get weird.

He pried open a can and endured plaintive meows while he dished out breakfast. Predictably, Flip-Top hopped up on the counter, because he hadn’t been forbidden from being on this specific counter. Evan nudged him off, smiling. It wasn’t their home, but they were together.

“How’d you get these two?” asked Sunday.

“One night, I took my trash out to the dumpster and heard tiny mews.” Evan set the bowls on the floor and watched his friends chow down. “I had just moved in. First stable place to live, but it was still a shitty night, and they looked miserable. Wasn’t my first dumpster-dive.”

“Does anyone else know about them?”

“Sure. I’ve talked about them at work, shown pictures to friends, and… oh.” It hit him like a punch in the gut. He looked over to Sunday, who had spoken without judgment or suspicion, but he understood. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” It sounded like an apology.

“I brought them here in case someone kicked down my door, but…”

“But you can’t be sure nothing connects you to Sofia,” Sunday finished gently. “This shit runs deep. You were smart to bring them here when your apartment was the only place to find you, but we’ve gotta think past that now.

“Everything we did last night was about reducing risk. We’ve gotta close off our vulnerabilities. If the cops or Anatole’s guys figure out Sofia’s a friend, they might check up on her. If they find your cats, that’s a link.”

The shower kept running. Sofia wouldn’t hear. She had a job to get to—comfortably late in the morning, because flexible hours were a perk of that job. She’d built a life for herself with a lot of hard work and care and no small amount of sacrifice. “We can’t stay,” Evan mumbled. He watched Flip-Top and Lilly eat without a care in the world. “Any of us.”

“Not if we’re serious about this. Not if you want to protect your friend.”

Evan winced. She was right. Damn it. “Okay. New place to stay. What else?”

“Wheels. We need to take care of the basics before we go dealing with magic and bad guys. We have money, now we need wheels and a place to stay. Clothes, too, since we’re both thin on that. The car’s gotta come first, and you know cars better than me. What’s our best choice?”

“Something solid, but common,” said Evan. “Inconspicuous, like a Camry or a Civic. Anything we can buy without paperwork won’t be as reliable, though.”

“I figured you could grab us whatever you want, without paperwork.”

Evan shook his head. “Losing a car is a huge hit to most people. I’m not stealing at random.”

“Alright, I guess that’s…” Sunday slowly grinned. “What kinda car did you say is best?”

“A. would like to engage your services. Please inform us of your availability.”

The text lit up Terry’s phone—his work phone, entirely separate from the one he used for his personal life. Technology kept bringing new reasons to keep the two streams apart. Discipline brought success, which in turn brought things like his spacious three-bedroom home and his collection of blades.

Discipline also mandated he finish the Ritual of Blades before he took up the phone. Blackout curtains covered every window, leaving him in shadow but for the light of candles and incense sticks burning on the kitchen counter, and of course now his phone. Weapons took up most of the remaining space on the counter: his katana, his rapier, several throwing knives, and more. At the center, amid candles and incense and bones, sat a bowl with a blackbird’s heart in a pool of blood. Terry hummed in deep tones, calling on the not-so-distant shadows beyond this world.

He ran the edge of his machete over the blackbird heart, leaving a line no thicker or deeper than dragging a hair across the surface. Black mist rose from the cut, enveloping the machete. Terry’s blade faded like a ghost until it became little more than a shadow in his hand. He raised the shadow blade high and sank it into his own shoulder until even the hilt was unseen. The machete would hide within his body until the new moon or until he pulled it free—and the katana, and the scimitar, and the throwing knives he tucked inside his wrists. Different weapons for different needs.

Dire harm would come to any who grabbed him without his permission while the blades hid within his body. Still greater harm would come to anyone who faced his blades in battle. That, more than anything else, kept the business coming.

He turned the lights on and texted back: “I am available now. Call at your convenience.”

Terry hadn’t worked for Anatole since that last job with Sunday, months ago. The text from two nights ago had caught his interest, but he’d been busy and assumed someone else would claim the prize. He wondered if this inquiry was about the same issue.

He barely had the blackbird’s heart in the sink before the phone rang with the call. Terry let it ring long enough to run the disposal. That sort of thing created a stink if left untended.

“Hello,” Terry greeted.

“Hello. Is this a good time?” Elizabeth was easy enough to recognize by her voice: cool, confident, and professional. She was careful with her words, too. A “good time” referred to a secure line and privacy as much as simple convenience.

“Yes. It’s nice to hear from you. Speak freely.”

“We’re seeking assistance with a matter of liquidation and asset recovery.” Secure or not, Elizabeth would never speak freely over the phone. The fact that she listed one task ahead of the other said more than enough. “Timely resolution is a factor, along with discretion, of course. Would you be able to meet in person? I’m available all day.”

Ritual implements still cluttered the kitchen counter. He hated to leave a mess, but business called. “I’ll be on my way in five minutes.”

The rest of his tools and clothes came together quickly: shoes inlaid with cat whiskers to soften his footsteps, a simple charm on a chain to ward off the evil eye, gloves, and sunglasses. The small flask of purified water tucked in his blazer could remove any scent with only a few drops, including his own. Terry didn’t leave the house until he was prepared for work.

The driveway of his home presented a completely unexpected problem.

Terry’s jaw fell. His brow furrowed in disbelief. He turned in a full circle in his driveway before stepping out onto the street, looking left and right as if he could possibly have forgotten coming home last night. The neighborhood looked utterly ordinary apart from the missing piece in his own driveway.

“Where the hell is my car?”

“He’s a shadow assassin? That’s a thing?” asked Evan.

“I mean, I dunno if he calls it that.” Sunday searched through the papers from the glove compartment while Evan drove. So far, she hadn’t found anything but records of oil changes and new tires. “Some weird cult taught him a bunch of stabby shadow-magic. I’m sure they have a name. I wasn’t gonna ask for details from anyone that edgy and dark. Oily, too. You ever met someone who’s just, y’know, oily?”

“I’m driving an oily hitman’s Toyota Camry,” said Evan. “Also, he lives within walking distance from my best friend’s place. It doesn’t seem great.”

“He’s way more hitman than detective or tracker, or I wouldn’t have suggested it. And now he’s a hitman without any wheels.”

“Magical hitman,” Evan grumbled.

“None of it was transportation magic, or I think he’d have used it on our jobs. Unless it’s one more way he’s just a dick.” Sunday fanned through the papers again and checked the now-empty compartment with an air of annoyance. “Seriously, who doesn’t have at least a couple napkins in the glovebox? Who lives like that?”

“Spooky people are weird,” he sighed.

“Spooky people are weird. How’s the car handle?” asked Sunday.

“Feels fine so far, and it’s relatively new. Looks like he kept up on maintenance. And it’s a top five most common car in the state, so it’s a needle in a haystack.”

“Stolen these before, then?”

“Repossessed, not stolen. Only a couple times.” Evan watched the road and kept up with traffic, finally able to relax a bit now that he could blend in. “A lot of repo work is about showing up with papers from the bank and keys from the dealership, or a tow truck. That doesn’t work for every case. Some people are too slippery. Or oily, I guess.” He gestured at the dashboard. “Mostly I handled stuff like sports cars and big fuck-off SUVs, and they were at big houses in the hills or suburbs. I repo’d from a lot of white-collar crooks.

“I didn’t repo clunkers or family cars from some ordinary rando struggling to make ends meet. If they’re in a downward spiral, I don’t want to be the one to shove. I only showed up after people had lots of chances to fix things. It’s a shitty business. I always looked before I took.”

“Do you get to be that picky?”

“Not really, which is why I’m so broke. I’d make better money if I took whatever jobs hit the inbox. Or, y’know. Past tense,” he corrected.

“Why do it at all? Doesn’t sound like you enjoy it.”

“It’s my skill set,” said Evan. “The pay’s about the same as a starting teacher or paramedic, but those are harder to get into.”

“Those are your comparisons?” Sunday grinned. “You sound like an altruist. You want to help people.”

“Maybe. I don’t know what I want to do.”

“How’d the repo job happen in the first place?”

Evan hesitated with a long, tense breath. She didn’t seem judgmental. Sunday was far more comfortable with shady tactics and violence than Evan—but she smiled when she spoke of altruism. Her voice brightened. She didn’t hesitate to go low, but appreciated the high road. It seemed to make a difference to her.

She’s not gonna care, he thought. She’s done so much worse. She’s not gonna care, except what if she does?

“Wrong question?” asked Sunday.

“No,” he said, but his brain spun with more in silence: Why, though? Why do you want to share? Other than knowing your partner in crime and whatever label fits our fight with Anatole, and chatting in a car like two normal people, and… we’re not normal people. Magic or no, we’re not normal.

You’re never gonna be normal. Normal bounced out of your life a long time ago.

“After I got thrown out, I got good at petty crime. Survival crime. Shoplifting, forgery, breaking and entering. I got really good at that part. First couple times, I was just lucky as hell, but I learned from it. I had internet access at school. You can learn almost anything online.”

“How did you stay in school with all that going on?”

“I figured out how to do my own paperwork. Nobody asks questions if the forms are filled out and you keep your mouth shut. Hell, I even traded up schools to someplace better. It wasn’t like I had to stay in my dad’s neighborhood. School was shelter and resources and a place to be. It gave me more to think about than myself. Everyone said school decided how your life would turn out. Also, I was lonely as hell. I clung to school.” Evan stopped, shaking his head. Sunday had asked about his job, not his sob story. He didn’t look her way. Eyes on the road, bro.

“At first, I only broke into empty homes where I could camp out. I didn’t like stealing. Plumbing and a roof were good enough. The more I did that, the more I paid attention, and then I learned more about homes and neighborhoods. Eventually, I found my first vacation home. That place set me up for weeks. I learned how to pick out vacation homes and places where the owner traveled a lot. There were times I was almost comfortable.

“I got good at sneaking and scouting. I learned how to look inconspicuous. White privilege explains a lot and I’m not proud of that, but it’s also nerves and body language. Cars are different from houses, but the skills carry over. I learned one, then the other.”

“Wait, back up,” Sunday said with new interest. “You squatted all through high school?”

“I had a lot of nights on the street, but yeah. Most of the time.”

“In vacation homes. Rich people’s homes.”

“Those are the people with the money to be away from home, yeah.”

“How did you know, though? I mean, they could come home at any moment.”

“Oh, that happened a couple times. I had to be ready to bounce.” Evan shrugged. “You watch the house. You look for lights, or packages on the porch, or cars after dinner time. You see if they still have mail in the mailbox in the evenings, and how much. Lots of people have their plans marked on a kitchen calendar. I had other tricks, too. A lot of it was judgment calls.”

He drove. Her eyes stayed on him. He could feel her looking.

“What?” he asked finally.

“Sounds like a lot of intuition.”

“Maybe. I guess. Is that good?” It sounded good. “I know what ‘intuition’ means, but why are we talking about it?”

“Practitioners—sorcerers—gotta have good intuition. That’s like the first requirement.”

“My magic was kinda shoved at me.”

“Yeah, but there’s a reason that worked. You had the chops for it to start with.”

“Is that common spooky knowledge?”

“It’s what I was told by the guy we’re going to see.” Sunday gestured to the freeway sign. “Take the next off-ramp. We get some incognito clothes first, and then let’s go figure you out.”

10

PENUMBRA

“Libraries and bookstores are neutral safe territory for sorcerers,” said Sunday. “It’s the one thing all the Practices share. Most other spookies aren’t in the loop, but if they know, they respect it ’cause they don’t want the smoke. Anatole definitely knows, which means his guys know. We should be safe in there.”

Set against the dusty-brown and green hills over Glendale, Brand Park felt peaceful and clean. At late morning on a weekday, the park wasn’t busy, let alone threatening. The gleaming white Moorish-style building perched on the hilltop punctuated that sense of ease. Its bright, palatial walls amid trees and sunshine implied nothing but peace.

Along the main stretch of greenery, a guy threw a frisbee for his golden retriever while a woman and kid watched from under a tree. Landscapers trimmed the curbs. Roughly a dozen cars and SUVs sat in the parking lot, none of them remarkable or occupied except for their Camry.

The drive had felt safe, too. So did the brief shopping trip. Their matching black Lakers hoodies felt a little goofy, but they both needed to change styles. The morning slowly lifted Evan’s spirits right up until the tension returned to Sunday’s voice and posture in the passenger seat.

“If we’re safe here,” Evan considered, “why do you seem so edgy?”

“Because I don’t take the neutrality for granted. If everyone knows this is a neutral safe spot, wouldn’t they keep it watched?”

“It does sound like the kind of rule people would game,” said Evan. “Does neutrality include coming and going? Can you wait outside to pound someone like it’s the bike racks after school? Are there exceptions?”

“I dunno. I’m not a sorcerer. It’s just what I’ve heard,” said Sunday.

Magic and spooky nonsense meant any number of watchers or traps could escape Evan’s notice. For all he knew, some random bird could spot them and fly off to play snitch, or there might be a giant invisible eye overhead staring down at them. If any magic watched them, he didn’t notice it.

“I think we’re okay?” he guessed. “As okay as anywhere else, at least.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Sunday looked around, too, but then she stopped. She still seemed tense.

Evan noticed. “What else is up?”

“This guy we’re gonna see. Omar. He’s a djinn, so he’s old, and he’s a sorcerer. That’s why we’re here. Between being djinn and a sorcerer, he’s connected, like with family and contacts and…” She threw up one hand in a gesture of futility. “He’s connected in the way I’m not, for good and bad. Once we get talkin’, I don’t know for sure where it goes. Nobody likes trouble showin’ up at their doorstep, right?”

“Back up a sec. I don’t actually know what a djinn is. You don’t mean like in Aladdin, right?”

“Don’t take any cues from American movies, but they’re real. Spirits of smokeless fire, they’ll tell you. Think of them as spirit-people. Whole bunch of different kinds, lots of magic powers, and they can get real old. Most of them live apart from humans and they’re more common in the Middle East, but they go wherever. This is LA. We’ve got lots of everything here. Djinn can be real powerful, but they usually aren’t monsters like vampires or werewolves. Most who live among mortals act basically normal—except the bad ones can be real bad, and you don’t wanna piss them off. Not even the nice ones.”

“And you think this one will help us.”

“Yes. He’s a good dude. That doesn’t mean he sees things the same way we see ’em.” Sunday put on sunglasses, pulled up the hood she didn’t need in this weather, and stepped out of the car. “Also, we used to date.”

“Wait, what?”

She didn’t answer.

The library sat atop several flights of steps. Sunday covered them brusquely, hands in her hoodie pocket. Evan followed with a hundred questions in his mouth. He didn’t dare let any of them out.

At the peaceful patio entrance and its ordinary glass door, Evan remembered a previous place they entered together. “Not getting a vibe here,” he said before Sunday reached the door handle.

“Vibe?” she asked.

“Yesterday, going into your house, something felt weird. The light seemed off at your doorstep, and the windows matched it. Then you opened the door and it was all bad guys. I thought maybe that sense was magic, and if I caught it there, maybe I’d feel something here, too. Fancy old library, your friend…?”

“It’s old for LA, but…” Then she caught on. “Oh. Okay. Listen, this place? This was a rich guy’s house a hundred years ago. Now it’s a library. My friend didn’t build this place; he pushed for a job here because it looks like this, not the other way around. He works at a desk, not a secret magic vault. Some spookies talk a big game about runnin’ shit in the shadows, but I’m tellin’ you: we just live here, like everyone else. Most of the world is exactly as normal as you always thought. You get me?”

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.”

The interior of the library dialed back the exterior grandeur. Clean white hallways opened into themed rooms of bookshelves. Large hand-woven rugs covered much of the hardwood floors. Evan also found the usual elements of a library: tables with computers, art and flyers in display cases, and mature, dignified quiet. It was, despite fancy architecture and cleanliness and maybe an immortal spirit-person on staff, a normal public library.

A trio of girls no older than eight ran around a corner, stifling giggles as if they almost cared where they were. Evan saw smiles and bouncing hair—and one of them trailed sparks. Sparks, and embers, and no smoke at all. She noticed his wide eyes and stopped as her friends continued without her.

“Sorry.” Her shoulders scrunched upward in apology, but her smile remained. She had dark eyes and golden skin, dimples and a purple-and-pink patterned dress. Embers like a campfire softly wafted off her hair.

“Um. ’s cool.” Evan shrugged back at her. “I’m not a cop.”

“Good, because—” she gasped, dark eyes widening. “Sunday!”

The little girl threw her arms around Sunday’s waist. “Leela, hi.” Sunday smiled back, partly returning the hug with a newly awkward vigilance for their surroundings.

Evan looked around, too. Nobody seemed to care about the embers from this little girl’s head—as if no one even saw them. No one except, perhaps, the two adults who emerged from the hallway that had claimed Leela’s friends.

Both were good-looking and well-dressed in photoshoot-perfect business casual. The woman shared Leela’s complexion and hair, while the guy had less resemblance beneath his neatly-trimmed beard, but they both gave off the same softly glowing orange embers.

“Mom! It’s Sunday!”

“I see that, Leela. Come here please.” Her mother came forward with grim, tense resolve. The guy stuck by her side.

Sunday raised her hands away from Leela’s shoulders. “It’s cool. We’re fine.”

“I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“Leela. Shh,” the man reminded. “Library.”

“Oh. Right,” Leela whispered. Her mother pulled her away by the shoulder, but she squirmed as if oblivious to the tension among the adults. She looked up and asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Evan. Hi.”

“Are you special? Is that why you looked at me funny?”

“Maybe?”

She cupped one conspiratorial hand over her mouth. “I’m thirty years old.”

Embers. She radiated heat, too. “I believe you,” said Evan.

“Leela.” Her mother left the other man to watch Sunday while she admonished her daughter. “Story hour is over. We have to take everyone home. Go.”

“Aww.” Leela moved back down the hallway in a show of grudging obedience, but asked, “Are you gonna be around, Sunday?”

“Maybe sweetie. We’ll see.”

“Go gather your friends.” Leela’s mother nudged her daughter out and then shifted to block the hallway.

Evan glanced around, finding with relief only a disinterested clerk at the front desk as a potential onlooker. A scene like this in a library still felt awkward as hell, though. All the evident magic and the baggage Sunday brought made it worse. He hoped they hadn’t walked into a fight, but at least the other two adults seemed to hope the same.

“I ain’t trouble.” Sunday held her hands out again. “What the fuck would I do here, anyway?”

“I don’t know. That’s what worries me,” said the man.

Her shoulders fell. She lowered her voice. “I was possessed.”

“Possessed?”

“Yeah. Demon. Few years. His name was Nahash. It sucked. Omar, I know you can check me.”

His frown shifted. Evan kept his silence, watched, and waited. Of course, her magical ex looks like a movie star.

“How did you get free?” asked Omar.

“Died.” She tilted her head toward Evan. “He helped.”

“A couple years,” said Omar. “Before, or after I last saw you?”

“After. It was—” she stopped, realizing something. “Yeah. It was after. Last time we talked, I was still me.”

“Hm.” Omar did not make clear if that detail mollified his feelings. Subtly, he slid the index and middle fingers of his right hand over his left, then raised them as if to rub his eyes. He stared and inhaled deeply. His wariness eased as he turned to his companion.

They spoke in a language Evan didn’t understand, but he could easily guess their meaning—some exchange of, “I’ve got this” and “are you sure?” Leela’s mother acquiesced, threw an only somewhat less worried look at Sunday, and then followed her daughter.

Omar’s voice softened with sympathy. “Sunday, I am so sorry.”

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“You don’t…? Sunday, this was an awful thing. I sense no lingering presence within you, but I see infernal scars. You have barely begun to heal. We should talk about this.”

“We came to talk, but not about—” Sunday stopped when her comment made Omar glance to Evan with new, sudden distraction.

Omar’s eyes narrowed, studying him. “Who are you?”

“His name’s Evan. He’s a friend.”

“Friends in matching hoodies,” Omar observed.

“Oh god, I knew you were gonna be like this,” Sunday grumbled. “People are looking for us. We needed to change style. Would anyone look for me in this? Or as part of a pair?”

“I recognized you when you came in.”

“You know me better than most.”

“Should I go for a minute?” Evan gestured to the other end of the library.

“You shine,” Omar told him. “You are hundreds of tiny lights. Like the night sky.”

“Yeah,” Evan conceded. “That’s me.”

“You’re the reason for the stars?” Omar folded his arms.

“It’s a story,” said Sunday. “Anatole and his spooky buddies are trying to kill us. He handed me over to Nahash. They’ve got a hit out on Evan and they burned down my house. Can we talk?”

Omar’s interest twisted with frustration. He scanned the library. “The offices are busy. We should talk outside. I’ll take an early lunch.”

“We figured it was safer in here. Library and all,” said Evan.

“I can conceal us and assure privacy outside. In here, my coworkers would make that harder. They’ll want hot gossip either way, of course.” He glanced to Sunday. “And please stop calling the supernatural community ‘spooky.’”

“We’re not a community. We’re not anywhere close,” she said.

He sighed and walked away to claim his lunch break.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of this Mitu.” Omar stood with them in the shade of trees at the back corner of the library, flanked by white walls on one side and the steep rise of the hill on the other. “A spirit or entity trapped within a solid object is not so outlandish among my kind, but she sounds nothing like a djinn. Have you seen anything to suggest a more common explanation of her nature? Not a demon, not a ghost? Some Practitioner’s disembodied consciousness?”

“Does that happen?” asked Evan.

“Not to my knowledge, but magic requires an open mind. Here you are.” Omar folded his arms. The frown he’d worn earlier in Evan’s story returned to his face. “Take me back to this basement. What did it hold besides this idol?”

“Most of it was boxed up. I saw a couple statues and a tall mirror covered in blankets. Lots of urns full of ashes. Couldn’t tell you what any of the rest of it was.”

“I always heard Cornelius kept the ashes of everyone he executed, like a freak,” said Sunday.

“Did you—” Omar hesitated. “Did all of it come from Cornelius?”

“Hell if I know. That’s what I understood, but they didn’t tell me.”

“No. No, they wouldn’t,” Omar conceded.

“Why’s it matter?” asked Sunday.

“Several reasons. Anatole has always dealt in artifacts and treasures, magical and otherwise. Something else in that collection might provide more context.” Amid his answer, Evan noticed a slight catch, like a nervous tick—and noticed Sunday frown at it, too.

“There are spells and rituals to enhance memory, but that may not be worth the effort. It likely was what they said, and mostly mundane wealth. I doubt Cornelius knew what the relic held. Anatole must not have known, either, or didn’t know how to access it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left it in some high-profile idiot’s basement.” Omar shook his head. “This is why magic and fame don’t mix. Celebrities are as prone to stupidity as anyone else and far more likely to draw attention.”

“Do we know when Anatole got Cornelius’s stuff? Maybe he hadn’t found time to check it out,” said Sunday.

“I was hoping you knew. Cornelius died in October or November, so it was some time after that. Anatole could’ve gotten it last week for all we know.”

“Mitu said she’d been looking for help for a long time,” said Evan. “Everyone around Cornelius or Anatole were dirtbags. It seemed like I was the first acceptable chance she got.”

“Sometimes not being an ass is enough to become the Chosen One, I guess,” said Omar.

“He’s not a Chosen One,” Sunday grumbled. “He’s a sorcerer, right?”

“I would caution against getting hung up on labels.”

“Sure, but that’s one of the reasons we’re here,” said Sunday. “Evan’s got ability, but he doesn’t have direction. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Is that fair?” she asked, turning to Evan with a wince of apology.

He shrugged. “That’s it, yeah.”

“Most Practitioners start out this way,” said Omar. “Strange senses and experiences, learning a few odd tricks, and then seeking out understanding. It’s usually more gradual and much less dramatic than you describe. For whatever norms we find within magic, your story falls outside of them.”

“He’s not making it up. I’ve seen it,” said Sunday.

“I believe you. Both of you. Evan’s aura holds magic. That said, many of your experiences were frightening, violent, and traumatic. Your mind might misinterpret a more common magical effect than you describe. It would help if I could see for myself.”

“Sure,” said Evan. “We’re not gonna hurt ourselves just to heal something, though. Don’t want to do any flashy lights out here, either, and I’m not sure how my cleaning trick would work outdoors.”

“Throw your little sparklies,” said Sunday.

“Oh god, don’t call them that,” Evan winced. “That’s worse than what I had in my head.”

“Whatever. They don’t make noise. Nobody’s here.” Sunday gestured to the trees. Omar nodded.

Watch this not work now that I’ve got an audience, Evan grumbled mentally, but he had pulled it off under far worse pressure. Omar assured privacy, and apparently wasn’t worried about security cameras, but Evan still looked over his shoulder first.

Breathing deep, Evan’s fingers curled at his side around an imaginary handful of rocks. He felt mass and heat. They didn’t hurt, but he knew they could. Evan’s wrist snapped up and his hand opened to fling his sparkling white stones into the hillside.

Dirt and dust exploded from each impact. The ground split in spiderweb cracks several inches long, but for the one spot where Evan hit a rock hidden in the soil. The rock burst upward and bounced away, trailed by a cloud of dirt. The effect made no sound but for points of contact and Evan’s breath.

“Well then,” said Omar.

“It really is like bullets,” said Sunday. “I mean, I knew, but I hadn’t actually watched.”

“It’s not always,” Evan corrected. “Sometimes it’s more like throwing rocks. Most of the time, really. I’m not sure if it’s a matter of focus or fear or what.”

“Does this tax you? Do you feel effort, or drain?” asked Omar.

“Not just now, no. I’ve gotten worn down a couple times, like hitting a wall while exercising, but I’ve only used it while running and fighting. Everything’s easier at night, too. Stronger.”

“Then I suggest you find time to practice. Assume the worst until you’re sure you have this under control. Treat it like a gun. Sunday could give more guidance on that than I.”

She gasped in thought, eyes lighting up. “Hey, do you need to throw ’em like rocks?”

“What do you mean?” asked Evan.

“Can you do finger-guns?” She pointed with her index finger out and thumb upright.

“Sunday,” Omar grumbled.

“Oh god.” Evan rolled his eyes. “Should I say, ‘Pew pew pew,’ too?”

“What? No,” said Sunday. “Sound effects are stupid. Silence is an advantage. I’m sayin’, though, finger-guns are accurate as hell. You ever see a little kid miss a shot with their finger-guns? I haven’t, and I’ve been around.”

Evan couldn’t argue that point, but he wanted to.

“What about your healing magic?” asked Omar.

“That’s more draining, but it also brings relief, so…” Evan shrugged. “I definitely had broken bones in that basement. I got shot on the way out, with blood and everything. And Sunday bit deep into my wrist with her… um.” Evan shut up when Omar turned toward Sunday in surprise, and Sunday away from both of them. Evan pushed through his gaffe. “Anyway, they were all real injuries. They mended with a couple seconds of effort. The tears in my clothes didn’t go anywhere, but I healed like it never happened.”

Reluctantly, Omar stayed on topic. “And Mitu revealed all these abilities to you?”

“Some,” said Evan. “The armor and the cleaning trick, and the healing, but… she didn’t hang around long. Some stuff I figured out on the fly. And some things are constant, like the night vision.”

“I see.” Omar pondered and then frowned. “I don’t believe I can help you.”

“What?” Sunday blinked. “Omar, you’ve got centuries of magic under your belt. This is serious. We’re in trouble here.”

“Don’t misunderstand. It’s not a matter of interest.” Omar folded his fingers together and considered his words, turning to Evan. “Some things you describe, like minor telekinesis or enhanced senses, are common feats learned early across many Practices. Yet they are feats, requiring long training and effort. Some never learn greater magic. What you describe, and what you have shown?” Omar gestured to the little craters left by Evan’s attack on the dirt. “Some of this only comes with true mastery of a Practice.

“Sorcery as practiced by mortals draws upon the magical energy of a given area. The more Practitioners in a city, the less there is to go around. If one joins a circle of other Practitioners, the entire group gains a greater and more efficient share. There are also obvious social benefits such as mentorship. You perform magic requiring years of study and considerable power. You acquired such ability overnight and exercise it on your own, seemingly independent from magical tools and the limits of this crowded city, independent of any Practice I could name.”

Omar spoke of it like an academic curiosity. Evan felt his gut clench up. “Is that gonna get me in bigger trouble?”

“You might exercise humility with your peers,” Omar chuckled. “I cannot coach you in sorcery because I do not understand how you wield it. This is not hermetic technique, not witchcraft, not ancestral invocation. I could not tell you what you are capable of doing, let alone how to do it. Trial and error will likely be your best teacher.”

“I… maybe I see your point.” Evan’s shoulders dropped. Given what little Mitu revealed of herself, Omar’s explanation made sense.

“Fuck.” Sunday looked away.

“This isn’t just about power,” said Evan. “I don’t know anything about magic in general. I know magic is weaker in front of normal people. Mitu told me a little about other supernatural types. She warned me that magic pulls back on itself and that I’d be more likely to run into other spookies. That’s about all. Anything else you can tell me is probably a jump in my knowledge. How it works, what to expect, what to avoid… anything.”

Omar listened. His eyes fell to Sunday, too, but didn’t linger.

“Magic is reclusive,” he began. “No one has ever proven an intelligence at work. We take it for a natural, if supernatural phenomenon. Regardless, that reclusive pattern is consistent. Magic shows itself to few, and usually works best in ways that can be denied or explained away. There are few laws or customs against revealing the truth to mortals, because the effort itself hardly ever works. In front of the unaware, magic resists. It hides. That’s the first thing you should know.

“What else? Hm. As a basic rule, magic is about the Practitioner, not the tool. Only the laziest sorcerer is truly dependent on wands and candles and such. Magic prefers stealth; even amateur wards can defeat a master’s senses if set properly. Salt and iron can interfere with magic. There are other negative substances, but those two are commonly known.

“Predicting the future is largely a fool’s errand; you’d get more out of a modern weather forecast. And I wouldn’t put much faith in astrology,” he added with a quick smile. “As far as I know, teleportation is beyond the reach of mortal sorcerers. Demons and some of my people have our ways, but that is all. Time is nearly immutable, and the exceptions are hardly worth the effort. And I know of no magic of any sort capable of resurrection… save one.”

Sunday turned back to him with rolling eyes. “We don’t know if that’s what happens with me.”

“True,” said Omar. “It brings us to something else we should discuss.”

“We don’t need to talk about me.”

“Sunday, you were possessed by a demon. You lost years.”

“You think I need a reminder?”

“I think you may be ignoring the ramifications of what happened in that time.”

“No, I told you. I was still here.” Sunday pointed to her own head. “I felt like I was in charge. I didn’t lose time. I remember everything; I just didn’t care.”

Evan grimaced. Amid his own story, Sunday had told Omar all the same things she’d told him—and nothing more. He didn’t know whether this was about her experience with Nahash or her relationship with Omar. The latter sure seemed like a constant undercurrent.

“Darl—” Omar began and then stopped at Sunday’s glare. He nodded in apology. “The demon surely had an agenda.”

“Yeah. He did. He wanted a chill and comfortable demon life on Earth. He wanted streaming TV and booze and the occasional fucked-up thrills for money. I was lazy, okay? The rumors about me came out of the highlight reel. Most of the time, I was slumming it. I didn’t even date, for fuck’s sake. That whole drive went straight in the toilet. I bummed around until I needed money, and then I’d do some shitty job for Anatole or some other asshole for cash and go right back to doing nothing.”

“Jobs. Violence?” asked Omar.

“What the fuck else would we be talking about?”

“Against whom? You are not to blame, Sunday,” he noted. “We’ve established this. I must know.”

“Fuckin’…” She threw up her hands. “Spencer Wood. He’s a Practitioner. Hermetic. Kind of an asshole. Pals around with Uthman. I took out a couple normal people who probably didn’t deserve it ’cause they were in someone’s way, but mostly it was rival crooks. Solomon paid me to take out a couple vampires a while before Cornelius died ’cause he wanted a cut-out. I hijacked a drug boat, played bodyguard a couple times. Anatole had me work with New Money on a couple gigs looking for spooky shit.”

“What do you know about Haisam?”

Sunday turned back to Omar. “What about Haisam?”

He stared, then remembered Evan. “Something of an elder to my people. Everyone’s uncle, so to speak. He was recently killed in his home, mauled by some beast.”

“Fuck.” Sunday’s mouth hung open. She looked away, processing. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Mauled? A werewolf?”

“A werewolf could do it and we’ve always been hostile, but we’ve found no inciting incident. And it would have been a clever wolf to evade his defenses—or, more likely, one with help. We found traces of magic, but no sign of forced entry.

“Most factions among the nightlife have seen some attack or provocation since Cornelius died,” Omar went on. “You are the longest-standing resident of this city, and you were possessed. Demons are all ambition and greed. He must have had some purpose.”

“It didn’t show,” said Sunday. “He wanted a body to shack up in. Anatole knew I’d been around and wasn’t aging, so that made me a good candidate. Didn’t seem to know why, and I didn’t share it after Nahash took over.”

“Did they have a written contract?”

“Fuck if I know. Do they usually?”

“I cannot say for sure. It is what I’ve heard.”

“Angels,” said Evan. They looked at him as if he’d been forgotten. “Maybe he was hiding from the angels.”

“What?” Sunday frowned. “That’s a thing?”

“Yes,” said Omar.

“Mitu said so,” answered Evan. “She was hiding from them. Maybe Nahash was hiding, too, only in a body instead of an object. Same goal, anyway.”

“But Mitu was not a demon… was she?” Omar studied Evan as if reconsidering.

“She said she wasn’t. Warned me against them.”

“Hrm. You bear no infernal mark, unlike Sunday. And if such was the source of your magic, it would be more pronounced.”

“Can we dial back to angels being real?” Sunday prodded. “Since when?”

“We didn’t get into a word-for-word about what Mitu told me. I still don’t know how literal it all was. I’m sorry,” said Evan.

“Yeah, you aren’t the one I dated for years,” she said.

“In six centuries, I have never met nor seen an angel, nor any angelic artifact or effect that I could identify as such,” Omar sighed. “My people have spoken of them as if they are real, and they do not bring it up often. I know what I have heard and read. It never seemed reliable.”

“Uh-huh,” said Sunday.

“And this changes the subject,” said Omar.

“I don’t think it does,” she pushed back. “I know what I experienced. Nahash smothered my conscience, not my consciousness. He mostly played backseat driver. I did fucked-up shit, but every bit of it had a short-term goal like money or petty vendettas. We’re only talking about one half of the deal. Maybe the important part is whatever he gave Anatole. You keep avoiding that subject.”

“I do not,” Omar replied.

“You do. I know you’re avoiding Anatole, because you asked Evan about the basement and then took the first off-ramp from the subject when you had your answer. And I know that tone. I know you, Omar. Anatole’s trying to kill us. That should be the first thing on your mind, but it’s the thing you don’t want to talk about. Why?”

Omar crossed his arms again, looking away. Evan waited. Sunday’s argument made sense, but Evan hadn’t noticed the details until she pointed them out.

“What do you want me to tell you?” asked Omar.

“I dunno. What’s his deal? What do you know?”

“Likely what you already know yourself,” Omar grumbled. “Anatole arrived in Los Angeles shortly after World War II. Everything we have established was clear then—art and artifacts, some magic. He seemed like a dabbler rather than a Practitioner. That happens. We—the djinn and the Practitioners I knew—took him for one more European hoping to start over. We knew he wasn’t benevolent, but we live with that in the shadows.

“Over time, Anatole built up connections across the city. A few Circles trade with him in favors, resources, and access to sites of importance. I’ve heard he mediated some feud between werewolf packs out in the Inland Empire. Now Cornelius is dead and rumor has it Anatole is involved in the power struggle that has followed. I don’t lurk in the darker sides of the community. I know only what I have heard.”

“They said something about guests and a meeting at that party,” said Evan. “I figured it was rich people stuff, or maybe crime. It was why they didn’t kill me right away. Maybe it was spooky stuff?”

“Entirely possible. Did you hear names?” Omar tilted his head when Evan shook his head. “Then neither of us knows for sure. If Anatole has an agenda, I do not know it. Power for its own sake is more than enough agenda for many. When you have enough, you can do whatever you want, and kill whoever crosses you,” he said with a gesture to Evan.

“Isn’t that a problem for anybody else?” asked Evan.

“’Anybody else’ would include werewolves, monsters, and the occasional demon, and the vampires outnumber everyone. Mortal law and custom does not recognize magic. To live in the shadows is inherently a life outside the law. Most supernatural factions have their own rules and expectations, but none can impose them upon the other factions. Neither the strength nor the organization for such an effort exist—nor the interest.

“Vampires believe mortals are prey with no rights they are bound to respect. Werewolves and other predatory types feel the same. Sadly, some of my kind are not so different. Eventually, some sorcerers take on a similar attitude. To Anatole, you were either a supernatural threat, which meant killing you was in his best interest, or you were mortal and killing you was convenient and inconsequential.”

“So as long as he doesn’t hurt your gang, he can hurt whoever else he wants,” Evan fumed.

“We are not simple gangs, Evan. I’m not saying I like this or approve. It is the calculation everyone makes in this life.”

Evan barely heard him. A different voice occupied his memories. “He didn’t like it either.”

“Who?” asked Sunday.

“Anatole. He said he used to be mortal. Subordinate to some spooky type. Then he climbed up the ladder.” His eyes lifted, staring at Omar. “He got his, so he pulled up the ladder. And now he dumps shit over the side on everyone else below.”

“Feel like I’ve heard that story somewhere before,” Sunday grumbled.

“Such things are sadly common.” Omar took a breath. “You have hurt Anatole and shown strength. You may yet come to some peaceful détente if he⁠—”

“Are you serious?” Sunday cut him off.

“Your alternative is continued attacks upon yourselves and anyone you care about. We have established the imbalance of power you face. I’m not saying you give him whatever he wants, but he will surely settle for less than his opening demands. The man understands negotiation.”

“This guy body-snatched Sunday for a deal with a fucking demon,” said Evan. “I already tried actual goddamn surrender back in that basement. Anatole wanted to kill me anyway. What kind of peace deal could we ever trust after that?”

“He thought you were an ordinary mortal,” Omar pointed out.

“How the fuck is that any better?” Evan pushed back.

“You are stronger now,” Omar said patiently. “This is what I’ve been saying.”

“So now I’ve got mine and he keeps stepping on everyone else below?”

Frowning, Omar looked to Sunday for help, but found crossed arms and a stony face. “He heard you,” she said. “He understood. We both did.”

“I see.” Omar sighed. “My other suggestion would be a long international vacation, but you would still be looking over your shoulders.”

Evan seethed. Sunday, by contrast, had gone calm and cold: “What’s he got on you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What’s he got?” she repeated. “You’re better than this. You’d offer to help somehow if you could. Six centuries, like you said. You’ve seen some shit. You’ve got a Circle of sorcerer buddies and I know how connected your family is. Don’t tell me Anatole scares you.”

“He does not.”

“Okay, so? You know this guy is bad. Why the Neville Chamberlain bullshit?”

“Neville—that is a low blow,” Omar fumed. “My Circle has survived feuds, but we are not fighters by nature. Nor am I, compared to others of my kind. We have no business with Anatole or his allies. We avoid them.” Stewing, Omar turned away, but back again. “Suffice to say, yes, there are reasons my family and others would think twice before tangling with Anatole.”

“You or your people,” Sunday echoed. “And that’s not me anymore.”

Omar winced. “Sunday…”

“Nah, that part’s fine. We split. Not the point. I still thought you were better than this.” She stormed away toward the parking lot.

That left both men biting back curses for different reasons. One turned to follow her, but stopped at the sound of his name: “Evan, a moment. Please.”

He waited.

“I am sorry. I would help you more if I could. I cannot get involved.” Omar raised a hand to stall a rejection. “Regardless, you are a new student to magic seeking knowledge. I would be a poor librarian if I did not at least share a book or two.”

She waited in the front seat of the Camry, sunglasses in place over a deep scowl. Evan feared some of that scowl was for him. He steeled himself as he got back into the driver’s seat.

“Did he give you a book?” Sunday asked without looking at him.

“A couple, yeah,” Evan answered.

“Figured he would.”

“I learned a long time ago to take every hand-out I’m given, from whoever,” he ventured.

“Yeah. S’fine. I don’t blame you.” That answered that, at least. She nodded at him. “Where are they? Can I see?”

Evan put his phone on the dashboard. The Initiate’s Arcana showed a 63% download; Modern Ascension was at 29%. “He said the wi-fi extends out here. Gonna be a couple more minutes.”

“You can download magic books now?” asked Sunday.

“Apparently the really good stuff is still only in physical print, but he said these are good starters. It’s general lore, not actual instructions for working magic. He gave me a list of other books and where to look, but I guess a lot of it is expensive.”

“Huh. Probably.” She folded her arms and looked outside the car again.

Bracing himself, Evan asked, “Do you want to⁠—”

“Talk about him? No.”

“Okay.” Evan nodded. She shot him a look. He reiterated patiently, “Okay.”

“Are you asking ’cause it’s what you’re supposed to ask?”

“I’m asking because you seem hurt and angry. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s cool. If you change your mind, that’s cool, too. It’s not my business unless you say so.”

That look she gave him deepened into suspicion. Evan wondered if he had only misjudged which of his feet he’d just stuck in his mouth. “What’re you gonna do about it if I tell you?”

“Listen, for starters. The rest depends on what you tell me.”

“You ever dated anyone? I figure your situation made it tough. Not judging, just asking.” Anger undercut her reassurance.

“Dated, sure. Have I had a legit girlfriend? No. Have I had feelings and situations? Yeah.”

“Okay. One question,” she decided.

“Ah—what?” Evan blinked.

“I’ll try talking. One question.” Her jaw set like she might punch him, but something told Evan he was safe. Maybe it wasn’t about him.

“Okay…” He ran through the dozens of things he could ask about a relationship between someone like Sunday and a djinn, or how long they’d been together, or how close. The thing he’d been left with through the encounter came first: “Who broke up with who?”

Her jaw and lip twitched, leaving him sure he really was about to get punched. “He broke up with me, because I wasn’t good enough for his family. That’s it. Wasn’t my problem, it was theirs, and he chose them. We dated for years. I kept thinkin’ it was serious and wondering when the next step was coming. That next step took me right off the train.”

“Fuck. That’s shitty. I’m sorry,” said Evan.

“It is shitty, and you know what? I’m not sorry. That’s the thing. If that’s how it is, I don’t want to be with him. We should be done. Only now I’m in this fuckin’ car with our fuckin’ problem, and he’s leaving us both to—no. Nope. I was right. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Evan accepted.

“I want to fuckin’ hit someone. I’m so fuckin’ mad. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you? It doesn’t show.”

“Sunday, I’m pissed.” Evan’s voice stayed soft, but he didn’t hide his emotion. “I’m always pissed. I don’t get to show it because I’ve always had to worry about survival first.” He pointed to the library. “That was the same bullshit I’ve gotten from everyone since I was out on the street. That’s what kept me on the street. I shut up and take what I can get,” he said, nodding to the phone, “but I’m fucking furious.”

The answer seemed to satisfy her—at least enough to move on. She sat forward, folding her arms, fuming. “I wanna do something. Fuck Omar. I’m over him. It’s not about him. I’m mad about Anatole and everyone being afraid of him. That part’s true. They’re either afraid of him, or afraid of the blowback from his buddies. We’re already up that creek, though, so fuck it. We need to hit him soon. While he’s not ready.”

“You think he’s not on guard now? With everything that’s happened?”

“I think he’s trying, but he took hits. He lost a bunch of guys yesterday. We hurt him. He’ll come back from that, but muscle doesn’t grow on trees, especially spooky muscle. He’s also gotta be covering up what happened, and that’s not free.” She shook her head. “Everybody’s afraid of Bad, Bad Leroy Brown until they see someone kick his ass. His friends might leave him hanging if they see weakness, too.”

“Makes sense.” Evan made a mental note to Google that reference later.

“But he’s rich and connected, and he didn’t get this strong on networking and wealth alone. I tried shooting him when he caught me. Tried stabbing. Punched him. None of it worked. He’s got actual magic and muscle. We can’t just rush him. We need to find a weakness.”

Evan opened his mouth to agree about that magic and muscle from personal experience—and then stopped. He pulled the phone off the dashboard. “How strong is he without all the riches?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because that’s a part of his power we can take. And I can name at least one weakness.” Evan tapped that name into the search bar and came up with immediate hits. Fame had its drawbacks. “He showed up for team practice this morning.”

Sunday’s eyes lit up with opportunity, and then fixed him with a grave look. “Evan, are you ready to go hard on this? It’s gonna get ugly. Maybe real ugly.”

“I…” He hesitated, but only to find words. The first he thought of felt cliché, but nothing better came to his mouth. “I’ve got lines I won’t cross.”

“Good. So do I,” she said to his relief, and then nodded to the steering wheel. “We’ll talk on the way. Let’s go.”

11

GRAVITY

“Of course, I’m focused on the team. Everything else is side-hustle and PR. I always put the team first.” Christian stood before the desk with his shoulders squared and head high. He had no reason to apologize and nothing to defend—as far as the coaches knew.

The last thing he needed was suspicion. More suspicion, anyway.

“I dunno, Christian. You’ve got a lot going on.” Hal Olaffson sat behind his desk, but the head coach naturally had his top assistants looming at either side. The trio was big on serious tones and skeptical looks. “I’ve seen this with players before. Your name gets big, the money gets big, and then the problems start.”

“You see me out on the ice.” Christian pointed to the hallway and the practice ice beyond; he’d been there only twenty minutes ago. He was already dressed to leave in shorts, a team t-shirt that hung loose on his big frame, and a ballcap for ducking cameras on the way out of the training complex. He’d be gone by now if they hadn’t pulled him from the locker room. “You know I’m at the gym. I show up, I do my job, I produce. What haven’t I done?”

“This team is more than games and practice,” said one coach. “You could be more careful about what you say on your podcast. We’re a little tired of answering for you.”

“We need you for media and fan events. The youth team could use a little attention, too,” said the other coach. Christian felt like they were almost interchangeable at times like this.

“Hey, we already negotiated the podcast and my availability,” Christian pushed back. “I know my contract. I pull my weight. Everything else is my time.”

“Christian,” Hal began.

“Do I need my agent for this? Or my lawyer?” Christian fumed.

“No,” said Hal—a little too firmly, though he didn’t shout. The twitch of his jaw suggested they had come to the real issue. “Christian, at this level of sport, it’s never only the sport. Your off-time matters, too, and the company you keep. Everyone needs an agent and lawyers can be necessary,” he conceded with open hands. “It’s always more than that.

“I stopped by your party the other night, remember? I didn’t stay long. The whole time I was there, the people I talked to… not all of it sat right. Like a voice in my ear warning me that I shouldn’t be there.”

“Did you see any trouble? Anything illegal?” Christian kept his voice steady despite the nerves the subject raised. “Anything I should know about?”

“No,” Hal admitted. “But I have a sense of these things. You have wealth and success, Christian. Other people are always looking to take advantage of that.”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that warning ever since I got my first draft prospect. I’m a big boy, coach. I can take care of myself. Do you need me to do something per my contract?”

Three sighs came back from the other side of the desk. Only Hal spoke: “No. You can go. But think about what I said. We’re trying to look out for you.”

“Sure. Thanks.” No one mistook his answer for sincerity. Christian stalked out of the office, careful not to slam the door or give any other excuse to prolong the hassle.

The meeting hadn’t run long, but with the end of practice, things had already wound down on the “team” side of the complex. One rink had opened for skating and another filled with a local kids’ team. Most of the team and the staff would already be gone.

That was probably for the best. It meant fewer people to ask about the company he kept—specifically the thick-shouldered man in a dark blazer, slacks, and black-rimmed glasses waiting in the private access lounge. “We can go,” Christian grumbled.

“Something hold you up?” Donny asked, walking with him.

“Had to talk to the coach. It was only a few minutes.”

“You text or call.” Donny kept his voice low despite the lack of witnesses in the hallway and the staircase to the garage. “Any delays, anything off schedule, you let me know.”

“It’s the job. Shit happens,” said Christian.

“Normally, yeah. Now ain’t normal. Don’t fuck around.”

“Fine. We still want to look normal, right? You want to maybe look less like a bodyguard? I’m not that kind of famous.”

“Sure. I can tell them I’m your babysitter. Nothing wrong with the truth.”

Christian bit back his response. He wasn’t the first pro athlete to move with an entourage, but it didn’t fit his status or his experience. Someone would inevitably give him shit about being in the wrong league for that lifestyle. Still, he wasn’t about to argue with Anatole’s instructions so soon after the shitshow at his house. He was in hot enough water already… and, he supposed, the danger might be real. As much as he hated to admit it, being an enforcer on the ice wasn’t the same thing as Donny’s kind of enforcement.

Two people were always harder to jump than one.

They didn’t speak as they crossed the underground garage. It was mostly empty and never open to the public, even after team events and working hours. Christian didn’t have much to worry about here besides Donny’s condescension. His big black Escalade remained undisturbed right where he’d left it.

Christian had backed into his parking spot. Donny rounded the hood to wait at the passenger door, leaning over to look through the next window with a frown. “Shouldn’t have your windows tinted this dark,” he complained.

“I see fine.” Christian’s phone triggered the locks and alarm by simple proximity. He tugged the door open and got inside.

“It ain’t about seeing. Tint like this gets you pulled over.” Donny settled into the passenger seat.

“This shade of tint is legal.”

“So? Cops just gotta say they didn’t know better. You’re still giving them an excuse.”

Christian hit the ignition to silence the argument, only to spark another when Drake came on the speakers. “Jesus fuck,” Donny complained, jabbing the controls. “Thought we turned that garbage off. Or at least put on real music.”

“What the hell is—man, never mind.” Christian pulled out of the garage and into the sunlight. Traffic around the iceplex was light, allowing a smooth exit and turn toward the freeway. They hit the first stoplight at the next block.

“Real music is rock ‘n’ roll, not whatever that was,” Donny grumbled, looking out his window. “Everything today is either computer-produced crap or whiny⁠—”

Light flashed between them with the sudden snap of Donny’s head. The big man slumped as far forward as his seatbelt allowed.

Evan sat up behind the driver’s seat. “Do not fucking move.”

“Motherfucker,” Christian blurted, more angry than scared. Thankfully, Sunday’s prediction was right on the money: Christian needed at least a second to process this.

Evan felt like his heart would beat straight through his chest, or that his voice might creep too high to be taken seriously. This was all supposed to be Sunday’s job, at least as they planned it on the way from Glendale. Then they arrived, saw the iceplex, and realized which of them had the better skill set for slipping in undetected and doing this with the lowest profile.

Christian’s long-body Escalade offered enough room to curl up in the foot space behind the driver’s seat, but staying out of view meant having no view of his own. Evan had more than an hour to sit with his worries. His fear spiked when Donny came to the window and looked right at him with faintly shimmering glasses—and, while Evan held his breath and his magic, apparently saw nothing. Evan’s breath ran ragged; that one moment had exhausted him.

Those glasses were now in Donny’s lap, still with a faint shine along the rims and hooks that didn’t come from reflected light. He couldn’t worry about that now, or anything else. He had to power though and stick to the script Sunday had given him, along with the rest of the plan.

“Hands on the wheel. Drive like normal.” Evan did his best to speak steadily and forcefully. He didn’t think he succeeded, but Donny’s posture made for an excellent warning. “Try anything and it’s your ass. You’re alone and I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Fuck,” Christian hissed. “Who the hell are you?”

“Go one more block and stay on the right. Pull into the grocery store. Don’t fuck around.”

“Or what? You kill me while I’m driving?”

“Are you asking me if the most predictable dumb move will work out for you?” Evan’s heart pounded. Fortunately, Christian didn’t have an immediate comeback. The one-liner Sunday gave him for the first sign of resistance seemed to work. The light turned green. “Drive.”

Christian complied.

“What did you do to Donny?”

“He’ll live.” Probably, Evan added with silent hope. He hadn’t fully gauged the power behind his throwing stars, but he didn’t want lethal force. Reaching through the Escalade’s window to open the door with magic had worked as intended, at least. Killing seemed unlikely without real intent or panic, and he focused on pulling his punch for whatever good that did. Donny’s head showed neither blood nor a new indentation.

Evan hated running on hope and conjecture. He also hated that he didn’t dare risk checking the man’s pulse, because that meant putting his arm within Christian’s reach. Donny had been among Evan’s would-be murderers, but Evan still wasn’t ready to kill in cold blood. Not yet. He wondered if that might change before long.

“Grocery store,” Evan reminded at the next block. “Pull in slow. Go left into the parking lot.”

“How did you get past security?” asked Christian.

“That place is set up for dumb fan stunts and crazy stalkers, not someone who knows what they’re doing. Pull in over there beside the Camry.” Evan’s pulse raced as Christian complied, bringing the Escalade to a stop in front of a lamp post. The far end of the parking lot gave room to move, but also kept them farther from cameras. “Put it in park. Set the emergency brake. Turn it off.”

Sunday came out of the Camry as the Escalade stopped. She reached for the passenger door, only to scowl at Donny still suspended mid-slump by his seatbelt. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” said Evan. Neither of them had expected Christian to have a minder. In hindsight, they were lucky he brought only one. “Check his pulse? And grab his glasses.”

She put her fingers against Donny’s neck, but spent only a few seconds on it before snatching up the glasses. “He’s alive.” Then she shut the door and entered through the one behind it, putting her beside Evan in the back seats. He thought her arrival would bring relief, but her grim and scary demeanor threw that out the window. The pistol in her hand spoke for itself; she didn’t need to point it as long as their captive saw it. “Alright, Christian. You got anyone else with you? Second car following you, anything like that?”

“No,” he answered.

“We’re going around the block toward the houses. You’re not our real problem, so don’t be a dumbass and you’ll live through this. Got it?”

“What happens around the block?” asked Christian.

“We get sorted out to go someplace safer. Give me your phone.” Sunday spoke with a tone of steel that left Evan with both envy and trepidation. She sounded like she’d done this sort of thing before. Christian fished the phone from his pocket and handed it over without resistance. “This ride got a panic button? Trackers?”

“No,” said Christian.

“Nothing I can’t disable,” Evan corrected.

“Uh-huh,” said Sunday. “Christian, do we need to talk about truth and consequences?”

He winced. “No.”

“Were you lying about being alone?”

“No. It’s just me and Don—him,” he corrected. “Nobody else. I’m usually alone.”

“Is anyone expecting you? Where were you planning to go next?”

“Home. Just home. If I don’t show up, they’ll notice.”

“That’s fine. We’re going around the block instead. Drive.”

Everything went according to plan, including all the parts Sunday said she’d handle without saying how. The trip around the block took them away from cameras and witnesses into an alley behind houses, where she got out to quickly pat down Christian and Donny for weapons, phones, and other bits of interest. She bound Christian’s wrists and feet in duct tape and set him in the back seat of the truck—and Donny, once they checked on him again.

Mercy or perhaps guilt got the better of Evan in the process. He touched Donny’s head and summoned up the healing magic he’d used so many times in just two days… but not too much. He didn’t want the guy to die of a blood clot in the brain or some concussion complication. He also didn’t want Donny waking up before they were ready to deal with him.

Once the prisoners were bound and relocated to the back seats, Sunday unlocked the phones of both men using facial recognition. She found a trail of check-in messages with another of Anatole’s guys, to which she added a short, “Going shopping” while Evan checked again for trackers on the Escalade. They finished in mere minutes.

The next phase passed in a blur: Evan drove, Sunday watched Christian in the back seats, and Donny snored. Traffic cooperated. They were at their destination before he knew it: the open-air top floor corner of a parking garage, matching low traffic with good visibility.

“Turn on the stereo and step out with me for a second,” Sunday told Evan. She warned Christian on the way out: “You’re surrounded by windows. Don’t be dumb.”

“Whatever,” Christian fumed.

She only took Evan as far as the back of the Escalade. The spot kept them behind Christian’s line of sight while the stereo made them harder to hear. “We’re doing okay,” Sunday assured him quietly. “Better than okay. No fights, no fiasco, right according to plan.”

“We didn’t expect a bodyguard,” said Evan. “This guy looked right at me. I pulled more shadows together with magic and the windows are tinted, but still. I thought I was dead.”

“You’re not. You’ve got this. You did this, and now here we are. You good?”

“The shadow stuff was more of a strain this time. I can’t tell if it’s from the daylight or stress. I’m okay until I think about all the crimes.”

“They’ve got you for worse than this if they wanna take that route. If that wasn’t enough, cops would make shit up anyways.”

“It’s not the law, it’s… right and wrong.” Evan shook his head. “I don’t like hurting people.”

“I know. It’s one of the things I like best about you, and why we’re working together.” Sunday said it as a matter of fact; if she intended it as a compliment, it didn’t show. “Think about what they were gonna do to you. These are bad dudes. That doesn’t change when you have the upper hand.

“We’re not gonna beat any answers out of them,” she assured him. “We’re not that fucked up, and that shit doesn’t work, anyway. I’m not an expert interrogator, but I know a few things. We don’t run any bluffs, because we don’t want them to call. Let me do the talking. Don’t say anything unless I ask, or unless you catch them in a lie.

“This may take time. We don’t know how hard-assed these guys are. For all we know, Anatole might have some magic bullshit on them that keeps them from talking. We’ve gotta be patient and stay cool. You good?”

“I’m ready,” he said.

“Driver’s seat,” she told him, and mirrored his return on the other side of the Escalade.

“Look, I’ll tell you whatever you want, just get rid of him,” Christian said before either of them spoke. The tilt of his head indicated Donny.

Sunday’s call for patience and solidarity still rang in Evan’s ears, but she barely blinked at Christian before she shrugged. “A’ight. Let’s sit him down outside. He ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

They went through the shuffle of doors and bodies once more, this time dragging Donny between them. He stirred faintly as they set him on the pavement between the Escalade and the chest-high concrete barrier behind it, but he nodded off as soon as he was settled.

“You sure about this?” asked Evan.

“Yeah.” Sunday allowed a guilty wince. “Kinda helps us, too. You’re supposed to separate people before questioning them. Forgot that part. My bad.”

They returned to the front seats and their captive.

“Are you gonna kill him?” asked Christian.

“Not if we can avoid it,” said Sunday.

“You don’t seem like you want him.”

“Yeah, but killin’ him if we don’t have to is kinda fucked up. Same for you.”

“So you’re not gonna kill me,” said Christian.

“Oh, it would make some things easier,” Sunday warned. “I see an upside either way. Killin’ anyone isn’t our first choice, but we’ve done it. You know that, right, Christian?”

Reluctantly, Christian gave a slight nod to Evan. “I know he has. I don’t know you.”

“I’m the mean one,” said Sunday.

“Yeah, I gathered.”

“Good. My friend here thought he broke your face the other night. Must have hit you good and hard, either way, ’cause you dropped. I don’t see bruises. What happened there?”

Christian’s lip curled, but he didn’t flinch from Sunday or Evan’s watchful eyes. “He got me with that little statue. I don’t know how bad it was. The boss took care of it.”

“Who’s your boss? Yes, I’m asking,” she said at his sour expression.

“Anatole.”

“How’d he take care of it?”

“Magic.” Christian threw a new glare to Evan. “Like him. What about you?”

“Nope. We’re talkin’ about you. What’s your deal with Anatole? What do you do for him, and what’s he do for you?”

Whether he wrestled with his answer or searched for a lie, Evan couldn’t tell, but Christian spoke. “Three seasons ago, I took a bad hit to the knee. Cheap shot, couldn’t see it coming. It was only my second season. Docs said I’d be out a year or more, assuming I could come back at all. Then my agent got a call from a private doctor. Anatole fixed my knee with magic—something with a black gel and a candle and some weird words. He took care of all the records and the team doctor’s questions, too. I was back on the ice two weeks later. I owed him after that, but it wasn’t just the one time. Hockey’s a rough gig. He keeps me healthy, no matter what hits I take.”

“Pff. Wow,” Evan muttered.

“What?” pressed Christian. “Like you wouldn’t take that kind of deal? Do you know how many pro athletes get wrecked and never come back from it?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some idea,” said Evan. “I also know about your stupid podcast. You shovel garbage about powering through on less sleep and working harder and how that makes you a real man. Then you sell protein and vitamin supplements. It’s all bullshit. You’ve got a magical sugar daddy.”

“I don’t have to justify it to you. Who are you, anyway?” Christian sneered. “And why are you all over my ass?”

“Christian, you aren’t asking the questions here. I am,” said Sunday.

Evan took the hint as well. He glanced away, partly to watch their surroundings and partly to defer to Sunday. She was the only one in the SUV who knew what she was doing.

“So you were already playing pro. He didn’t get you there, but he kept you there. Is that right?” she asked. “Did you know about magic before then?”

“No. Nothing. I still don’t know much. I’ve seen a few of his tricks and I know he works with some creepy fucks… I know he works with vampires,” he added, unsure if he’d be believed. Seeing no objection, he continued. “But he doesn’t explain any of it. He tells me not to worry. Says it’s not among my gifts.”

Sunday and Evan both narrowed their eyes at his phrasing, but she stayed on track. “What else does he do for you besides sports medicine?”

“He makes problems go away. Team chores, some legal stuff, couple fan hassles.” Christian winced at Sunday’s gesture for elaboration. “Look, I had a groupie and then an ex-girlfriend make up some shit to sue me or get me in legal trouble. Happens with athletes and celebrities. It’s all a scam. Anatole dealt with it.”

“And what do you do for him?”

“I’m a front for his money, mostly. Anatole doesn’t exist on paper. A lot of his stuff is in my name. I move money for him. Nobody gets suspicious when a star athlete burns through cash fast. The podcast helps with it, too. We make each other richer.”

“It’s more than money,” said Evan. “What else?”

“It’s…” Christian hesitated with another resentful look. “I’ve done some grunt work. Been in the room when he wants bodies and muscle. I’ve… held people down for him.”

Sunday tensed. “For what?”

“Intimidation, punishments, a couple broken bones to make a point,” Christian blurted. “All the shit you see in mob movies.”

“Anything magical? Any ritual stuff?” Sunday pressed.

“No! No, like I said, they don’t involve me. He’s got a couple other guys who know, but I’m not there. I don’t ask too many questions.”

“But you know that’s going on,” she said.

“Between what he does for me and what I overhear, yeah. I know it’s magic and it works.” Christian’s eyes fell. He surely wasn’t telling everything. Evan thought he saw shame, or perhaps the fear of revealing something truly unforgivable.

“Okay, what about that guy?” Sunday nodded to the back of the Escalade. “Do you usually have a bodyguard?”

“No. That’s new. He should’ve seen him,” Christian grumbled, indicating Evan.

“With the glasses?” Evan remembered. “He didn’t wear glasses before, at the party.”

“No. They should’ve seen you at the party, too. Anatole did something around the house so his guys would all see special people. See magic. But it would only work inside the house. That’s why they made the glasses. Guess none of it works after all.”

Evan grimaced. For all he knew, the effort did work inside the house; he didn’t have magic when he came in. He also wasn’t about to speculate in front of Christian.

“What’s his deal? Donny, was it?” asked Sunday. “Is he ‘special,’ too?”

“Not like that, no,” said Christian. “That guy’s actual mob, or used to be. Ordinary muscle. He’s good at it, though, and loyal. I guess Anatole kept him out of prison when the rest of his family went down. I know he has smoked people for Anatole. He’d kill me for talking.”

“Why are you talking?” asked Sunday.

“I’m not an idiot. If I don’t talk, I’m dead. If I get out of this alive…” Christian shook his head. “This has all gotten too deep and too dark.” Again, Christian indicated Evan. “He killed people at my house, and then more guys Anatole sent after him. Anatole blames me for this mess. They went through all my accounts and set up alerts for whenever I spend money. I can’t even use the internet without permission now. No deliveries, can’t bring women over. I’m a prisoner in my own fucking home. I don’t know who you are or what all this is about, but it’s damn sure not over my car.”

“Is that place in the hills your home, or his?”

“Mine. I paid for it. I live there and he doesn’t, but he acts like it’s his. That party was my idea, about my podcast and brand deals. Anatole co-opted it for a meeting with his creepy buddies. Said no one would try anything with so many witnesses around. Then you showed up.”

“What happened after he got away?” asked Sunday.

“I was laid out. They didn’t tell me everything that happened. I know they put out a hit. They had to come up with a cover for Frank’s death. He…” Again, Christian hesitated.

Evan stared and waited. So did Sunday.

“He’s a cop,” Christian admitted. “Not the only one Anatole has on payroll, but he was a detective for LAPD. A dead cop is a lot to cover up. Anatole didn’t want that kind of interest coming toward us or the house. They moved Frank’s body to some alley to make it look like he’d been killed while trying to stop you from stealing the Lamborghini off the street. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than getting a whole forensics team in my house. I know LAPD has the body and the cover story, but I don’t know where things stand now. I’m not in the room.”

Evan caught a glance and a nod from Sunday before he spoke. “Who’s ‘they?’ Who else are you talking about besides Anatole?”

“He’s got a couple close assistants. One’s named Jan, a Polish guy, kind of Anatole’s right-hand man. I’ve seen him break legs. Elizabeth follows Anatole around like a personal assistant, but I’m pretty sure she’s a bad ass, too. They were busy with guests during the party and left before shit hit the fan. There’s also a guy named Mr. Solomon. Doesn’t work for Anatole, but he’s either a business partner or a middleman. Pale, only shows up at night, you know?”

“I know about Solomon,” said Sunday. “Keep talking. What about the hit? Who got the call?”

“I don’t know. A bunch of people, sounded like. Anatole said something about making sure they included ‘appropriate talent,’ but he was fine with whatever pressure they could get.”

“Did they seem worried?”

“No. More angry than worried. It was urgent, about something he stole, but I doubt they meant my car. Anatole wanted discretion, too,” Christian added. “He didn’t want people talking. No more than he could avoid, anyway.”

“Okay.” Sunday paused, considered, and nodded to Evan. “Watch him. I’m gonna check on the other asshole.”

“I don’t think he’s gonna talk,” Christian put in before she left. “Kinda hard core.”

“Uh-huh.” Sunday left the driver’s seat.

The SUV’s windows allowed Evan to track her easily while she moved around to the back. He split his attention between her and Christian until the latter spoke: “Who is she?”

It didn’t sound like something Evan should answer. “You don’t want to know.”

“Fuck,” Christian muttered. He looked down to his knees, close together due to the duct tape binding his ankles and calves. “Fuck.”

Behind the Escalade, Sunday bent low over Donny’s spot and out of Evan’s line of sight. Still on edge, Evan’s nerves frayed a little more with her disappearance, and then he heard a manly curse and a sudden thump. Sunday rose and came back inside—dropping a pair of men’s dress shoes beside the driver’s seat. “He woke up and tried cutting loose with the hidden razor in his shoe,” she explained. “Tried to play dead when I checked. Now he’s asleep again.”

Evan swallowed. Christian swallowed harder.

“Okay, what about the basement?” she went on. “What’s the deal with all the stuff in there?”

“They didn’t tell me much. It showed up after some big operation. I wasn’t part of it. Anatole said it was an inheritance, but it sounded sarcastic; more like he stole it, y’know? They worried people would come looking for it, which is why they brought it to my place instead of keeping it at Anatole’s. They did some weird shit around the basement before they brought it in. The door, too. I saw chisels and smelled incense, and then they painted the wall around the door when they were done. I helped them haul all that stuff down, but then they told me to stay out.”

Sunday and Evan shared another glance. Most of her questions had been a long and necessary walk to this topic. “They invited all those people to your house where you were hiding all that loot?” she asked.

“It had a top-dollar security system with whatever creepy magic shit they did on top of that, and it was a secret in the first place,” said Christian. “They figured nobody had reason to snoop and wouldn’t get in anyway. The party was supposed to deflect attention.”

“Is all that stuff still in there?” asked Sunday.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s still there.” Christian nodded at Evan again. “They figure he got whatever he came for, and that’s a bigger priority. They need to find someplace new and get it ready.”

“What are they doing in the meantime? Have they tightened up security?”

“Anatole put more guys at my house. Nobody gets in or out except his people and me. They got someone in to change all the locks and wired up a bunch of cameras to watch all around the property. Somebody sits and watches everything on computers in one of the bedrooms. They brought in a dog, too. A big dog. I’m not even sure it really is a dog.”

“Are any of the new people creepy?”

“A few,” said Christian. “It hasn’t been long, but I’ve seen a shift change for day and night.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

“I haven’t counted. At least a dozen at a time.”

“And Anatole? Does he stay there, or his assistants?”

“No. They’ve got shit to do.” Christian frowned. “A couple guys run the show at my place. They take shifts. Jamal, Terrence, Lexington. I guess you killed another one named Carlo.”

“What do they look like?”

“I dunno, dudes in their thirties? They’re in decent shape. All dress nice. Jamal and Terrence are Black, Lexington’s white. Jamal seems to be the leader. I don’t know their connection with Anatole. Seems like a professional thing, but they talk to me like a I’m a bug.”

“Are the rest on shifts?”

“Day and night. Changes about an hour after sunset and an hour before,” said Christian.

“Alright. Don’t go anywhere.” Sunday nodded for Evan to follow her outside. He paralleled her around the Escalade to check on Donny before they spoke. The older man remained slumped between concrete and rear bumper, bound, drooling, and out cold.

“Okay, first off: I believe him,” said Sunday. “All the details we already knew match up, and he’s not covering his nerves.”

“I thought that part would be harder. How is he not more afraid of Anatole than…?” Evan’s question trailed off as he glanced to the goon at their feet. “I don’t think this explains it.”

“Oh, he is afraid of Anatole, and that’s part of the math,” said Sunday. “I think all this shit has made him finally see the fine print in his deals. He needs to get out from under Anatole, and before that, he needs to survive the next five minutes. ‘Tough guy athlete’ isn’t the same kinda tough that holds up when you’ve been caught and questioned.

“This also means we’ve gotta play straight with him. Otherwise, he’s got no incentives. We don’t want to be the backstabby types, anyway. That shit always bites back.”

“I hear you, but… he’s not telling us everything about what he did. Whatever it was, it’s bad. What he did to me was bad enough. He’s hiding something worse.”

“I’m sure he is. He’s also taking real hits here no matter how this shakes out, and it’s not like we can turn him over to the cops. He’s trash and we aren’t making friends or burying the hatchet. We aren’t giving up any leverage.”

“Cool,” Evan mumbled. Every other idea he had for handling Christian felt worse than this. “Let me see the glasses.”

Sunday fished them out of her pocket. The shine on the rims remained, though dim. Evan saw the faintest etching on the inside of the legs and rims in letters he didn’t know. He felt a soft hum through his fingertips, like the touch of an appliance or device at work. “These are magic somehow. Don’t know what they do.”

“What are glasses for?” Sunday shrugged. “Try ’em on?”

He feared some curse or booby trap, but he did as she suggested. The hum stopped. The lenses changed nothing in his sight. He took them off again and found no more shimmer. “Now they’re dead. I think. I don’t know. They had a shine before, like magic.”

“They may have only worked for him. Lotta magic tools are like that. Maybe it’s how they’re made. You don’t find many that work for just anyone.”

Evan nodded. That made sense at first thought. It was one more thing he’d have to learn about, whenever he had time to take a breath and maybe read a book. “What do you think, then? About the house?”

“It’s tough, but at least we know the score is still there. The work in the basement sounds like ritual sorcery. I don’t know a lot, but it fits. They probably chiseled runes and bullshit into the walls, floor, and ceiling, and then covered it up with drywall and paint. I’ve seen it before. A rookie sorcerer can keep a master from spying in his house with a simple ritual.

“Jamal and those others are the rest of Carlo’s circle. They call themselves New Money, because some circles want stupid gang names. I’ve run a couple jobs with them. Anatole probably brought them in to hold down the wards, or maybe put in new ones after what you did. The night shift is probably vampires. Maybe all vampires, except for the sorcerers. And that dog…” Sunday shook her head uncomfortably. “Natural animals don’t usually like spookies, especially the nastier kinds. It could be a werewolf, which is real bad news. I’m worried it’s something worse. Anatole must’ve dropped a lot of cash on this. Cash and whatever else he trades. But you’ve been in there, and it’s not like he can change the layout in a few days. Can’t do much more than add cameras and guards.”

“You think we’ve got a heist?” asked Evan.

“I do.” Sunday slowly grinned. “We know the layout, we’ve got our way in, and we have a good idea of what to expect. If you’re up for it, yeah. Yeah, I think we’ve got a heist.”

“What’s the play?”

“We want to go after nightfall,” she decided. “Your magic is stronger then, right? And there’ll be less traffic if we need a fast getaway.”

“Yeah, but you said the night shift may be all vampires. How is that better?”

“I don’t see any way this doesn’t get bloody, so it’s just a matter of who and when. Mortal witnesses cut down on magic. If everyone else is spooky, you can go full blast with your star stuff. You smoked one vampire already, so your magic is good. We can handle them. You don’t ever have to feel bad about taking out a vampire. Not ever. It’s community service. I’ve got silver and iron in my bullets, and my knife is iron. That covers a bunch of spooky threats.”

“Not exactly a heist,” Evan muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“Heists are clever and elegant and have a whole team and prep work. You’re talking about going in and thugging everyone. That’s not a heist, that’s just a home invasion.”

“It’s totally a heist! We’re doing the prep work. We’ve got the inside guy,” Sunday said, pointing to Christian’s Escalade. “We’re being clever. We’re just also gonna kick some ass.”

Evan frowned. “You think we’re ready?”

“Sunset gives us enough time to deal with our baggage and do a little prep work. We’ll need to hit some stores for tools and salt.”

“Salt?”

“Magic trick. Anti-magic trick, actually. I’ll explain later.”

His eyes turned downward in thought, and then in concern. “What about Donny?”

“Gotta get him out of the way. I know people who can deal with it. They won’t kill him,” she added when Evan frowned. “Asshole probably has it coming, but I don’t kill when I don’t gotta.”

“Okay. Yeah,” said Evan. “I guess going after Anatole is better than waiting for him to hit first.”

“We can do this, Evan. We’re gonna beat ’em.” Her words boosted his confidence. Her smile did more for his resolve.

They returned to the front of the Escalade. “Alright, Christian, listen,” said Sunday. “You’re in deep, dark shit right now. You’re already in shit with Anatole, and you’re in shit with us. This conversation makes it worse with your boss. It’s shit everywhere. ¿Tú sabes? The question is, what do you want to do about it? ’Cause if you help us out, it solves at least some of your problems.”

“Help you out?” Christian fumed. “I already told you what I know. If you’ve got something else to ask, then ask. You said you’d let me go.”

“No, I said we don’t need to hurt you, and we don’t. We still need to hang onto you for a little bit, at least. What that looks like and what happens after it is up to you.”

“Yeah, and I’m screwed either way, right? Anatole’s got his hooks in my career, my podcast, and all my money. If he goes down, I go down.”

“If he doesn’t, what are the chances he catches us and finds out about this meeting?” Sunday pointed out.

“You think I haven’t thought of that this whole time? What more do you fuckers want?”

“Asshole,” Evan shot back, “you kidnapped me, beat the shit out of me, and planned to murder me all over bills you wouldn’t pay. It ain’t like you’re poor or you needed that car. I lost my job and my home because of this shit. You’re in bed with monsters. I know I’m not the only one you’ve hurt. What do you think balances those scales, Christian?”

That resentful, glaring frown returned to Christian’s face. Then his shoulders dropped. He shook his head. “What do you want me to do?”

12

SO MANY FELONIES

At seven thousand square feet, with two stories, a pool patio, and a large attached garage, Christian’s ivory white home in the Hollywood Hills met every expectation of fortune and fame. Exterior lights kept the property gleaming under the night sky. Tall double doors welcomed guests in a display that went big and modern. Well-kept greenery lined three angles behind a wall and hedge. The fourth angle ended at a cliffside infinity pool looking out over the city, ahead of a second, longer pool by the house. Umbrella-covered tables and deck chairs stood ready for lounging and entertaining. His home had everything—except, in truth, complete privacy.

His home could be viewed from higher up the hills, if one looked hard enough for the right spot. A narrow public utility easement between more opulent homes above Christian’s offered just such a vantage point. It wasn’t the first time Evan struck gold with a methodical scan of public online satellite maps.

He and Sunday also had a hand-drawn map from the home’s legal owner.

“The hallway with the basement door runs along the back of the house.” Evan traced out the line along the page and then pointed to the house down the hill. “It goes from the garage to the other end, over at the barbecue patio. Sits a couple steps down from the other rooms. Feels more like a service corridor than a hall in a home.”

“And the basement door is in the middle?” asked Sunday. Like Evan, she had ditched the Lakers swag for entirely dark clothes without markings or logos. Unlike Evan, her ensemble included a cool leather jacket, because she shopped better. He still shopped cheap.

“Yeah. Must be only a few yards of earth separating it from the pool. The stairs felt pretty deep to me, but I didn’t count steps.”

“Only the house and the garage shimmer, right? Not the patio or the outside?”

“Yeah.” Evan gave the house another long look. Time and focus revealed a subtle, grey-hued distortion of the house’s walls and roof. The effect reminded him of looking across asphalt on a hot day, except limited to the house itself. Sunday saw none of it. “It’s weaker than what I saw at your house. Maybe distance makes a difference?”

“It’s still good to know,” she said. “There’s good and bad to all of this. Long, clear sightlines for us are the same for them. If that is the same privacy magic they used on my house, then they can be noisy, but so can we. Just don’t expect it to cover the outside.”

“If we get noisy outside, things have gone all wrong,” Evan grumbled.

“Any decent guard yells for help the second they sense trouble, before they try to deal with it. We’ve gotta delay or prevent that as best we can, and you can’t just cut the phone line into a house anymore. The dog is a problem, whatever sorcerer they have on hand is a problem, and they’re bound to have something we don’t expect.”

“I can’t promise anything with the dog. This should work, but magic is all a guessing game for me.” Evan winced. “I really don’t want to hurt a dog.”

“If things come to that, it’s probably not really a dog,” said Sunday.

He conceded the point with an uncomfortable grunt.

“You got in and out before. You’re stronger now, and you’re with me,” said Sunday.

“Hey, are you…?” Doubt stopped the words in Evan’s mouth, but her eyebrow rose. It was too late to take it back. “I appreciate the positivity. A lot, actually. But that whole vibe isn’t because you’re worried about me, is it?”

“Worried? Why would I worry?”

“Besides all this shit being crazy?” Evan shook his head. “It’s more… I don’t want you to feel like you’re holding me together. Or feel like you have to, really. That’s the bigger part. I don’t want you to get tired of carrying me.”

“Carrying? You fuckin’ literally carried me out of trouble the other day. I wouldn’t do this if I was worried about you.”

“Sure, but you’ve been throwing out a lot of encouragement, especially since we started this plan. I’m not saying I dislike it. More that I don’t want this to be a drag on us, um, working together. If you feel like you’ve gotta prop me up, that’s gonna get old for you. That’s how resentment builds, and then we’ve got a real problem.”

She stared, halfway between perplexed and amused. He held his tongue, sure he had said too much already. Finally, she said, “Damn, you really did go to fuckin’ therapy, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I told you.”

“Shit, man,” she laughed.

“As much as I could get through my college health plan, anyway,” he went on. “Why?”

“Because you don’t talk like that unless somebody taught you, and that’s therapy shit. Evan, we’re cool. I’m only tellin’ you what I wish people had told me when my life went off the rails. You were already doing crazy shit before we met. Wasn’t spooky or violent, but that’s not nothin’, either. We’re partners. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with boosting your partner. I’m sayin’ what I think. Maybe it’s for me, too. It ain’t no chore.”

“I kinda figured the shady violent crime stuff would make people harsher,” said Evan. “And all the spooky stuff.”

“It does, usually. Most people I’d be working with on a job like this are either cocky and greedy, or all gruff and tough, or fuckin’ edgelord types. That might make someone more comfortable with playing rough, but it’s got downsides, too. Big downsides.” For an instant, Sunday’s teeth dragged across her lip. “It’s nice to work with someone I actually like.”

That did more for his spirits than any pat on the back. It might have even matched her smile.

“So don’t die on me, okay?” she added.

“Right,” Evan exhaled. Back to reality, where he could, in fact, die tonight.

They found Christian right where they’d left him, waiting nervously at the wheel of his black Escalade parked along the side of the street. He tapped nervously on the dash, hunched over and watching for their return.

Evan circled the Escalade, quietly running through the motion of his cleaning spell at each side. Dust and minor water stains lifted and vanished from the vehicle, but he didn’t worry about the things he could see. Sunday waited until he finished, not opening the door until Evan met her at the rear passenger side.

“What’s the deal?” Christian asked when Sunday climbed into the seat.

“We’re doing it.” She shuffled into the spot behind Christian. With Evan climbing in after her, she returned the key fob to the driver. “You remember your part of the plan?”

“I don’t have much to remember,” Christian grumbled. “Feels like a lot could go wrong.”

“If this does go bad, we probably can’t do much for you,” said Sunday. “Do whatever you’ve gotta. Lie your ass off, run like hell, whatever you can do.”

“You can’t at least give me a gun?”

“No,” Sunday and Evan said in unison. “Guns ain’t gonna save you from these guys,” Sunday added. “Stick to the plan. If that’s not enough, think fast.”

“You’re a real help.” Christian pulled the Escalade around.

In the back seats, Sunday opened the duffel bag on the floor to produce her Old West-style gun belt with its paired holsters and fully-loaded bullet loops. At first, the revolvers remained in the bag. She pushed her shoulders back against the seat to lift her hips and don the belt.

Evan told himself not to stare. It didn’t work. She caught him with a glance as she finished, but said nothing; the hint of a grin disappeared under her black hair as she bent forward to collect her revolvers, hatchet, and a long knife. The guns remained in her lap while the other weapons went into lower-hanging loops behind each holster. She finished gearing up by tying back her hair with a simple elastic band, then looked at Evan and nodded to their feet.

Together, they adjusted their bench back to its limit and curled into the leg spaces behind the front seats. The position kept them beneath the windows, but didn’t make it easy to get up. Evan grimaced with discomfort. At least he had remembered to stretch ahead of time.

Sunday seemed indifferent about their position despite having to adjust the weapons hanging from her belt. She pulled the revolvers into her lap and waited. The vehicle shifted left and right with the curves of the hillside road.

“Are those better than modern guns?” Evan asked.

“I’m better with them,” said Sunday. “That’s the important part. And they might be a little better for this fight. Guess we’ll find out.”

“You guess?” asked Christian.

“I’ve got my Glock, too. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not,” he grumbled. “About another minute and we’re there.”

Grimacing yet again, Evan made a circular gesture and closed his fist. Not enough dirt or debris remained for him to see an effect. Cleansing over and over might not make any difference, but he took nothing for granted. Gonna get crazy either way soon enough, he supposed.

That thought prompted him to close his eyes and renew his intangible armor spell. He needed that to work perfectly, too. Thus far, none of his magic wore him down. The tension had obvious sources.

Christian pulled the Escalade into one more turn and stopped. “Gate,” he reported.

Again, Evan cleansed the interior. Sunday watched the window above his head in silence.

They felt the bump of the curb and another for the track of the gate. The garage door was barely loud enough to hear as they rolled close. Christian took a deep breath and continued inside.

Once more with the cleansing spell. Then Evan reached out with both hands and his imagination and pulled.

Shadows deepened within the back of the Escalade. Lights passed overhead as Christian drove into the garage and parked, but little illumination reached past the seats. Evan’s perfect night vision never waned, allowing him to see Sunday’s rising eyebrows and widening eyes. He also noted the way she seemed to fade in his sight. He could see through her to the lines and corners of the passenger door and had a similar view through his own legs.

Evan held his breath like he held tightly on the magic. Christian shut down the engine.

“Whoa, ’old on,” came an unconvincing English accent outside.

Sunday’s eyes tracked movement past the window above Evan—as did the barrel of one revolver held in her lap. Almost mirroring the threat, a pale man with a thoroughly-gelled mop of black hair passed by the window behind her, looking right inside the vehicle.

And right through Evan. Just like Donny, back at the iceplex.

Evan kept holding his breath. The threat moved on. The voice outside did not. Christian opened his door to get out, mindfully shutting it again behind himself.

“Where the ’ell is your man? Donny, wo’n’t it?” The bad accent presented as great a threat to Evan’s focus as his straining breath.

“Went home sick. Ate something bad,” said Christian. It was the part of the plan he hated the most, and Evan couldn’t blame him. Hating it at least brought out some convincing irritation.

“You ’avin’ a laugh? Why didn’t he call in?”

“Don’t look at me. I was at practice. They sell all kinds of junk food at the iceplex. You gonna get out of my way now?”

“No. You stay. Louis, you get this?”

“It happened to me once, before I turned,” said the one on Evan’s side of the vehicle. “You never got food poisoning, Archie?”

“Fucking mortals,” said an exasperated Archie. “No. You ’old on, Christian. You know the drill. Louis, tell the boss.”

Evan didn’t know how much longer he could hold his focus. Then he heard the clicking shuffle of feet outside the Escalade: four feet, he was certain, with claws. They could hear the beast breathe, too, and the clink of a chain.

Shit shit shit. Evan dropped one magical effect for another. He recovered his breath as quietly as he could with another rapid cleansing motion and then grasped for the shadows again. They barely came in as the front passenger door opened.

A black dog’s snout poked inside, level with the seat. It snorffed rather than sniffed, twice, three times—and then turned away. Evan’s cleansing magic had scoured himself, Sunday, and the Escalade’s interior of every particle the dog might have caught with its nose. The dog’s handler shut the door before the constant physics of scent crossed the gap.

Sunday’s wary eyes turned from the front passenger door to Evan. She wasn’t so faded this time, but the shadows held. From the sound of things, it was enough.

“Christian is back without his babysitter,” said Louis. His position implied a third person handling the dog. “Says he got a tummy ache. We didn’t get a call.”

This time it wasn’t magic that left Evan holding his breath. Sunday tensed. Her position made moving quickly into a challenge, but her expression indicated a plan.

“Yeah, okay,” Louis replied to his distant instructions. “Christian, Jamal wants to see you right now. Head up. Thorne, we’re on the rounds again.”

Sunday rolled her eyes. “There’s always a Thorne,” she mouthed in silence.

“Fuck. Fine,” Christian grumbled.

The dog and its handler walked away, seemingly toward the still-open garage door. Christian and the others moved with less noise. Evan carefully breathed again while the garage door hummed and rattled shut. In the stillness that followed, Sunday brought a finger to her lips.

Nothing made a sound until Sunday nudged Evan’s leg with her foot. “Hey. You okay?” she barely whispered.

That was when the exertion caught up to him, like running laps around the school track. Evan mindfully inhaled and exhaled slower. He felt his heartbeat step down a few gears. “That took effort,” he whispered back.

The words sent Sunday’s eyes darting up as she watched and listened for any reaction. Nothing came. She risked a question: “Did you make us invisible?”

“I dunno. Did I? That was exhausting. I just pulled and pulled.”

“They looked right at us.”

He made a face. “That’s what I said before!”

“Okay, but I wasn’t there.”

“What—” He stopped when she looked away again, listening. Nothing came of it. Evan jerked his thumb past his shoulder with a questioning look.

Without voice, Sunday’s lips moved in an exaggerated enunciation anyone could read: “They can be very quiet. You good?”

Evan caught his breath. The bad guys held more of his concern as he counted them off, reciting in silence: “Archie, Louis, and Thorne?”

She rolled her eyes again. “The accents are fake. I’ll bet they’re all from Burbank.”

Evan frowned. It was the one question he didn’t need to ask.

Christian hated two parts of this plan above all the rest—which he also hated. The whole thing was stupid, too simple, and bound to get him killed. His new partners would die, too, but that was their lookout. He didn’t want to die here, and hated every bit of this.

“Use that,” Sunday had told him. “The irritation will make you credible.” As if he hadn’t taken drama in college. God, that stupid professor wanted too much out of him, too, but at least she lived up to the coach’s prediction of an easy passing grade.

This wasn’t easy, either. This was life and death bullshit with the undead breathing down his neck, at least until they came to the first branch in the hallway and Archie turned off toward the living room. That was a relief. Hockey taught him to fear little and show it even less, but Archie and the others were monsters armed with guns. He didn’t face that on the ice. The giant, spooky dog wasn’t part of those dangers, either.

How that thing missed his barely-hidden passengers, Christian didn’t know. He also didn’t care. One more stupid part of the plan behind him now. He moved on to the next play.

He passed the basement door, still locked up quiet. Christian didn’t spare it a glance. He knew where he had to go, and he had to get there before anyone noticed his unexpected path. All the new cameras probably made that impossible.

The hallway branched left again with stairs to the upper level and the man waiting for him. Christian walked straight past it to the next door for the laundry room. His laundry room, he reminded himself. His house.

And his breaker box.

If nothing else, Jamal appreciated the scenery and the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the upstairs corner room left Los Angeles spreading out like a glittering gem. Only the stars rivaled the shine of the city’s lights—more stars than Jamal had ever seen, including trips outside the city.

The good part about this job was the answers it brought about those stars right away—and the voided debts to Anatole, and the payments beyond that. Jamal woke up to more than one urgent message the morning after the stars appeared, but Anatole’s was the one that mattered. He wanted to hire Jamal’s entire circle to work on his new concerns.

The job had already cost Carlo his life. New Money was more than a circle of hermetic Practice. They were friends. They took dangerous jobs all the time and knew the risks, but Jamal still kicked himself for letting Carlo go out to Sunday’s place with only three of Anatole’s goons and no magical backup. Carlo should’ve brought one more from the circle, or someone else from Anatole’s talent. Or Jamal himself.

Now Carlo was dead, and Jamal stood at a window in a silk shirt and slacks with a phone at his ear and another damn thing going wrong.

“This is my voicemail. Use it,” came Donny’s voice on the recording.

“Bastard.” Jamal dropped the call. “He’s not answering. You try calling him.”

“Okay…?” Lexington looked up from the old tome on the coffee table, dressed for business much like Jamal but with less style. At least he’d finally taken the hint on using his last name; “Brad” was no way to introduce someone as a sorcerer. Lexington seemed skeptical, but he pulled out his phone. “Mine won’t be any different than yours.”

“Try it anyway.” Jamal had other things to do, like keeping track of the new arrival and their co-workers.

The spread of monitors on the wall helped only so much with that. Vampires didn’t generally show up on camera. Christian there on monitor three could be walking down the lower hallway with Archie and Louis on either side, or he could be as alone as he looked. The only vampire in Jamal’s sight was the one at the desk running the tech, complete with the backwards ballcap emblazoned with his professional name.

“Where the fuck is everybody on here? Where are all your people?” Jamal demanded.

“The tracker tags have everybody where they should be,” the tech answered. Jamal refused to call him DJ Feedback. “Colette and Victoria are downstairs, and now so is Archie. Nikolai, Geoffrey, and Ice are around the deck. Thorne is out taking another walkaround with the dog. We’re good.”

“Hate that fuckin’ dog.” Jamal held back a shiver. It was the only thing about the setup that bothered him. He knew creepy dogs were a thing in Europe: hellhounds, barghests, the Black Dog of Wherever. He didn’t know they happened in America, too. Anatole called it the Black Dog of the Mojave like that was funny.

“Useful,” said Lexington. “Took that djinn down hard. Fucker never saw it coming.”

“I’m worried about it taking us down just like that djinn.”

“All the walls are warded, and so is the leash. As long as nobody gets sloppy and breaks either part of the equation, we’re good.”

“Uh-huh,” Jamal grumbled. The dog at least showed up on camera when it passed by the northwest corner. Blurry and creepy, but visible. “Okay, have we got anything else weird? Any changes?”

“Nope.” DJ waved to the screens. “Nothing new on camera, nothing on the motion sensors. No open doors. If anything’s weird, we’ll know. We’ve got this, brah.”

“I’m not your bro. Fucking vampires,” Jamal muttered as he turned away. Behind him, DJ stiffened, but mindfully held his tongue. Jamal forgot him as Lexington looked back with a shrug and canceled the call on his cell phone. “Alright, let’s hear Christian out before we call Anatole,” said Jamal. “He may have questions.”

“Hold on,” said DJ. “Where’s he going?”

On the hallway camera feed, Christian passed the staircase and went into the next room. Jamal raised an eyebrow. “Do we have cameras in there?”

“Not yet,” said DJ.

“Why the fuck not?”

“It doesn’t go anywhere! It’s just the laundry room. Doesn’t even have any windows.”

“Shit. Lex, call Anatole.” Jamal stabbed the space bar on one of the keyboards to open the mic for the security team. “Archie, Christian is in the laundry room. Get him now.”

“You sure about calling?” asked Lexington.

“This makes two weird moves,” Jamal snapped. “Carlo’s dead. This shit is serious. We’re not mall cops. Call Anato⁠—”

Then the lights cut out—every light, including the monitors on the wall. The city and stars shined on, but the patio and pools had all gone dark, too.

Sharp tones whined from beneath the desk. DJ ducked to silence them, fumbling and jabbing one button after another. “Power’s out. Computers switched to battery.”

Jamal hit the space bar on the keyboard again. “Sweep the house! Guard the basement!”

“They’re not gonna hear you. That part isn’t on battery,” DJ warned.

“The wards are fine,” said Lexington, on his feet and looking around. “I’d feel it if they went down. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Then we find out. Move.” Jamal reached into his sleeve to draw his wand with an angry flourish, snarling out, “Kerí!” Small tongues of flame trailed from the wand, floating toward the door to illuminate the path ahead like candles. Jamal rushed out.

DJ Feedback yelped and flinched away from the flames. He banged his head against the lip of the desk on the way under it for shelter. Lexington scowled while the lights followed Jamal out. The list of vampire vulnerabilities clicked in the back of his head, but he had no time for it. “Call Anatole! Now!” he shouted on his way after Jamal.

Alone under the desk, DJ Feedback shook off his reflexive panic. “Fucking magicians.”

They had tested the spell ahead of time, knowing the plan hinged on its viability. It required only a moment in a restroom with the lights out, and then all of Evan’s focus and hope. In the last instant, he feared he might burn Sunday’s eyes out, but then he pulled his fingers away. Her eyes opened to see him perfectly in the darkness.

That first success brought out a big smile. This time, sitting in the Escalade, she merely seemed pensive. Magical night sight didn’t mean as much until the lights went out twenty seconds later.

“What the fuck?” The voice outside the Escalade halted Sunday’s rise out of the leg space between seats. Evan froze, too, listening intently. Louis hadn’t left the garage after all. “Archie? Feedback, are you there? Shit.”

Sunday’s head turned as if tracking the sound. Instead of giving a thumbs-up to confirm she could see, she pointed toward the front and right of the Escalade. Then she shifted toward the gap between front seats, revolver out.

Evan stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I’m quieter,” he whispered. Her frown asked if he was sure, but Evan already had his feet under him. He squirmed onto the bench seat.

Hiding meant they had only a partial view of the garage ceiling on the way in. Upright, Evan saw cars and SUVs lining the spaces beside theirs in two rows of three. The Escalade was closest to the door, parked behind Christian’s Bentley, which meant the space behind them was empty. Past the Bentley stood a pale man with carefully feathered hair, wearing an ensemble that reminded Evan of ‘80s flashback music—and a sword on his belt. An actual, Three Musketeers-style sword.

The submachinegun in his hand presented a clearer danger until Louis shifted it from his right hand to his left, holding it over the barrel rather than the grip. His free hand pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Evan wouldn’t have a better chance. He opened the door and stepped out.

Louis turned toward the sound. The phone fell from his hand as he returned to a proper grip on the gun. Evan flung tiny white orbs between parked cars, three in all. One flew wide and ricocheted off the far wall. Two burned straight through the target.

The stars left blackened holes in Louis’s shirt and painful despair on his face. “Oh no,” Louis managed, then doubled over and fell. His gun dropped with a clatter; his body hardly made a sound.

Sunday left the Escalade right in time with Evan, revolver up and trained on Louis’s position. They found his clothes slowly sinking closer to the floor as his body crumbled. The submachinegun hid somewhere beneath the remains, while his sword turned at an odd angle on the belt that went slack around a vanishing waist. The sickly stench of Axe Body Spray mixed with ashes caught Evan’s nose, but he barely noticed it amid the answers to so much conjecture he and Sunday shared about his magic. Regardless of all else, the orbs of starlight were apparently very bad for vampires.

Evan felt less this time—less turmoil, less shock, less guilt and regret. Not none, but less. He didn’t know if it was Louis’s nature or his own.

He felt less, but still didn’t like it.

“Vamos, vamos,” Sunday urged. He kept up.

Thumping feet ran across the upper floor. The walls muffled a shout. Sunday grabbed the door handle with her left hand, glanced at Evan to confirm his stance, and swept it open with her revolver ready.

They came into an empty, lightless hallway, promptly filled by the dramatic arrival of a fluttering black leather trench coat and a familiar mop of black hair and gel. Archie reached at his waist in a flourish to draw paired, curved Japanese blades.

Evan’s brain paused to ask if Archie could be for real, but Sunday launched forward without hesitation. She closed the distance before Evan knew it. Archie swung one blade, but she blocked and pushed it back with the barrel of her revolver. Then he cried out and stumbled forward, and Evan realized Sunday had her hatchet in her other hand—now hooked around Archie’s hip, burying the head in his lower back.

While Archie stumbled face-first into the hallway wall, someone else jumped out from the same branching steps that produced him. Sunday bent and twisted around the man, half disappearing behind his frock coat and tassels. His bulk pushed her forward, putting himself between Sunday and Evan. Metal clanged against metal.

Despite his stronger resolve, Evan’s first instinct still wasn’t lethal. He followed Sunday and kicked Archie’s fallen sword away while the vampire was still bent all wrongly against the wall. The other katana was somewhere underneath Archie, but he seemed too overwhelmed by his severed spine to grasp it. Mr. Frock Coat was the real threat. He kept after Sunday, pushing her back two more steps in a flurry of parried exchanges. Evan had a clear shot from behind, assuming his stars wouldn’t burn straight through Mr. Frock and into Sunday.

Hesitation ended with a tackle that put Evan against the wall. Two tackles, he realized. Armored or not, it still hurt. “Ooh, you look tasty!” taunted a feminine voice at his ear. He saw blue fringe and bare, pale arms, then an alabaster face amid perfectly curled blonde hair and a conservative white-on-blue polka-dot dress—and fangs. The woman in the flapper dress had fangs, too. “Gonna eat’cha! I’m gonna eat’cha!”

The Fifties Sitcom Mom had the better angle. Teeth flashed across Evan’s peripheral vision while he struggled against the flapper, and then her mouth clamped down on his neck.

The pressure frightened him, but he felt nothing sharp. It lasted only an instant before the Sitcom Mom wrenched back with a shriek. Evan punched the flapper in the jaw, staggering her for half a second. Sunday’s gun went off twice. Sitcom Mom reeled with her hands over her mouth while Evan fought the flapper girl.

Adrenaline mitigated whatever harm penetrated Evan’s armor. A desperate kick bought him a few feet and a couple seconds of space. The kick also claimed the flapper’s balance—and his own.

This was why he didn’t like fighting. One reason, anyway. Even when you win, you probably wind up on the floor with the other guy. Or woman. Two women, he corrected again. Nope, not any better.

Sunday’s gun went off. It didn’t seem aimed at his problems. Together, Evan and the flapper girl got to their feet, but only one of them hissed. Right. Vampires. The women are vampires. That made it a little better.

If not for his armor, he knew he’d be dead already. The flapper girl was much stronger than Evan. They all were. He needed to throw more stars, but with her lunging in, he punched—with the fleeting, instinctive thought of channeling that same power he wanted to throw.

Light flashed as he struck the flapper below the throat. Evan saw wide eyes in shock and pain. His wrist and fist held the familiar starry pattern of his armor spell. His enemy dropped to her knees with an ugly scorch across the base of her throat. The dark blotch spread as she collapsed.

Bullets flew across the hallway, making Evan flinch. None hit him—yet.

“My teef,” wailed a nearby voice. “My teef!” Sitcom Mom felt at her mouth as it trailed a faintly glowing white smoke. Her fangs were broken. All her teeth seemed broken. Her eyes flared red and she let out a primal scream, coming at Evan with both hands clenched in hammering blows.

He couldn’t match her strength. She hit hard, battering his raised arms and his head in a single blow, and then another. His armor held, though he still hurt and wound up on his ass. From there, he landed one desperate punch on her side. She seemed indifferent to the blow until Evan repeated it with focus and intent.

Sitcom Mom howled and tumbled into a wall. Amped up by desperation and anger, Evan flung more stars out with his left hand, this time barely out of arm’s reach from his target. Bright orbs blasted through her and bounced off one wall, then another, back and forth in a sudden shower of light and cracked plaster.

Evan pushed himself up. She didn’t. Her partner stayed face down on the floor, too, with a burn across her back equal to the one below her throat. Skin around the wound turned to ash.

Then he heard the sharp pop of bone and the rustle of fabric. “Alright, candy ass.” Archie rose with his remaining blade and without his feigned accent. “Let’s⁠—”

This time, Evan snapped one hand up and pointed. Something about two fingers felt right; he didn’t think twice, if he thought at all. Three little stars like bullets blasted through Archie’s chest. The vampire gasped and fell, smoke and ash trailing from his back while Evan looked at the silly gesture he made entirely on impulse. “Okay, fine,” he muttered. “We’ll go with finger-guns.”

Sunday still fought the same vampire in the frock coat. He came in with overhand swings of his sword, looping up and over, only for her to dodge left and right. Her body bent with the same quick curves she made in her first fight with Evan. Frock Coat blocked Evan’s view, also moving fast, attempting a thrust. Sunday’s hip and side swung out of the way. Her hatchet caught and controlled his blade, and then her revolver went off again—firing upward through his jaw.

Despite his adrenaline and anger, Evan flinched at the sight. Frock Coat jerked upright and staggered back, arms limp, but he didn’t fall. Sunday raised her hatchet in a wind-up at shoulder level, bringing it into the vampire’s neck at full torque and precision. Evan flinched again.

She didn’t behead the guy with a single blow. That required a second strike once he fell. Then she straightened, looked at Evan and the hallway behind him, and nodded.

“We’re doin’ good,” Sunday huffed, showing no sign of harm: not a single tear to her clothes, nor a drop of blood. Her assessment and her safety gave Evan a shot of grim pride. She was okay, he was okay, and he had defeated two enemies while she struggled with one.

Then he noticed the three sets of crumpled clothing and ashes in the hallway behind her. Frock Coat did not, in fact, keep her occupied alone—and she had done all the real work with Archie, too. Evan exhaled and let his pride go. Fighting like this probably wasn’t a healthy source of self-esteem, anyway.

Her satisfaction made sense. The house had only so many guards, and drawing them in like this split their numbers and response. They couldn’t be sure how many remained. Evan opened his mouth to wonder about that point, right as he saw a flickering orange glow from the stairwell corner at the end of the hall. “Light!” he hissed too late.

Fist-sized rocks like blazing charcoal flew from the staircase, bouncing off the opposite wall and coming to rest across the hallway. They glowed brighter than any coal should. A man in slacks and a purple button-down followed them out, brandishing a wand like a weapon. He was tall, slim, Black, and only surprised long enough to say a single name: “Sunday.”

“Jamal.” Sunday shot him without hesitation, while Jamal barked a word drowned out by her revolver. She got the worst of the exchange, buckling to one knee with a growl of pain. Jamal flinched as if struck but showed no visible wound. He stayed on his feet, bringing him into eye contact with Sunday’s weary partner.

Evan went with tried-and-true, shooting more tiny stars and hoping Sunday didn’t suddenly move right into their path. As a consequence, most of the barrage flew high and wide, sparking and bouncing off the wall and ceiling. Jamal evaded all but one that clipped his upper arm—not the one with the wand, which he flicked away from Sunday to point at his new opponent.

Wild, awful pain exploded in Evan’s head. A colorful glare flashed across the center of his vision. His balance disappeared into deep nausea. It was everything he’d ever heard about migraines, crashing in all at once. Evan barely caught himself against the floor with one outstretched hand.

Blinking did nothing for the glare. Enough peripheral vision remained to see Sunday rise. Evan hoped Jamal could only hold one of them at a time. Then Jamal kicked Sunday hard in the head, putting her on her ass beside Evan. “Lex!” Jamal yelled. “Get in here!”

“Coming.” He emerged from the stairs, too blurry and dark for Evan to track. “Had to get DJ—oh, shit.”

“Hold her,” Jamal ordered. “This one’s got crazy magic. I can’t hold ’em both!”

“What kind of—shit!”

Evan flailed toward the voices with all the focus he could manage. Sunday was on the floor beside him; everyone else was an enemy. Light flashed around the aura dominating his vision as he shot out more stars, but none struck his targets.

“What the fuck is that? Have you ever seen this shit?” asked Lex.

“Bro, hold her!” Jamal repeated. His voice conveyed effort. “Hold her or put her down!”

“I’m on it, we’re good.” Lex came closer. Evan couldn’t see, but he could hear. Jamal had to be in reach, too. Evan gasped, holding down bile and nausea, fighting to think.

Rapid, sweeping motion from the floor prompted Evan to flinch backward. A white cloud of sand flew past the edges of his blinding glare, and then he felt some of it against his face.

The pain and the glare vanished. Sunday rolled up off the floor, clutching the now-empty sandwich bag she had filled with ordinary grocery store salt. She launched that same angry fist into Jamal’s side, driving him back from Evan.

Lex had also come too close to her. Sunday continued her lunge in a downward roll, kicking her legs through his to bring him to the floor. The second revolver came out of the holster on her left hip and fired.

“No!” Jamal shouted while Lex cried out. He had his wand up again and blurted another word as Sunday turned the pistol on him. The weapon clicked as if empty. Jamal roared with effort and waved dramatically. Evan saw a faint shimmer reach from Jamal to Sunday as sorcery flung her against the wall. Recovered now, Evan was mid-rush toward Jamal when the shimmer turned on him and sent Evan right back to the floor.

Grains of sand coated Evan’s face and hand upon landing. He’d fallen right in the remains of Sunday’s magic-draining trick, which seemed was just as bad for him as the others. The starry pattern on his sleeve and the back of his hand faded. He felt an itch all over his body.

“Help me,” Jamal growled, again betraying an effort of will.

“Help me,” Lex coughed back. “I’m fucking shot.”

“Shoot her back. You’ve got a gun. Shoot ’em both.”

“How about we help?” asked a new voice. Evan looked back down their path to stare down black fur, bright red eyes, and snarling menace. He couldn’t put a breed to the huge dog if he tried. Somewhere beyond all the teeth and muscle stood another set of out-of-style leathers, pale features, and a smug grin.

Lines came off the dog’s collar—four lines, Evan realized, two of them reaching to the vampire behind the dog and two more running over Evan’s head. Three took the form of a leash, but ghostly somehow. The fourth line was a firm and solid chain in the vampire’s hand. That chain went slack as Evan noticed the difference. The red-eyed dog charged forward.

Salt glitched out magic. Evan learned fast. He hoped fast, too. Evan swept up all the salt he could catch in one motion and flung it at the approaching dog.

The mutt barreled over him, jaws snarling and snapping, but no bite came. All the bloodthirst and enthusiasm vanished. The dog paused to sniff.

“The fuck?” asked the vampire.

“Jamal,” Lex warned between coughs.

The dog backed Evan against the wall with wary sniffs and snorfs… and then turned toward the other sorcerers. Lex laid on the ground clutching a wounded shoulder. Jamal held Sunday against the wall with a wand and his will.

Everyone noticed the sudden silence.

Those shimmering lines from the dog’s collar had vanished. Only the chain remained, trailing the dog’s furious charge at Jamal. “No!” Jamal shrieked, turning his wand in defense, but the dog was already in motion—and Sunday still had her revolver.

She fired up and forward, over and right, then low and center in quick succession. Jamal reeled from a shot to the side before the dog brought him down. The vampire at the other end of the hallway let out a pained noise while Lex convulsed. Sunday rolled onto her feet and left Jamal to the dog long enough to put one more bullet into the vampire’s head.

He didn’t go down. He teetered on his feet, stunned and bewildered by the nearly bloodless hole through his skull, but he didn’t fall. “Little help?” Sunday asked over Jamal’s screams.

Evan got up on one knee, brushing himself off. The itch receded, though it didn’t disappear. He took one more deep breath and blasted all the magic he could through the vampire’s gut.

Thorne, he remembered. Thorne had the dog—and now he gasped as his midsection suddenly crumbled. Unsure if one weakened spell would do the job, Evan gathered his strength and fired again. This time, Thorne dropped like the rest. Lex didn’t look like he’d ever move again, either.

Beside Evan, Sunday reloaded her revolver with impressive dexterity. She lived, Evan lived, and Jamal screamed—until, with a sickening crunch, he didn’t. Evan and Sunday shared a grimace, but the dog blocked their line of sight on whatever gruesome injury finished Jamal. The glowing coals scattered along the floor died out, plunging the hallway into almost total darkness.

“Aw, shit,” said a newly blind Sunday. Evan’s night sight persevered.

The dog’s head snapped up from Jamal’s limp body. Again, it sniffed and snorffed.

“Fuck the tech, I’m here,” announced a final newcomer from the stairs. He swept around the corner in a sequined leather jacket and a ballcap emblazoned with “DJ Feedback.” Twin Uzis filled his hands. “Let’s gooooohhh shit!” he cried in a sudden shift toward panic.

The dog lunged. DJ Feedback bolted back up the stairs, firing wildly behind him at a dog that seemed utterly indifferent to bullets. Uzis blasting at full-auto didn’t last long; the roar of gunfire ended with a shriek and the distinct crash of glass.

“What just happened?” asked Sunday, sensibly crouched against the wall with her revolver up and pointed down the pitch-black hallway.

Adjusting her eyes seemed easier than conjuring light, but Evan wanted the latter if only to steady his nerves. He gestured with two fingers to the fluorescents overhead, filling them with magic rather than electricity. Soft, pale illumination flickered to life throughout the hallway, revealing ashes, two bloodied bodies, and a trail of smashed and shot-up drywall.

One final figure emerged from the last doorway at the end of the hall. Christian’s first glance was understandably quick, wanting a sense of the danger before he made himself a target. Then he, too, took in the damage and the bodies. He saw his battered but unbowed companions. He didn’t question the single shining overhead light.

“Alright, fuck all of this,” Christian declared. “I did my part. I’m out of here.”

13

STELLAR ALIGNMENT

“Iconfess, I didn’t intend to see you all again so soon.”

“Confession is so unlike you, Anatole,” Aminah chided. The classy, high-rise and high-price restaurant put her in a good mood despite the monsters at the table. She was too strong and too old to be intimidated by them—or anyone.

“We should always be open to new approaches.” Anatole raised his wine glass toward her in an unspoken toast. “Tradition and habit are only worthwhile if they serve a purpose. Diplomacy, for instance.”

Anatole prompted the meeting, but left the location to her. The restaurant offered ambience, pricey dishes, and a city view from the heights of downtown, but its real utility came from the presence of mortal witnesses to tamp down on magical threats. Some attended only because Aminah arranged such assurances. If nothing else, everyone had faith in her commitment to diplomacy.

Eight sat around the table near the center of the main dining room, fewer than their last gathering. Cliff Baker came from Irvine in an expensive, well-tailored suit. Latasha, also dressed for business rather than glamour, ignored him with casual disrespect. Once again, Enrique surprised everyone by showing up at all.

Uthman covered barbs in every smile and word toward Aminah in the usual hostility between djinn and ifrit. Pale and stout Mr. Solomon, dressed as always in a black suit cut in a century-old style, sat apart from them. As usual, Sergio didn’t dress for the occasion, but at least the werewolf behaved himself.

“Are we satisfied with our circumstances and privacy?” Anatole asked. “I don’t want to rush, but some of you prefer to cut straight to business.”

“The fern seeds in the centerpiece will keep our voices from carrying,” said Latasha. They had all watched her cast the subtle, simple spell. “That’s all it does, but it means no one is listening.”

“No one but the escorts a few of you brought along,” Uthman corrected.

“Coming here alone would be a silly move,” said Cliff.

“If anyone else pays too much attention, I can ensure they won’t be a problem,” offered the pale man beside him.

“Mr. Solomon,” said Aminah, “you may consider every customer and employee to be under my protection for the foreseeable future.”

He smiled with more amusement than deference. “Now, now, dear, I make no threats. My thirst must be satisfied one way or another. You know that. You’ve been around.”

“I have, and I maintain all the assurances granted to everyone here tonight. That includes bystanders. Should any harm befall someone present, I will take it as an insult and return the gesture directly.”

“And I’ll help,” Latasha added flatly. Aminah smiled, not breaking eye contact with Solomon until he looked away with a mild, dismissive wave.

“No one is listening. Let’s get to the point,” said Enrique.

“We agreed that I would investigate recent provocations among the nightlife,” Anatole began. “Are there any other hostilities to report since then? Has, anyone heard from Mitsuyo?”

“I’m not sure she takes this as seriously as the rest of us,” said Aminah.

“I wish she did,” said Solomon. “Two of my people suffered great harassment in East Los Angeles the other night. A plague of rats chased them through the streets and ruined their car.”

“Your people are literal bloodsuckers,” Enrique replied. “They’re lucky it ended at that. Stay away from us and our neighborhoods and you won’t have a problem.”

“As I understand it, Diecisiete doesn’t claim any territory,” said Cliff. “Staying away from you would be easier if we knew where you are.”

“It would also be easier if people didn’t try to expand where they don’t already belong,” said Enrique.

“Oh, we’ve been here for generations,” Cliff replied. “It’s the newcomers who don’t belong. Mystically or legally. Know any?”

“Let’s not start anything new,” Aminah counseled. “If no one was hurt, we should stay with the larger matters like the murders of Haisam and Spencer Wood, and perhaps this outstanding matter of Cornelius.”

“Agreed,” said Anatole. “Unfortunately, my investigation has already been somewhat stymied before it began. You may have heard about it.”

“Something about a theft and murder? And on the same night as our last meeting?” asked Cliff.

“Yes,” said Anatole. “I didn’t expect it to stay secret, given my efforts at recovery. The thief slipped into the party and escaped after the guests left. He killed two of my associates during his escape—one mortal, another from Mr. Solomon’s side of the night. He used sorcery.”

“What did he steal?” asked Aminah.

“Art, along with a car belonging to a subordinate. I can’t be more specific. I’m more likely to recover my property if I handle it myself. Right now, the timing is more relevant than the details. I suffered an attack while trying to reduce tensions. That should concern us all.”

“Does this have anything to do with the sky?” Latasha tilted her head to the window. Most people in the restaurant saw nothing new. Those at the table saw more.

“The timing suggests it, but I have no solid connection. I was hoping some of you might know more. The stars shine from here to Las Vegas, Phoenix, and Tijuana for the enlightened.”

A single, soft laugh escaped Amina’s mouth. She seemed undisturbed by Anatole’s glance. “The enlightened?” she asked.

“Pick your term to differentiate from mortals. You understand what I mean,” said Anatole.

“You wanted to tell us in person while you probe for reactions or guilt,” said Aminah. “Presumably with magic to aid simple observation.”

“As a first step.” Anatole held out his hands. “Can you blame me?”

“And?”

“Nothing,” Anatole admitted. “At least, nothing yet.”

No one else spoke right away. Latasha broke the silence: “We don’t know a thing about it.”

“Interesting,” said Cliff. “I thought your circle was all about nature.”

She didn’t look at him. “Nothing else changed for us. Nothing in our Practice works better or worse. Nobody’s heard of this sort of thing before. We know ways to see the sky clearer, but that’s still only for an individual’s perception. This is new.”

“It wasn’t us,” said Enrique.

“Wasn’t us, either,” said Cliff.

“We know,” Latasha quipped, but looked to Aminah and Uthman.

“I can corroborate the limits Anatole mentioned,” said Aminah. “It’s not everywhere. Like Latasha, I haven’t heard of any tangible effects. We see stars. I know of no other change.”

Uthman sighed as if satisfied by her answer. “Likewise.”

“Then if the stars don’t really affect us and you don’t want help with your robbery,” said Cliff, “I’m more concerned about these murders. Don’t forget, my circle was also targeted.”

“You didn’t bring this up at our previous meeting,” said Uthman.

“He did. I believe it was lost in the discussion,” said Anatole.

“Oh, right, your evil Spanish-speaker,” said Sergio. “Any luck? Racial profiling work out yet?”

“It’s a clue. We have to start somewhere,” Cliff fumed.

“Sure. Why not start with your biases?” murmured Latasha.

“Do you have something more than snide implications?” Cliff shot back.

Latasha met his challenge with bored disdain. “The Orange Curtain are fascist bigots. No need to imply. I’ll say it. We all know.”

“Fascist?” Cliff scoffed. “Why, because we see the natural hierarchy of power in the world? That’s fascism to you?”

“Yes. You learned magic and secret truths about reality, and it didn’t change your views one bit. Magic only became your new premise for the same old supremacy bullshit you got from all the usual nonsense. It’s every bit as sad as it sounds.”

“And now we’re back to hostility, with no input on our true problems,” said Anatole. “Gentlemen, ladies, please. We’re here to reduce tensions, not stoke them. I brought you together to ask about the attack on my organization because the timing suggests we may all be targeted. Haisam was mauled in a manner to implicate Sergio’s pack or another’s, but we found no fur, no tracks, and no scent. The intrusion at my event had a remarkably similar lack of evidence.

“You are all influential within your respective factions, but none are in ironclad positions of leadership. Indeed, several other leaders of the nightlife aren’t here. I don’t view their absences as evidence of guilt, but it does show disunity. We should recognize two likely possibilities at work: an outside party, or an internal, rogue element.”

“What? Rogue Spanish speakers?” Enrique scoffed.

Cliff looked at Enrique but pointed at Sergio. “Those things would eat your people just as readily as any of Solomon’s.”

“He’s not the first wizard I’d eat,” said Sergio.

“Again, please. We—” Anatole cut himself off at a new arrival by his side. Jan was lean and trim in his well-fitted suit, with slicked-back blond hair and a clean shave.

“Apologies,” Jan said in Polish. “The house called. There’s trouble.” The look on his face said the rest.

Anatole’s jaw set. The news turned his eyes in a glare around the table. “It appears someone has taken advantage of my efforts at peace again—while we are all here. The timing seems significant.” Anatole stood. “I have to go.”

“Let me walk you out.” Uthman rose with Anatole.

No one else got up. They all watched as Anatole, Jan, and Uthman walked out of the restaurant. Anatole didn’t have to look back to know; as Cliff had predicted, few were foolish enough to come to this meeting alone. The lookout at the bar area had eyes on the table, but made no signal for movement.

“Do you wish me to accompany you?” Uthman asked in quiet Arabic.

Anatole considered it. The ifrit were set apart from the djinn only by temperament and outlook. They shared many abilities, and Uthman was strong enough to hold sway over most other ifrit in the area. He would be a powerful ally—though his aid would incur a new debt. Additionally, Jan’s continued silence implied caution. “No. I’ll have to see to this myself. Thank you for the offer.”

“As you wish. I trust your troubles do not affect our previous bargains, or you would have told me by now, correct?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t play games when I risk so much and stand so greatly to gain. I’ve made the arrangements already. They are separate from the matter at hand, and the earlier theft. Have no fear, my friend.” The conversation took them to the elevator bank, where another of Anatole’s men held a door in wait. “I’ll be in touch. Goodnight.”

They parted at the doors, leaving Anatole in the waiting elevator with Jan and Terrence. The latter was a young, athletic Black man with tightly-cut hair, wearing a suit appropriate to the evening and thick-rimmed glasses. He looked over the elevator with the latter, scanning from floor to ceiling and all around before he spoke, returning conversation to English. “We’re clear. No stowaways, no magic. Go ahead.”

“Feedback said the power went out and he heard shooting,” said Jan. “He thought Christian may have thrown the main breaker downstairs. The cameras went out, so he didn’t know anything else. He left to back up the others.”

“Christian?” asked Anatole.

“That’s what he said. The call was brief.”

“How long?”

“Not two minutes ago,” said Jan.

“I called Elizabeth while Jan got you,” said Terrence. “She’s on it, but she’s not close. I don’t think anyone is.”

“No, they’re all out hunting our thief. We’ll need at least twenty-five minutes to reach the house. Damn. Perhaps I should have accepted Uthman’s… no,” Anatole shook his head. “No. We don’t need more complications. What about here and now? What did you see?”

“Some djinn was in the dining room posing as a busboy,” said Terrence. “He didn’t get near the table, or I’d have signaled. I spotted two guys with magic in the bar. I’m guessing they’re with Baker. Couple vampires hung around in there, too. Guess that was the easiest place get in close. No need for reservations. Two other Practitioners had a table on the far end of the room. Took me a second, but I recognized them from Watson’s circle. If anyone came in with Enrique, they got by me. I’m guessing Uthman and the werewolf had the balls to come in alone.

“Aminah had some sort of magic at work. Think it was a talisman. Seemed passive. The Practitioners all had wards, but nothing active. I don’t think they tried anything.”

“All to be expected,” Anatole surmised. “No one broke decorum.”

“Except for this timing. Two meetings, two intrusions. It can’t be a coincidence,” said Jan.

“No, it can’t.”

“Do you think we have a leak? Or a traitor? Christian, perhaps?”

“Christian doesn’t know our true designs. The inner circle is too tight for a leak. Something else must be at work.”

Numbers spun down on the control screen as the elevator descended. They were almost at the lobby. Terrence looked to his phone, but met Anatole’s glance with a shake of his head.

“How did the meeting go before I interrupted? Any clues?” asked Jan.

“No. The circles are all suspicious of one another, Solomon and Sergio antagonized everyone, and Uthman and Aminah were tight-lipped. Everything is going as I’d hoped despite the fiasco the other night. Half of them are ready to shed blood. I played the interruption to the best advantage I could, but…” Anatole frowned thoughtfully. The doors opened to a lobby holding a scattered handful of customers waiting for the elevator.

He drew his cell phone as they walked quickly to the exit. “We’ll have to press our advantage while we have it.”

“As I came at Anatole’s invitation, I suppose his departure should herald my own,” Solomon said with reluctance—and then paused for objection. No one spoke. Blank faces stared at him until he mumbled, “Food is wasted on me, anyway. I bid you all a good night.”

He didn’t notice Sergio making a similar calculation until they both stood at the same time. The pair took their first step away before they noticed one another. Solomon watched. Sergio glared, then threw back his shoulders and stepped aggressively close. Solomon flinched, leaving Sergio to stalk away unchallenged.

Again, Solomon looked to the others. No one reacted. Mindfully holding his head high, Solomon moved toward the exit at a slow, wary pace well behind the werewolf.

Four remained at the table.

“Just as well. Those two see us as food.” Cliff flashed an ironic smile that faded when it went unreturned. “Look, at some point, we’re not the same. Aminah, you see it. They attacked one of your people, too.”

“I don’t know who attacked Haisam,” said Aminah. “The night holds many sorts of predators and monsters. You are correct in that Sergio and Solomon are among them. You do not understand how they became that way in the first place. Such monsters are made through choices and beliefs long before any magic is involved.”

“Are we debating nature versus nurture now?” asked Cliff.

“I am saying that fangs and claws aren’t the only marks of monsters.”

“Then how about we deal with the monsters we can identify first?”

“Who’s in charge of that? Who calls the shots?” Latasha frowned.

“Naturally, someone has to be in charge,” said Cliff. “Someone has to protect us and keep the trash out. Civilization requires order, and order must be upheld.”

“Law and order as long as you’re the one imposing it?” Enrique snorted.

A hum at Aminah’s hip drew her attention. Her cell phone presented a call from “Tony.” She was careful about using the names of supernatural associates, even if they were likely false in the first place. Aminah murmured an apology and turned in her seat away from the discussion. “Yes?”

“Aminah. Apologies for calling after running out like this,” said Anatole. The thump of a closing car door and the brief beep of a seat belt warning drifted in from the background. “Are you still at the table?”

“For the moment, yes.” Her gaze rose, taking in the dining room inhabitants.

“Good. I hoped to speak with you privately before leaving, but here we are. Could I impose upon your continued diplomatic confidentiality?”

“Of course,” she answered, if only to learn where this was going.

“Did Uthman return?”

“No.” She didn’t see him at all. Ifrit could disappear easily, but she suspected he left altogether. It would be unlike him to linger.

“He hasn’t been in the city as long as you or I. Sometimes he asks me matters of local history and politics. Our kind, of course. I was flattered until recently. Do you know why he would ask about local cemeteries and which ones are protected?”

Aminah stiffened. She glanced at her remaining guests, noting continued voices and no one paying her close attention. “I could guess at a few reasons.”

“The matter seemed… concerning, particularly given his demeanor. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Tonight, he asked if I had told you about it, which I had not. Given everything going on, though, amending that seemed prudent. Ah, I’m sorry. My associates are demanding my attention. Could we discuss this further, sometime soon?”

“Yes. I think we should. Thank you for calling.” With his simple farewell, she ended the call and lowered her phone.

Ifrit were relatively few in Los Angeles, but one like Uthman had means of calling in allies. Anatole’s news brought out exactly the sort of worry Aminah had when Uthman first arrived.

The guests at the table continued to validate her worries. “When they’re howling at your doors, don’t call on us for help,” Cliff snapped at Latasha, barely below a shout. “And as long as we’re set on neighborhoods and territory, stay out of our county.” He stormed off, not to the exit, but instead to the bar area and a pair of men waiting for him.

“Did you ever consider calling him for help?” Latasha asked Enrique.

“I wouldn’t have called him to be here tonight,” he answered.

“Orange County does not belong to his circle,” said Aminah. “He postures and blusters, but the Curtain has no more control there than any group holds over Los Angeles. His lines are imaginary, like any other.”

“We know,” said Enrique.

“You know? Or you’ve been there all along?” asked Aminah. Enrique didn’t answer, giving Latasha a grin.

“He’s not entirely wrong about the other two,” said Enrique.

“Agreed. That doesn’t make someone like Cliff an acceptable ally.”

“He sure talks like someone interested in starting trouble. Or already has,” said Enrique.

“I don’t see it,” said Latasha. “He’s more talk than action. His crew doesn’t have that kind of muscle, or they’d flex it to control their home turf first. Deep down, I imagine he was excited just to be included tonight.”

“Then who do you think is doing all this?” asked Enrique.

“I’m not sure any one person or group is behind it all,” said Latasha. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I doubt Anatole is all that interested in making peace. He knows more than he’s saying.”

“We all do,” Aminah conceded.

“Sure. But he’s the one who put me and Cliff in the same room twice, and you and Uthman, and Solomon and everybody. Whatever game he’s playing, it isn’t peacemaker.” Latasha shook her head. “And his aura carries grave dirt.”

“What?” Aminah barely caught herself before showing too much interest.

“I noticed at the previous meeting, but wasn’t sure what I saw. Auras aren’t my field. Anatole always talked about coming from ‘common stock,’ too, so I thought it was dirt from being a working man or some such. Then I talked it over with my circle, did some reading, and now with a second look? It’s grave dirt.”

“Your method can tell one kind of dirt from another?” asked Enrique.

“It’s part of the magic. I needed practice. I see dirt, ash, and blood. The stains are old, but also new. He’s got a scent of carrion, too.”

“Does that connect him to any of these murders?” asked Enrique.

“Perhaps.” Aminah watched him carefully. “Ask your real question.”

“You two know each other. You don’t know me. Why have this conversation while I’m here?”

The women shared a questioning glance. Latasha nodded. Aminah explained. “Because if someone preys upon the nightlife, they won’t stop at a stern warning. This will require action.”

“My circle doesn’t have that kind of muscle,” said Latasha. “I don’t think that’s any secret. We can take care of ourselves, but we’re not fighters.”

Aminah nodded in acknowledgment, but waited for Enrique.

“You think we can take care of it?” he asked.

“We do not know Diecisiete’s strength. No one does. Your circle has been present but private for at least half a century. I don’t even know if your name refers to a year or a street or something else entirely. But I suspect you are stronger than most would guess.”

Enrique’s poker face never cracked. “We don’t go looking for fights. It’s part of our Practice.”

“Even if the fight is only a matter of time?” asked Latasha.

“We need more than suspicion and harm inflicted outside our reach. We’re not indifferent to monsters and bullies, but we have our limits. I can’t explain more. I’m sorry.”

“You have shown great trust by telling us this much. We will keep it to ourselves,” said Aminah.

“What about your people?” Enrique asked. “If anyone’s got power and numbers, it’s the djinn. You can’t be afraid of Anatole.”

“We are not, but our situation is… unsettled. A great deal may be put at risk if we are seen acting overtly, or rashly.” Aminah’s gaze drifted to the empty seats in thought. “This matter will require caution and delicate care.”

Sunday pounded the door harder and harder with her sledgehammer as drywall and concrete fell. She found her rhythm and motion faster than Evan, striking twice for every blow he landed. Their disparity in strength and stamina showed, too. Evan had his doubts about this approach, but she banished them within her first three hits.

As it turned out, sledgehammers worked as advertised. They worked better with her strength.

The hallway remained dark, but the door had its own battery. They both expected that. They also expected none of the fallen guards to have key cards, but they checked Jamal and Lexington anyway before Sunday rushed back to the Escalade for their tools. From there, the hallway saw a second battle, this time between inanimate objects and physics.

Evan heaved. He struck. He controlled, breathed, and struck again, going low while Sunday went high, and then she broke through the concrete that moored one side. With another whack, the door flew against the wall along its hinges.

They had the presence of mind to pull away as the door opened. Guards or some magical trap had always been part of the conversation, but they found only darkness. First glances down the stairs revealed the same quiet space full of shelves and racks Evan remembered.

“Yeah, motherfucker.” Sunday beamed proudly at him. “See? It’s a house, not a vault.”

“It’s not a heist, either.”

“Huh?”

“Heists are clever and elegant. We used sledgehammers from Ace Hardware. It’s not a heist.”

She checked her watch. Her smile was undiminished. “Three minutes. We’re still on our timer. It’s a heist.”

“Our timer’s a guess based on a stereotype,” Evan grumbled, but the stereotype had come out of his own mouth: Anywhere in LA is at least half an hour from everywhere. Narrow and winding roads through the Hills supported that assumption. They allowed themselves less than that half hour.

Evan took the lead. His magic let them both see in pitch darkness, but he was the one with magical armor. He also knew magic when he saw it—and therefore caught the shimmering pattern along the bottom of the stairs. “Hold on. Trouble.”

“Where?” Sunday trained her revolver to their side, ready to shoot an ambusher, but the arrangement of shelves and boxes didn’t allow much space for a person to hide.

“Floor’s magic.”

“It better not turn to lava.”

“Oh god, does that happen?” Evan asked.

“I dunno. The idea had to come from somewhere.”

“Anatole couldn’t want the house to collapse or burn to protect his loot… could he?” It seemed unlikely, and maybe not feasible. Magic had limits. Evan had already found a few. Lava and other wild transformations sounded like a bit much, but a sudden fire wasn’t too farfetched. The floor enchantment might also be a simple alarm, or slippery, or any number of effects.

“This is why you’re supposed to read the manual before you use a new toy,” he grumbled.

“We don’t have time to fuss. What do you think?”

“When all you’ve got is a hammer, right?” Evan nodded upstairs. They retreated to the door, where Sunday pitched a sledgehammer down the steps to clatter across the floor. Evan grimaced, not intending his question to be taken literally, but he realized it was a good first step.

Seeing no reaction to the hammer, Evan shot a pair of stars down the staircase. They ricocheted across the floor and the wall, setting off a crackle of soft white light. Then a faint mist emanated from all across the floor. He asked, “Do you see that?”

“The creepy fog? Yeah.”

“Does it do anything?”

“Hell if I know—wait,” said Sunday.

The mist gathered closer to the door, whisps and tendrils reaching together into a single thick whorl of fog. Evan’s stomach churned. Sunday made a face as if she felt it, too.

The fog whispered: “You killed me.”

“Um,” mumbled Evan.

“Aw shit,” Sunday grunted.

“You killed me,” the fog whispered again, louder and angrier. The mass took on a rounded shape, rising as deep eye sockets took form, and shoulders, and arms. “Motherfucker, you killed me!”

Evan knew that voice.

Sunday snapped her revolvers up and fired. Evan didn’t wait to assess; he raised both hands to shoot, but the bald apparition with accusing eyes and a hole in his forehead rushed up the stairs before Evan felt the charge of his magic.

A dire chill claimed Evan as Frank slashed through him with ghostly hands. Evan gave up on shooting and punched. The sensation of resistance surprised him. His blow carried through his target, feeling more like he’d punched a curtain than a face, and then Evan caught himself against the basement door gasping for breath. Frank let out a louder gasp of greater pain.

Both of them wound up on their knees. One discorporated in the hallway. The other clung to the door as the one solid thing he could still sense in the darkness.

“Whoa, Evan, are you okay? Evan!”

“I think… oh god, I think…” He shivered so hard he couldn’t breathe. The hand on his shoulder startled him, but also brought instant comfort. He could focus on something real, something tangible and warm. Shadows cleared around bright eyes staring back at him—brown and dark at any other time he’d seen them, but so importantly bright now.

“Hey. You with me?” asked Sunday.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he huffed, still shivering.

“Can you heal up again? Try healing.”

Evan fought for every breath. One hand clung to Sunday’s. The other, blindly following her suggestion, circled his chest and called on his power.

Shadows parted. Warmth returned. He wasn’t sure if the latter was magic or companionship. “Holy shit,” Evan gasped. He turned to the hallway and found only Sunday and the open basement door. “Is he gone? He didn’t hurt you?”

“Nah, it was over in one pass. Never touched me,” said Sunday. “It looked surprised. I don’t think you were supposed to do that to him.”

“How long was I out?”

“Out?” Sunday asked. “You didn’t go out. It’s been seconds. We talked the whole time.”

“Wow,” he exhaled. “That was Frank. Oh, fuck, that was Frank. The cop.”

“From your first time here? Maybe that makes sense. He died here,” she explained when Evan looked back in shock. “Look, I don’t know much about shit like ghosts. First time I’ve ever seen one, if that’s what it was, and I’ve seen a lot. But stories are always about where and who, right?” Sunday shrugged. “Maybe they grabbed his spirit and stuck him here.”

“Jesus.” Evan shook again, more from the creep factor than any lingering cold. Now that he was out of it, Frank’s attack no longer left him in pain. He felt only the workout from the sudden, full-body shiver. “If he was here, what about the others? What about the vampire?”

“Feel like they’d be on our ass by now if they had the chance. We knew Anatole was bound to leave some sort of surprise. Now we’ve found it. Dealt with it, too.” Sunday grinned. “They still don’t know what to expect from you. Or me.”

That grin lifted him out of the lingering shadow. It meant a lot to him. Too much.

“Okay. I’m good,” said Evan.

Sunday checked her watch and nodded. “Sixteen minutes. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

They descended with less caution this time. Sunday took the lead, weapon ready, but she seemed unworried about further traps or guards. Following behind her gave Evan a chance to reset his magical protection and his wits. The floor no longer shimmered or shifted with magic, nor did the rest of the basement itself.

The contents were another story.

Packing material filled much of the middle space in the basement, with rolls of bubble wrap and blocks of black foam waiting to be cut. Sturdy green carry cases lined the shelves instead of the less-organized boxes and loose articles Evan remembered. The gilded boxes and urns sat inside plastic crates. As Christian said, most of the collection had been packed and ready to go.

Some items were too large or inappropriately shaped for the crates, like the meter-wide, intricately-decorated bronze bowl atop one shelf, the rolled-up Persian rug beside another, and the amphora as tall as Evan’s hip—all three of them standing out in Evan’s scan of the room as if under some subtle extra lighting.

Not every loose item stood out the same way. Blankets and tape covered several square objects he took for paintings or glasswork, and another he assumed was a statue. A feminine face carved in dark stone stared at him with hollow eyes from another shelf. The crates only looked like plastic and metal, but he couldn’t see inside. Mitu had come out of a similar crate.

“Smaller than I imagined,” said Sunday. “Nice of them to pack most of it up for us.”

“Magic.” Evan pointed out his discoveries in quick succession, and then to the old, unstrung bow marked with faded paint and twine, laid out atop another shelf of crates. “These things have magic. I don’t know what or how, but it’s there.”

“Trapped or cursed?”

“Hell if I know. I don’t think so?”

“Then we grab that first.” Sunday slid the big bowl off the shelf and turned back to the stairs. “Fifteen minutes, then we bounce. Whatever’s left stays with the ghosts.”

Bridger turned in place one last time, scanning through the faint line of smoke from the stick of incense he held under his eyes. Streetlamps and storefront windows lit the night. At this hour, the lane served mainly as a hopeful stretch of street parking for people going to clubs, bars, and tourist spots a block away. His attention stayed mostly downward, looking over concrete, asphalt, and the occasional bit of litter. Bridger’s skeptical frown sank in deeper as he finished, shaking his head. “He didn’t die here.”

“How can you tell? What do you see?” Amber stayed out of Bridger’s way, but watched with interest. Beside her, Sanderson looked on with guarded patience. That left Marino to mind any interfering pedestrians, but no one bothered them. On this street, the only oddity of Bridger’s ritual was his conservative shirt and tie.

“Nothing. I don’t see anything at all.” He doused the stick of incense in the trickle of runoff along the sidewalk gutter. “Death leaves a mark. I should see blood stains or a silhouette where the body expired. There’s nothing here.”

“You’re certain?” asked Sanderson.

“Obviously, I can’t prove it in court, but yeah. I don’t think anyone has ever died on this sidewalk. Not even from a car accident.”

“Damn,” Sanderson grumbled. He pulled out his phone.

“You sure you did your voodoo right?” asked Marino.

Bridger gave him a long, thoughtful look. He stepped closer and dropped his voice, but Amber still heard it: “You’ve killed four people. It’s been a while, so it wasn’t with the Bureau. Army, right?”

Marino answered only with wider eyes and an unconscious lean away from Bridger.

“It’s not voodoo, and I did it right,” Bridger assured him.

“Yeah, it’s Sanderson,” their boss said into his phone. “Where are we on the autopsy for Detective Crosby? Is that—sorry, hold on.” He looked at his screen and then to Amber. “I’m on with the coroner. Can you call Lanier back for me?”

“Sure.” She tapped her phone screen while Sanderson returned to his own conversation. Lanier would understand as soon as he saw her call. Waiting to ring through, she saw no more exchanges between Marino and Bridger. One folded his arms and uncomfortably stepped away. The other looked toward the sky.

Amber still saw the same reflection of city light against scattered clouds she always did.

“Hey. Amber,” Lanier answered in a rush. “We’ve got big movement. Are you in the car?”

“We’re right by it.” She tapped Bridger’s arm and waved to get Sanderson and Marino’s attention, pointing them to their SUV. “Car. We’ve gotta go.”

All three men moved without question. If nothing else, everyone on the task force trusted one another’s sense of urgency and priorities. Nobody had to cushion a call like this in niceties. Sanderson, still on his phone, pointed at Amber with one word: “Drive.”

“We’re moving. What’s going on?” Amber asked.

“A bunch of our watchlist from the Murphy thing just got a message,” Lanier explained. “Says, ‘Unwelcome guests at the hill house. A. requests support for staff if promptly available.’ Same ghost number as before. Torres, Dietrich, Emerald, and Killer Six all got it.”

“Hill house? Which hills?” Amber winced, hoping she hadn’t misread Lanier’s tone and jumped the gun with the others. “What have we got to go on?”

“You’re at the Crosby site?”

“Yeah.” Her three companions were inside. She hit the ignition and scanned traffic. She had openings, but not a direction. “Where am I going?”

“West to Laurel Canyon, then up into the hills. I’ll give the address when you’re ready.”

Despite the distraction of her phone, she pulled away from the curb in a sharp U-turn. Sanderson steadied himself against the dashboard while Bridger lurched in his seat behind her. “Wait, the ghost texter sent an address?”

“No, I caught it from Dietrich,” said Lanier. “He told another account, ‘Raid at the party house, get there now,’ with dollar emojis. They asked which house and he gave the street numbers. I figured it out from there.

“This is all just a few minutes old. I’ve got nothing on 911 from the area. No traffic alerts, either. Should be able to get there in under ten.”

“Got it.” Amber didn’t know what they would do about the situation, but that would be up to Sanderson. For now, she only cared about getting there in time to take any action at all. She held the phone away from herself and pushed on the accelerator. “I’m driving. Somebody take this.”

“Here.” Sanderson took the phone and tapped the screen. “Okay, you’re on speaker. Fill us in.”

14

CRIMINAL SPIN

Some cases were heavier than others. Much heavier.

Staging them all from the basement to the garage felt like the harshest workout of Evan’s life. The second trip brought significant relief when Sunday spotted the moving dolly in the corner of the garage, but that still left them hustling up and down stairs, and then back and forth from hallway to the back of Christian’s Escalade.

Sweating and out of breath, Evan used his healing magic to cheat the workout. It only took the edge off his fatigue, but that was enough to maintain their pace. Sunday accepted the offer of the same boost with barely a word.

They hauled, stacked, and hurried. Soon, Sunday told Evan to run the dolly while she covered the back-and-forth of the stairs. She leaped the bottom half of the steps every time. Rather than loading in, Evan merely slid the cases off the dolly—sometimes messily—and rushed back. He lost count of cases on his fourth or fifth trip, but they needed only one more run.

Sunday carried the last two cases behind Evan and the dolly, ending that leg of the relay at the back of the Escalade. Both of them gulped for breath, him stooped over, her leaning back.

“Tuh-time?” Evan asked.

“Four,” she huffed. “Four minutes left.”

“Should’ve made Christian stay and help,” said Evan. The Bentley was already gone. With the power out, Evan supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Christian had left the garage door open—and likely the driveway gate, too.

“Nah. He would’a gotten in the way.”

“Are you kidding? Asshole’s a pro athlete. I’ll never be in that kind of shape.”

“Do… do the thing.” Sunday waved a weary hand at him. Willfully, Evan straightened and forced a steady breath to cast the spell on Sunday. A shiver overtook her as aches and strains receded, though her pulse still ran high and her breath remained heavy. He had the same experience.

“Okay. Better.” She threw open the back doors, revealing empty trunk space and the third row of seats. Thanks to a handy online tutorial, they had already removed the bolts from the bench. Evan climbed inside to fold the seats over and disconnect the wires. Sunday pulled the bench and tossed it away. She looked at the resulting space with a frown. “It’s roomy, but is it enough?”

“Ever pack your friend’s whole life into a shitty hatchback on a Tuesday night?” asked Evan.

Once again, her grin lifted him higher than his magic. “Yeah, actually.”

They shoved the remaining half of the third-row bench out through the other door. “We’re not gonna meet our time, though.”

“Timer’s a guess. Keep going.”

“Where’s—fuck, where’s that really heavy one?” A glance at the disorderly collection located the worst offender of the bunch, parked right behind the bumper. That one definitely had to go in first. Thankfully, Sunday came to his side before he ruined his lower back trying to heft it alone. “This better be full of actual goddamn gold bars,” Evan growled.

“I’ve got it,” Sunday assured, climbing in after the case to drag it to its final space. “You load, I’ll stack. We’ve got this.”

Evan agreed with action rather than words, heaving the nearest case over the bumper, and then the next. He felt a twinge of annoyance at all the heist movies that ignored this part. Clever and elegant plans too often skipped the combination eviction-day-and-shuttle-run workout.

Or maybe it’s not a real heist, he thought. But if it’s not a real heist, then maybe we can skip the thrilling getaway…?

Evan winced. Why? Why did I think those words out loud in my head?

“The app is right,” said Bridger. “Numbers and streets all track. We’re good.” Dark, winding hillside conditions made for a difficult check, but nobody wanted to trust a simple navigation app without confirmation. Not with their first potential lucky break.

“Alright, we don’t know what we’re getting into,” said Sanderson. “Unless probable cause jumps out to grab us, we slow down and keep going on our first look. Got it?”

“Got it,” Amber confirmed.

“Be nice if anyone slowed down on this road,” Marino grumbled. “Thought that Bentley would hit us head-on.”

“Lanier, anything new?” Sanderson asked.

“Nothing,” Lanier answered over the speaker. “Subjects have all gone quiet since the call-out. Nothing on 911. LAPD’s working a few normal calls nearby and traffic for a show at the Bowl. Nothing for fire. Area’s quiet.”

“We’ve seen these spooky types keep some pretty wild shit quiet and private,” Amber warned.

“Right. Bridger?” Sanderson asked.

He sat directly behind Sanderson, holding a small crystal in front of his eye. “Not much to see while driving around, but we’re not there yet. I’m watching.”

“Behind us,” warned Marino.

“I see ’em. Whoa,” Amber said as the Mustang swept around their Suburban. She rarely wished the FBI could give traffic citations, but the occasional lunatic changed her feelings—especially when the lunatic rushed past them in the same direction. “9EW… shit, I didn’t get the whole plate.”

“I did.” Sanderson tapped at his phone. “Lanier, run this. They passed us like a bat out of⁠—”

They saw the Mustang again after turning the next bend, closer than it should be and peeling away from a hedge-and-gate driveway. A less watchful driver might have missed the man in the long black coat left in the Mustang’s wake. He stepped behind the hedge, taking him out of view just after the Suburban’s headlights passed over him and continued on the curve.

Amber thought fast enough to look to her mirrors as she drove by. The man in black darted across the street, rushing for the steep rise of the hill on the other side. The curve of the road would take them on a longer, gentler slope up around that same direction. Ahead, the Mustang took the coming curve at a faster rate.

She wasn’t the only one to catch on. “Boss, I can take that hill,” said Marino.

“You’d be alone. We stick together,” said Sanderson. “Maddox, stay on that guy.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Beside her, Sanderson drew his pistol and kept it below the window. Marino took the hint and did the same. Amber kept her eyes on the road.

“Last one,” Evan declared. The case had tumbled beside the back wheel amid their rush to stage and load up. He snatched it off the ground and slid it into place behind the others. The hustle didn’t slow despite the approaching finish line.

In the end, they had several inches of open space along the top and the back of the stacks. Their cargo would slide and tumble with any rough movement, but they agreed to the risk without a word. Tie-downs and better packing could wait until they got somewhere else—anywhere else.

Sunday slammed the back door shut and passed Evan with a hand on his shoulder. Breathlessly, he climbed into the driver’s side while she settled in at shotgun. The loose treasures touched with magic occupied the bench and floor space. Evan could think of nothing they had forgotten or left behind. At three minutes past their estimated limit, they dared not linger. He reached for the ignition.

“Oh shit,” Sunday murmured. Evan’s hand froze in contact with the starter.

Red canine eyes stared at them from the darkness beyond the garage exit.

“Fuck. I didn’t see it.” Like Sunday, Evan spoke softly out of instinct and more than a little fear.

“You wouldn’t. Nobody sees a dog like that unless they let you,” she said.

“Was it there the whole time? Why didn’t it jump us?”

“House must still be warded,” Sunday reasoned, staring back at the dog. “It had a handler before. Now it can’t get back in.”

It was Evan’s first good look at the dog outside of frantic violence. Pitch black from nose to tail except for those glowing red eyes and white teeth, the dog fit no specific breed. It was built like a mastiff on steroids, short-haired and with pointed ears, yet showed no sign of grooming. Big paws ended in big claws. That tail swished back and forth not unlike his cats’ tails when they were annoyed or about to pounce. Evan didn’t know if cats and dogs shared that body language. The lowered head and glaring eyes spoke clearly enough.

“God, I don’t want to hurt… her? She’s scary, but was any of this her fault?” asked Evan.

“No. No, it’s not. I’ve gotta make this right. Stay in here.” Sunday opened the door and stepped out, holstering her weapons.

“Sunday—!” Evan stopped himself. He didn’t have a better idea, and he could easily understand anyone sticking their neck out for an animal. “Big scary ghost animal” didn’t make that any different. If Sunday felt this way, he wouldn’t talk her out of it. Instead, he did as Sunday asked, rolled down his side window, and hoped his magic would make a difference if this all went to hell.

“Hola, chica,” she began, approaching slowly. “We’ve met. Probably remember me, yeah?”

The dog stood her ground and still held a growl in every breath, but her head rose curiously.

“I helped ’em grab you. All this shitty stuff was partly because of me. I’m sorry. Wasn’t myself. Couldn’t help it. Kinda like how they put that collar on you, huh? Doesn’t make a difference to you, though. You still got taken away from home. Still got hurt.”

Sunday held out her hands, low and open, reaching to the very edge of the line left on the concrete by the garage door. The dog came right to the line, too, snorfing at her fingers with wary interest. Those red eyes stared into Sunday’s soul.

“Probably wanna go home, don’t you?” she asked. “I don’t even know if you’ve got a name. All I know is you came out of Barstow.”

“Ruff.”

Sunday blinked. “Barstow?”

“Fruff.”

“You know it? Or is that your name? You like Barstow?”

The dog scratched at the pavement, turned, and snorffed again—toward the northeast.

“You gonna eat me if I come out? Or can we be friends?”

The dog brought its nose as close to the unseen boundary as it dared. Sunday held up her hand, slowly bringing it closer… and finally past the line, until a wet nose touched her palm. Contact became a push, and then a timid scratch along the dog’s snout. The dog didn’t bite.

“Can I call you Barstow?”

“Grff!”

“Okay, Barstow, we gotta go. Can we come out? You gonna bite us?”

The dog jerked away from Sunday’s touch, driving a shot of fear into Evan, but just as quickly that snout came right back against her hand. Her new acquaintance leaned into her touch.

“Aw. Aw, chica. We gotta move, okay? Watch out for the truck. Don’t bite us. Friends now?”

Sunday led the dog away from the center of the exit, toward one corner. Then she moved beyond the boundary, bringing herself fully outside the protective ward. Her new associate didn’t bite or growl. With her free hand, Sunday gestured for Evan to bring the SUV out.

“Please tell me she isn’t the car-chasing type.” Evan got the Escalade in gear and let off the brake to crawl forward with the engine at idle. Still nothing changed at the edge of the garage; Sunday scratched the dog’s head and remained unbitten.

As he crossed the line, Sunday backed toward her door. He couldn’t see anything until she opened it up, still with her back to him, and climbed inside—with a sudden rush of black shadow through the closed passenger doors behind them and into the back seat. “Whoa, what—?” Evan blurted.

“Woof,” said the dog.

“Barstow’s coming with us,” said Sunday.

“Barstow? That’s her name?”

“I guess. I dunno. I don’t speak ghost or dog, but she likes it, so Barstow it is.”

“Woof!” Her snout poked forward into the space between Evan and Sunday. Some ethereal quality reduced her voice, as if her bark came from far away.

“Okay, but then what? Where are we going? I can’t bring her near my cats.” Evan made eye contact with the glowing, blood red orbs. He didn’t dare infer warmth or acceptance, but Barstow’s menace seemed at least amiably delayed. She gave him a snorf.

“We’ll figure it out. I think she wants to go home. Anywhere’s better than here.”

“Guess I know that feeling. Alright, hang on,” he told their new passenger. Barstow didn’t bark, but she settled back with the first movement of the Escalade.

Headlights pushed back the darkness of the driveway. Naturally, Christian had fitted his obnoxiously large SUV with obnoxious high-intensity lamps. They had only a short distance to cross to the gate, also left open in Christian’s wake. Beyond it awaited the relief of the road beyond it—until someone emerged from around the gate in a dark green hoodie and faded jeans.

The figure moved fast. Evan caught a flash of a feminine, east Asian face, but the hood and distance made him unsure. She swept her hand out in a broad arc, producing a wash of green dust that flew across the unnaturally far. In an instant, the dust coated every window of the Escalade to fully blind the pair inside.

“Shit!” Sunday grabbed at her pistols. Barstow barked. Evan hit the brakes. He knew the dust was magical without need for scrutiny. Nothing natural could coat this thoroughly, but the open driver’s side window at least left a gap. A mineral scent touched Evan’s nose.

Something struck the Escalade, low and right, metal against metal. The noise coincided with the lurch of suddenly braking. “Go!” snapped Sunday. “Go, go, go!”

Her instinct made sense. Preferring to be a moving target over sitting still, Evan tapped the accelerator. Memory and his open side window would have to be enough to guide through those first yards. Sunday pulled the release on her door but opened it only inches before that same metallic sound struck along her side. “Shit,” she hissed.

Tilting his head toward the open window, Evan caught more of that mineral scent and noticed the subtle shift of dust against the windshield. Magical or not, the dust seemed physical. He stuck his left arm out of the window and waved in a circular motion, pulling away. The emerald dust flew toward his cleansing spell like any other dirt or debris.

His instincts and memory proved correct. The Escalade headed for the open gate, putting their attacker somewhere to the right and behind them. Sunday twisted unnaturally and poked her revolver through her open door. She fired twice, but gave no sign of success. Evan focused on driving.

Lights flashed from the left across the driveway with an oncoming vehicle, Because of course someone’s passing now, Evan thought as he reached the gate—and then the lights turned sharply inward. Instinct sent Evan’s foot to the brake as another SUV with a Mercedes logo on the grill stopped at a forty-five degree angle to his. Their headlights shined into one another.

The alert, well-dressed Black man in the shotgun seat shimmered with a faint gold aura. The beefy blond guy at the wheel had no such special effects. The angle also revealed the familiar face behind the driver. Anatole locked eyes with Evan and shouted words that didn’t carry.

“Oh fuck!” Evan reacted without a second thought, shooting tiny stars at Anatole. The guy in the shotgun seat moved in the same instant, throwing a thin puff of smoke from his hand across the windshield. Though Evan’s stars punctured the windshield like bullets, they seemed to disappear inside. He saw and felt no effect, and didn’t stop to investigate.

Sunday fired again to their right and rear, still twisted with her back against the dash and her knee dug into her seat. “Go!” she shouted while Evan warned, “Hold on!” and grabbed her shoulder to keep her steady. His foot slammed down on the accelerator and his left hand jerked the wheel to the right—in that order. The driveway rose up to the road, giving the Mercedes slightly higher ground, but the Escalade had a few yards to build velocity and packed much greater weight. Evan clipped and lifted the right side of the Anatole’s hood as he smashed past.

The Escalade shook again with a second, unexpected thud on the way out of the gate. The hit came from above, and behind. Past Barstow and the well-packed cargo space, the rearview mirror gave Evan a glimpse of a long and bestial body climbing the rest of the way onto the roof. He pushed harder on the accelerator and took the first stretch of road faster than he preferred.

Thankfully, Sunday stayed inside the cab. “Shit, missed her,” she grunted, dropping her pistol to pull the door shut. Then she braced herself in a snap as Evan swung the Escalade hard to the left and right. “Evan, what the fuck?”

It didn’t work. Nothing flew off of the Escalade. Instead, they heard metal pop and break overhead, first at the rear and then closer. “Monster on the roof!” Evan warned.

Noisy damage from above continued, drawing Sunday’s attention. Barstow looked up with a growl. Whatever the beast did outside didn’t punch through the upholstery. Yet.

“Terrence?” Anatole asked.

“Magic. He had magic. I threw up a defense,” Terrence explained quickly.

“I saw. I am glad. Sam?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” said the driver. “Something caught up to them on their way through us.”

“A werewolf. I saw it,” said Anatole. The Escalade was already out of view, but he had a decent look before it disappeared. “That was Murphy, and I think another of Christian’s vehicles. I didn’t see his companion’s face. A woman, it seemed?”

“Behind us,” warned Jan, seated beside Anatole. They heard the engine as the words left Jan’s mouth, and saw the light. The motorcycle blew past them a heartbeat later, rushing on after the Escalade. “That looked like Killer Six,” said Jan.

Anatole looked past Terrence to the driveway. Only ambient light from the neighbors and the starry sky lit the house. Emerald Shadow stepped into view with her hands up, but her motion spoke less of peace than frustration. “Hey, what the hell?” the assassin called out.

“Boss?” Terrance prompted.

The house stood with its gate and garage open and not a guard in sight. The thief was already in flight and under pursuit. Anatole’s face darkened. “Follow them.”

Tires squealed as the Mercedes straightened and took off. Emerald Shadow stood in its wake, with only the pair of her daggers that had fallen loose from the Escalade’s door when it hit Anatole’s vehicle. She threw back her hoodie on her way to the gate, scowling at the tail lights disappearing down the curve. “That’s fine, go!” she shouted. “Don’t even say hi! I’m still billing for this!”

Evan swerved hard, using the whole road while it was still open. Tighter curves weren’t far off. One headlight appeared in the mirror, suggesting either Anatole had lost a light at the driveway or some poor random motorcyclist had wandered into the chase. He wondered what an ordinary rider might think: If I saw a monster on top of the car ahead of me, would I stop, or follow and watch?

“I can’t shoot with you moving like this,” said Sunday.

“What, right through the roof?” asked Evan.

“No, that’s crazy! I gotta lean outside!”

That sounded crazier to Evan, but he had no time to debate. He tried to throw the beast with another hard left lean, then jerked the wheel right to give space to any oncoming traffic as they came around the hillside curve. Wild momentum hopefully made life harder for their passenger, and at least halted the pop and grind of metal along the roof. The weight of their cargo made such motions scarier at the wheel, but Evan kept the Escalade under control. Barely.

“God damn I hate SUVs,” he muttered.

A new breeze filled the cabin as they went into the curve. Sunday had her window open before Evan knew it, rising up on her feet with her right arm hooked out the window and upward. She fired her revolver twice, producing a bestial roar from above with her second shot.

They rounded the curve into a straighter stretch of road. Headlights approached with perhaps the width of two more hillside homes separating them, and another vehicle followed behind. Evan meant to continue safely past before swerving again to shake their stowaway.

Instead, the oncoming car braked and swung hard to place its rear halfway into Evan’s lane. Only a narrow gap separated the Mustang’s trunk from the residential wall to Evan’s right. The driver, bearded and wild-eyed, snapped the double barrel of a sawed-off shotgun up through his open side window.

Evan had nowhere to go and sure as hell wasn’t hitting the brakes for someone pointing a gun at him. He tilted right and braced against the dashboard with a fleeting hope that his mystic armor might hold up to this.

The Escalade swatted the Mustang’s trunk aside. Light flashed across the Escalade’s hood, dashboard, and even the windshield. Evan took the effect for his own headlights jumping, worrying more about injury and airbags and damage that might halt their escape. Instead, his headlights shined on against the dark mass that flew off the roof and over the hood, tumbling ahead of them on unforgiving pavement.

“This guy’s a fucking maniac,” Amber hissed. She stayed with the Mustang, holding a safe gap but never losing sight of him for more than a second or two at the tightest turns.

“Might’ve noticed he picked up a tail,” said Marino.

“Next curve and then we’re there,” Sanderson reported from his glance at the navigator app. “It’s a tight one.”

“Yeah, I see it,” said Amber, and she didn’t like it. Houses filled the lane to her left to take advantage of the view, while the hillside rose steeply on their right. The Mustang would leave her sight for a few seconds at the turn, which might be long enough to do something clever or tricky. A supernatural suspect could have any number of unexpected abilities… or, Amber dreaded, the driver and their disembarked passenger might be a couple of ordinary drunk assholes. It wouldn’t be the task force’s first wild goose chase.

Then a large, dark SUV rounded the hillside curve to approach them. Light flashed across the hood and the hulking mass of fur on the roof. “Werewolf!” Amber shouted.

“What?” Sanderson asked, looking up from the app.

The Mustang turned and drifted to a stop, planting itself across the road to block the SUV—which promptly slammed right into the Mustang’s tail, ejecting its rooftop rider. Muscle and fur flew through the air straight toward Amber’s vehicle. “Werewolf!” she repeated as it tumbled onto the pavement and kept rolling toward her.

Amber’s brakes couldn’t stop her Suburban in such a short distance. The werewolf bounced off her bumper to flop helplessly between herself and the Escalade that came to a halt only feet away.

Two people occupied the front seats with an unsettled black dog behind them. With both SUVs at a dead stop, Amber stared eye-to-eye with Evan Murphy.

Braking after the crash happened on instinct, seeming fully reasonable when it saved Evan and Sunday from a second crash into the Suburban following the Mustang. It felt less prudent when he saw four people looking back at him. None of them screamed or covered up like normal people facing a car crash. The monster laid out in the road between them probably should’ve made some impact, too. Instead, the quartet generally kept their heads.

“Go! Go, go!” Sunday snapped Evan out of his hesitation. He took the open path ahead without question, along with her next suggestion: “Lean left! Left lane!”

“Okay,” he said, though that meant the opposing lane. They had clearance. He didn’t know what she wanted with that. “Hey, was that a werewo⁠—?”

Sunday already had her hip on the bottom of her side window—her left hip, allowing her to face their rear as she hung out of the vehicle.

“That’s him. Shit, that was Murphy,” said Sanderson.

“Bigger problem!” Amber had tangled with werewolves before. She knew better than to take her eyes off the beast in the road. She also wasn’t the least surprised when it groaned and rose to hands and knees, shaking its lupine head.

The Mustang still blocked most of the road, illuminated by some oncoming vehicle beyond it. She threw her Suburban into reverse in time for the werewolf to turn its angry eyes and snarl on her. Hurt or not, the monster roared and leaped, claws coming inches from the hood and advancing as she backed up. Amber tore the pistol from her shoulder holster.

Blood and bone exploded across the werewolf’s snout before she got a shot off. Sanderson and the others hadn’t fired, either. Their attacker collapsed mid-swing in front of their retreating headlights.

For an instant, no one spoke. Ahead, the Mustang sat in the road with its newly-crumpled back left corner shedding bits of broken tail light. The monster didn’t rise. Amber heard a distant, feminine cheer and the retreating engine of Murphy’s Escalade. Tail lights in her mirror disappeared behind a curve—and with them, their suspect.

Brighter lights flashed ahead of them as a motorcycle swerved around the Mustang at high speed. The rider in black didn’t slow on his way past Amber’s hood, either. She caught a red, sporty look to the bike, but nothing else. She still had bigger problems. With little grace and no hesitation, Amber pulled back and to the right.

“Hold on,” said Marino. “If that’s a werewolf⁠—”

“Then either it’s dead or about to kill us,” Amber interrupted.

“She’s right,” Bridger spoke up. “We’re losing them.”

“Go,” Sanderson decided with speed and frustration. “Damn it, go.”

She was already turning the wheel into the end of her three-point correction. Her natural look to her mirrors before swinging back into traffic revealed the driver stepping out of the Mustang, seemingly with a gun in hand, angling toward the fallen body. Amber didn’t stick around to observe or engage. Tires squealed as she took off after their target.

“¡No me chingues, pendejo! Got you!” Sunday cackled and swung herself back inside. The lurch of the Escalade sent her leaning across the divider to bump into Evan’s shoulder, but she laughed it off. “Good driving! Damn, we didn’t even lose a headlight. You are so fuckin’ slick!”

Though too focused to blush, Evan knew her praise would echo in his head. He couldn’t help the truth slipping out: “That wasn’t all intentional.”

“Whatever. You held it together, they didn’t. That’s how it goes. We bagged a fuckin’ werewolf just now. That’s huge.”

That took his eyes off the road to glance at her. Barstow’s head still poked between their seats, seeming to be in a much better mood despite the action. “That thing was a werewolf? Wait, did I kill him or did you?”

“Teamwork.” She held up her revolver to eject spent casings and reload. “This is the problem with technology, man. These are too big and distinct to use much anymore, but I am so fuckin’ good with them.”

“It’s dead? You’re sure it’s dead?”

“Yeah, man. Silver bullet to the face.” She winked. “Well. Silver and iron. Everyone says it’s gotta be pure to do the job, but that ain’t true. Bet the werewolves started that rumor themselves to keep people from tryin’.”

“Why the iron, if—?” Evan tapped the brakes for stability coming into the next curve, but his foot came right back to the gas. He wasn’t about to waste any clear stretch of straight road. As Sunday noted, they hadn’t lost so much as a headlight from smashing past the Mustang. That impressed Evan less than Sunday’s feat. “You shot him in the face from a moving vehicle?”

“You gave me a straight line. The trick is not to overthink it. Also, he was practically standing still in front of that...” Sunday frowned in thought. “That other SUV didn’t look like no family of four, you know?”

“Yeah.” Evan glanced to the mirrors, once again having to look over the big black dog in his way. Another headlight followed them—a lone headlight, closing fast despite Evan’s dangerous speed. “Aw, shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Sunday looked to her mirror in time to catch a flash of light as the rider closed with the back corner of the Escalade. Evan swerved, but the rider avoided it effortlessly. Then the guy rose up on the motorcycle’s foot pegs while Evan corrected from the swerve. He leaped from the motorcycle, leaving it to topple behind them as the Escalade bounced and thumped with a new arrival on its back corner.

“Christ, seriously?” Evan blurted. This passenger pulled himself onto the roof faster than the last, all while headlights returned to the rearview mirrors.

“Sam, slow down and assess,” Anatole instructed, and then corrected as soon as they came around the damaged Mustang: “Stop!”

They barely knew the bearded man in denim, but no one was surprised when he whirled at their Mercedes with his sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. Between magic and the SUV’s armor, no one felt too threatened. The naked and bloody body at the man’s feet provided some explanation. Most of all, his quick recognition of the passengers in the Mercedes and correction of his aim made the move forgivable.

Anatole lowered his window. “Crank, is it? That’s your name?”

“Yeah.” The bearded man waved at the body. “They killed Dietrich! Shot him in the face!”

“Bring the body to the house,” Anatole instructed with enough urgency to imply sympathy. Crank was younger than he looked, and had just lost his mentor. “You remember it from the meeting, yes? The lights are out. You can’t miss it. Wait there. We’ll help you.”

“The body? Fuck the—I’ve gotta get them!” Crank snarled.

“We’re on it. The body cannot wait. Trust me, as Dietrich did. Go! Sam, let’s move,” Anatole instructed the driver.

Sam pressed onward. In the mirror, Anatole saw Crank move toward Dietrich rather than his car before they lost line of sight. The implication was enough to satisfy. Anatole did not like losing allies and agents, but any such loss presented opportunity. He never let it go to waste.

“That one’s a werewolf, too, right?” asked Sam.

“Yes. Dietrich turned him recently,” said Anatole. “He may be in need of new guidance. Let’s offer an open hand.”

“If they’re taking out werewolves, who the fuck are we dealing with?” asked Terrence.

“It can be done. You have accomplished it,” said Anatole.

“Yeah, with my circle and a lot of effort. Now I’m really worried about them,” said Terrence.

“As am I. Whatever is done is done. We follow the lead we have.”

“That’s not Christian’s Escalade ahead of us,” said Sam. “It’s a Suburban. They’re driving like they’re in pursuit, too.”

“But we don’t know them?” Anatole turned to his side.

Jan had his phone at his ear, catching Anatole’s glance. “Hold on,” he told the call, then spoke to Anatole: “I’ve got Torres now. They’re still inbound. The other vehicle isn’t theirs; I don’t know who they could be.”

With a gesture, Anatole requested and received Jan’s phone. “It’s me. We have an additional player on the field, and they are not ours.”

“He’s got another guy on his rooftop?” asked Sanderson.

“Filthy with magic, too.” Bridger gripped the back of Amber’s seat with one hand to steady himself. His other hand held that crystal up to his eye. “Lots of magic.”

“The Escalade, or the guy?” asked Marino.

“Both,” Bridger corrected. “Something’s fading off the Escalade. I didn’t know you could work magic on a vehicle. The rider’s magic is something different. He’s got vapors around him, like ghosts—shit, they are ghosts. The ghosts are holding him down.”

The rider dropped his free hand to the roof for another curve. Amber followed, losing sight for only seconds. She remembered this stretch of road. They would have fewer curves and more buildings ahead. The lights brightened, too. They’d come out of the residential neighborhood soon. “Will that still work when more people see it?”

“Shouldn’t, if it’s enough people. But it’s not like flipping a switch. If he’s quick…”

They rounded the corner and found their targets once more. Amber’s headlights illuminated the back of the black Escalade, the rider on its roof, and the long, curved blade he had produced from seemingly nowhere.

Evan barely slowed ahead of a four-way intersection. Without headlights or pedestrians in view, traffic signs meant far less than the rider on his roof. Sunday looked up and listened. “I can’t tell where he is,” she warned. Barstow, too, looked up at the roof and growled.

“We’ve still got others following us. We can’t stop,” said Evan.

“No, don’t,” Sunday agreed. She pulled the handle of her door.

Leaning left saved her from the blade that stabbed downward through the roof. Evan’s mouth had opened to object to her plan, but shouted at this new shock instead. “Whoa! Through the roof!” The blade jerked away—leaving no hole, nor any mark—and plunged down again. It missed Sunday only because she twisted out of her seat with her back against the dashboard.

Sunday blasted twice at the roof with her revolver, producing smoke from her barrel and sparks overhead. Barstow barked in complaint. Against the windshield, Evan caught a new flash of light and magic. He processed with enough time to reach for her shoulder, thinking to push her back out of the way.

The blade swept down into the windshield at an arc, ghosting through glass and the frame into a sudden halt at Evan’s arm—sudden and painful. “Gah!” It jerked upward and away while Evan winced in shock. Bitter, frigid torment spread from his arm to his shoulder.

“Evan!” Sunday twisted back into her seat, revolver up and firing again. She put another hole in the roof, more smoke in the cabin, and more ringing in everyone’s ears. No one fell from the top of the Escalade.

The vehicle bumped over a gutter depression in the road jostling passengers and cargo. Evan’s eyes snapped wide and his left hand pulled on the steering wheel to keep them on track. Their path leveled out as they left the hills. Ahead, he saw an intersection with a red light, no passing traffic, and the tall and bright edifices of condominiums. The clear intersection was enough to keep him going.

Sunday looked outward as their surroundings shifted. Reflections in the nearest window were enough to push her out of her seat again, once more against the dashboard to avoid another strike. The blade swept to the right and out through her door.

Barstow snarled and lunged halfway through the roof with the same ghostly disregard for barriers shown by their attacker’s sword. The scream from above shook Evan with deeper fright than the freezing cut along his arm. He hurt like hell and could barely breathe, but whatever happened to their rider was awful.

Back legs and a black-furred belly filled most of the space behind Evan and Sunday’s seats. Barstow remained half in and half out of the cabin with no breach of the roof. Metal and upholstery barely muffled the agony and terror in the rider’s shouts. Barstow thrashed with a violent growl, prompting a thud against the roof. The rider tumbled directly past Sunday’s passenger-side window onto the pavement.

The dog sank back down onto her haunches, fully within the cabin, her mouth dripping with blood. A scrap of black leather dangled from her teeth.

“You could do that the whole time?” Sunday asked.

“Woof,” Barstow replied.

“We gotta take her home, man,” Sunday told Evan.

He winced, keeping his wounded arm close to his side. At least one SUV still tailed them. He couldn’t be sure if more trouble followed. “Workin’ on it.”

Like everyone else, Amber saw the big black shadow burst from the roof of the Escalade, and the flailing reaction of the unwelcome rider. Bridger leaned forward, braced against Amber’s seat with his piece of quartz against his eye. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

“The fuck is that?” she asked.

“Magic. The other ghosts jumped away—” Bridger cut himself off when the swordsman dropped and the shadow pulled back beneath the roof. They didn’t have a good view through the Escalade’s rear window, but the same shadow seemed to be inside. They had a better look at the rider falling to the pavement with a sickening bounce and roll.

“Boss?” asked Amber.

“Keep on them,” said Sanderson.

Amber swallowed hard and drove past the fallen swordsman. It wasn’t her only new worry. Out of the hillside drive and now on surface streets, Amber’s wariness and stress rose. The hour meant less traffic and pedestrians than daylight hours, but not none. “We don’t have so much as a siren or a light bar in this thing,” she reminded.

“I know. Lanier, anything from LAPD?” Sanderson asked.

“Nothing yet,” came Lanier over the speakerphone. “I don’t think they know.”

“Damn it. Sir?” Samuel spoke up loudly to interrupt Anatole’s conversation. Wisely, he waited until Anatole muted the phone. “Those are feds ahead of us. I’m sure of it.”

“Feds? Agents?” Anatole asked.

“Yes, sir. I didn’t have enough light until now. Feds love that model and I can see the mods. I don’t know who they are, but they’re feds.”

“Hell,” Anatole fumed. “Back off. Let them get ahead.”

“Boss, you sure? It’s only one truck,” said Terrence. “If they don’t have back-up⁠—”

“If, Terrence,” Anatole interrupted. “Whatever harm Murphy did at the house will be trouble enough. We don’t need to clean up this mess, too. Let others do that.” With his decision clear, Anatole tapped his phone screen again. “Killer Six is on them now, but we have identified another problem.”

“Boss!” Terrence pointed ahead. The agents in the Suburban swerved around a tumbling body in a black jacket and motorcycle helmet. Blades clattering out of the body from a seeming multitude of pockets.

“Pull over. Grab him,” Anatole said, then pulled his hand off the speaker. “Apologies. I’m afraid I must correct our list of problems.”

“Shit, this guy’s gonna kill somebody,” grumbled Marino.

“Or we will.” Amber didn’t want to say it, but it was the truth.

“Won’t be our fault,” said Marino.

“That’s not the point,” she snapped, but the looming red light threw any further thought of conversation right out of her head. Murphy raced onward in his Escalade, with parked cars and apartment buildings on either side of the street. He cleared the red light without danger and charged for the next—with its crossing traffic still in motion.

She glanced at the nav app. Streets were clear ahead and to either side as far as the device knew, but reporting inherently lagged real time. Her eyes rose to the Escalade to find blinking tail lights. Murphy tapped his brakes and drifted right.

He didn’t signal and couldn’t have a full view of the intersection and traffic yet, but he meant to turn. Amber saw her chance, and how long it would last. She floored the accelerator. “Hang on!”

“You’re going right?” asked Sunday.

“I’m gonna fake ’em,” said Evan. In silence, he added, I hope.

Cars passed across the intersection, but he had clear lanes all the way to the corner. The light wouldn’t change before he got there. A four-story condominium blocked most of his view to the left, with slightly taller apartments to the right. No one walked the sidewalks, at least; he passed a dull green electrical box, a palm tree, and a fire hydrant. Only a few trees stood at the corner.

An Audi left the intersection, going left to right. Nothing more appeared on the left. C’mon, stay clear, stay clear, he thought. Pull hard left. Weave in going that way, or slow down if we’ve gotta, we can do this, nobody to hurt, c’mon, c’mon—and then he glanced in the mirror. “Shit!”

The Suburban came in much faster than expected, driving crazier than Evan dared so close to an intersection. He jerked left and corrected right to fake, as he planned but much sooner. He hoped to evade, maybe send the Suburban past and hopefully braking hard—Yes! Brake! Evan thought as smoke billowed from his pursuer’s tires, but they corrected in that same instant.

Their right front corner struck his back left. Evan couldn’t keep the Escalade from veering right, angling into the sidewalk and a thick palm tree. The urge to brace and protect ran from his mind to his hands, and with it came another flash of light across the entire vehicle.

The tree held. So did the Escalade.

Impact drowned out the shouts of at least one passenger. Amber missed it in her effort to brake, turn, and drift sideways short of the intersection. Horns and flashing lights assaulted her senses, but she pushed the brake and prayed. Momentum lurched her inside the car against Sanderson and his arm still up over his face.

Then everything stopped, including herself and her vehicle—and the Escalade with its hood against a sidewalk palm tree. She thought fast, exploiting her car’s fortunate angle to close in on the Escalade’s rear and block Murphy in. “Go, go!” Sanderson urged, one hand on his door handle and the other holding his gun.

Evan stopped long enough to glance to the intersection, Sunday, and a growling Barstow tucked against their seats. No other vehicle took any hits. His passengers seemed shaken but fine. The reassurance cost him.

Their pursuer moved before he had the Escalade in reverse, smacking his rear bumper faster than he could move. Doors opened at either side of the Suburban, producing men in suits from behind and beside the driver. Suits, and pistols.

“Stop! FBI! Turn off the vehicle now!” bellowed the big Marine-looking guy on the left.

“Evan Murphy!” shouted the other one, a bit thinner, older, and calmer, but no quieter and no less armed. “You are under arrest! Don’t be stupid!”

“The fuck?” Sunday blinked. She still had the revolver in her hand.

“We’re not shooting them.” Moving the Escalade invited gunfire, and probably injured one of the newcomers, too. Evan didn’t know if they were really feds and didn’t trust them any more than any other badge, but this wasn’t like Frank in the garage.

A third guy came out of the back, brighter than the rest, and then the driver. The brighter one swept around the older guy for an angle on Sunday’s side. “Murphy, you’re in danger,” called the driver, the sole woman among them, younger than the rest, also brandishing a pistol. “Don’t make this worse.”

“Alright, it’s only four, and you can hold up to a bullet if it goes bad.” Sunday dropped the revolver. “We get out, I take ’em down. You get back to the wheel and we get out of here.”

Evan hated that plan, too, but it didn’t sound lethal and it beat his lack of ideas. He was about to agree when Barstow growled. “No, Barstow, don’t,” he warned, and then winced. Like the scary ghost dog I just met listens to me?

“Turn off the engine!” shouted the big one. He stepped into the lane only yards away from the Escalade’s door with a direct line of fire at Evan’s head. Light flashed against him from some vehicle back the way they all came. “Now, motherfucker, now! Don’t try me, you little shit!”

“Okay, new plan,” said Sunday. “We let Barstow have them.”

Barstow tensed.

Tires screamed again, this time ahead of them with new lights. Another SUV appeared, dark and long, with windows down—allowing rifle barrels to emerge. The big agent didn’t look back, probably taking it for a random passerby; the younger agent shouted a warning too late for the first shots.

Amber noticed the arriving Ford Expedition and the guns in the same blink. Lack of back-up had been in her mind throughout the chase. She was already primed to note the absence of a light bar on the Expedition and the out-of-place make of the guns. She shouted, “Watch left!”

Rapid gunfire stepped on her warning. Bullets sprayed across the Escalade and her team. Amber had dropped into a crouch without thinking. It saved her from the first shots, but not Marino. Blood burst from his arm, side, and back all at once.

She didn’t know if the attackers caught Bridger or Sanderson, or anyone in the Escalade. She didn’t think of anything but firing back. Tunnel vision worked as a net positive for once, directing her first two shots straight into one window and the black mask beside an assault rifle. That hyper-focus didn’t last, as training and better instincts told her to move, dammit, move! She followed the instinct, turning for the only cover available.

Amber made it halfway through her lunge to the back of the Escalade before her left hip exploded in bloody agony. She collapsed against the sidewalk curb, desperately clutching at her pistol and her wits. Only one gun poked out of the Expedition; the middle window stayed empty, while the front passenger door opened. Watching from the pavement, she saw feet come to ground at the other side of the vehicle.

Evan ducked upon the first muzzle flashes, because that’s what everyone did against gunfire. He never considered that magic might change that equation, right up until he noticed only cracks in his windshield rather than the more realistic outcome. Bullets that flew through his open window hit the interior with the same result.

Thankfully, Sunday had ducked, too. His instincts had merit. “That’s Torres,” she said. “Hit squad. They’ll kill everybody.”

Gunfire closer to the Escalade was distinct enough, but it didn’t last. More shots came from the intersection. A closer noise also stood out.

“Maybe not everybody.” Evan twisted in his seat, practically flopping onto his back so he could face his other passenger. “Barstow, go! Bad men! Get ’em!”

He realized the stupidity of his idea as soon as it came out of his mouth… and then Barstow leapt straight through the still-closed passenger door.

“Confirm every kill!” called out one masked shooter. The whole group wore dark clothes, carried high-end, compact assault rifles with all the bells and whistles, and moved with training. Amber shifted for one last shot, wincing in pain, before a black mass on four legs landed between her and the shooter bearing down on her.

“Shit!” the shooter yelped and fired. Not a single round hit Amber or the charging dog. His pitch rose sharply with every bullet. “Shit shit shiiiiit!”

Evan dove out of the Escalade after Barstow, but he had to do clumsy things like open his door. Sunday exited, too, putting her out of his sight. At the intersection, two men fired desperately at Barstow until the dog tackled one of them. Evan fired a pair of stars at the other, catching him squarely in the gut. The shooter jerked and dropped while Barstow’s victim went down screaming.

It bought space and time to look around. The big FBI agent laid only a few yards away in a mess of blood, wheezing and twitching. Evan rushed across the open lane, forgetting to check for traffic and not caring when he realized his mistake. The guy on the pavement mattered more. Evan reached out with his magic before his hands touched the agent’s bloody chest.

Invisible, seemingly magnetic force pulled Evan’s hands to the right spots. He saw less blood there, but trusted the magic. His trust grew when the agent’s shallow, frightened wheezes turned into a sharp, long gasp. Lucidity came back to his eyes. He convulsed with the sudden change, but Evan knew that feeling. It was a good sign.

The loud crack of Sunday’s revolver was a good sign, too. “¡Hijo de tu puta madre!” she shouted amid her shots. A gunman at the driver’s side of the black Expedition suffered her wrath first, his head snapping backward in a nasty burst of gore. Someone else on the other side of the Expedition fired back with bursts of bullets contrasting against Sunday’s single shots, but he didn’t seem to find much success.

“Guh! F-fuck!” shuddered the agent in front of Evan.

“You’ll make it,” Evan told him. “Stay down and—aw, shit.”

Some survivor on the far side of the Expedition whirled around its back end, weapon in hand, drawing down on Evan as his safest line of fire. Evan lunged forward past the agent, wildly firing tiny stars as the gunman shot at him. Neither one hit their mark, but the clatter of Evan’s assault prompted the gunman to hesitate and duck.

It was enough. A shot from Sunday sparked against the gunman’s weapon, forcing him fully behind the Expedition for cover. Rather than shooting, Sunday charged in. Evan guessed her guns were out of bullets. The way she holstered one in mid-sprint backed that up, but he forgot about it as she leaped onto the hood and ran over the roof.

A windmill sweep of her arm produced the hatchet from her belt and brought it down over the back end of the Expedition, out of his sight. Sunday followed it in a roll Evan couldn’t see. He had his own problems.

“Wha… what?” The agent groaned at Evan’s feet.

Another gasp caught Evan’s ear—nearby, lighter, and strained. The other agent laid behind the Escalade, clutching her bloody hip with one hand and her pistol in the other. Thankfully, she didn’t point it at him, but rather the Expedition. Barstow looked from one fallen shooter to the next as if wanting someone else to bite. Behind the Expedition, a single, familiar voice shouted, “Fuck you, Torres!”

Evan’s weariness crashed in as he dashed to the second wounded agent. The raid on Christian’s house had been exhausting enough. In the last few minutes, he’d burned through lots more magic. It wore on him. He couldn’t fuss about limits now. He couldn’t falter, either. His words slurred with fatigue: “Hey, lemme help.”

“What’re you—?” she asked.

“Magic. I gotcha.” Again, intent guided his hands. He sought to heal, and felt the pull of the wound. Like the other agent, her injury ran deep. Evan sensed a tear from her left hip and out again through the right side of her back.

Something about her demanded more effort, too. His hand shook. The glow wavered. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m trying to heal, but… damn it, c’mon.”

“Wait,” she realized. Her free hand went into her pants pocket, fishing for something small. A dull, two-inch nail fell with a tiny ping against the pavement. With that, Evan’s magic ran its expected course. The agent shivered and exhaled with sudden relief.

“You’ll be alright,” Evan told her. “Like it never happened.”

“Holy shit,” said a voice past her. Evan looked up. The agent who seemed brighter than the rest stood over them, weapon in hand, apparently having taken cover behind their Suburban. Memory caught up: Evan thought he had heard more shots from there. The guy had taken part in the shooting like everyone else—and now looked on as if he saw more than the rest. “You just… Amber, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Shaken, but okay,” she said.

A car passed by the mess. Someone inside shouted, “Oh my god!” and continued on, faster once she saw the guns. The passerby forced everyone out of their hesitation.

Evan scowled at the other agent. “I’m not a threat to you. Don’t shoot me.”

“Then you need to put your hands up.”

“Murphy, hold on,” said Amber. “We’re trying to help⁠—”

Evan caught movement from around the Escalade in time to see the older agent shoot him. The agent fired twice, though it seemed to happen at once. Incredible force struck Evan’s chest and sent him falling backward. Someone shouted, “No!”—two someones, in truth, but their voices blurred like everything else amid pain and vertigo.

Then Evan was on his back in the street, staring up at the stars.

Those stars shined brightly despite apartment windows and the street light directly overhead.

“Sanderson, he helped us!” objected Amber.

“Motherfucker, no!” came Sunday’s voice, along with a loud growl and the yelp of some other man frightened past his composure. The sounds frightened Evan, too, mainly for what they heralded. His fear pushed him past his pain.

Evan raised his hand with a brilliant flash of light toward the agents. Sanderson, Amber, and the other one all covered their eyes and turned away. The unnamed agent had the sense to duck behind their Suburban. Amber staggered off to the sidewalk. Sanderson fired again, blindly this time. Bullets ricocheted off the pavement, but struck no one.

“Nonono!” Evan hurried, rolling over to one shoulder and then his knees. Barstow came to a halt only steps away, furious but hesitating at Evan’s raised hands. Sunday processed fast and diverted her anger into attention for Evan.

The bullets and the flash took the last of his strength. He knew that instinctively. He was worn down, armor fully eroded, drained and hurting. With a desperate wave, Evan pointed to the Escalade. “Go,” he rasped. “Let’s go.”

Sunday tugged Evan up and away from the pavement, practically lifting him into the passenger’s seat behind his usual spot. A cold, shadowy rush passed through him as Barstow followed into the back seat. He blinked and missed the door shutting behind him. The next thing he knew, Sunday was at the wheel, honking loudly. Bodies jumped out of the way around the Escalade.

Evan had only taken the Escalade into park, leaving the engine running. With another honk, Sunday pulled back a bare yard at most before swerving angrily around the tree and the right turn nearby. However much she might prefer Evan’s driving, she had plenty of her own skill.

“You good? Evan, you good?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he groaned, though he leaned back hard against his seat. He felt his chest to confirm he wasn’t lying, but felt no blood or broken bone. “Yeah, just… sore. Wiped out. You?”

“Fine,” she answered. “We’ve got cops coming. Heard ’em.”

“Right.” Evan dropped the window beside him, reaching out to touch the exterior of the door. He took another long breath, wincing and fighting with the effort of it, but focused and pushed. The metal felt cold to his hand until he leaned his head out and pushed again with his thoughts.

Black paint turned red. Scarred metal and cracked glass remained, but color shifted as he demanded. Evan released his breath. At first, he thought the damage made his color change pointless. Then he saw the perfectly intact hood.

“How did we not crumple?” asked Sunday, collecting much the same details. “How is the front not all smashed to shit? Was that you?”

“I think so?” Evan shrugged, and then winced. Shrugging hurt. He needed to heal himself, but didn’t have it in him right now. He was definitely out of gas.

“Alright, we’re lookin’ and driving fine,” Sunday thought out loud. “Can you still see cops? Is your spotlight working?”

“Yeah.” He looked to the sky. “Yeah, still there. Don’t go left.”

“Gotchu. Guide us away from cops and we’ll get the fuck outta here.”

Evan sat upright and tried to catch his breath. A black snout nudged his leg, drawing his attention to glowing black eyes that watched him with bizarre calm. Evan raised a tentative hand, drawing a similarly wary snorf. When he dared lower his hand to scratch, Barstow pushed her head against his touch for more.

“Hey,” Evan said with ragged breath. “Can we take tomorrow off? I know we had to rush this, but I need a day off. This week has been a lot.”

Sunday looked to the mirror with worry at first, but then her mouth spread into a full, glowing smile. “Yeah. Fuck yeah, we can do that.”

15

ACCOMPLICES

“Beaton says LAPD hasn’t been sent to the house yet,” Jan reported upon muting his phone. “He doesn’t have any insight to the federal issue.”

“Sergeant Beaton was never as useful as Frank.” Anatole recognized the last turn and the driveways neighboring Christian’s house. Sam drove with vigilance while Terrence kept his hands up and ready to meet danger with magic or gunfire. They were as prepared as possible, given the circumstances. “Stay together until we have a sense of the situation. Whatever happened, we must investigate and depart within minutes.”

They found the gate open and the grounds completely dark. Crank stood beside his damaged Mustang inside the driveway, oriented to an open garage. Most of the parking spaces inside lacked cars, though one held the discarded bench seats of an SUV. Anatole let his assistants step out first, watching Crank and the landscape for any untoward movement.

The young werewolf didn’t hide his frustration. “What happened? Did you get the fuckers?”

“The situation drew too many eyes and too much noise. We will find them,” Anatole assured Crank. “This is the same enemy I hired Dietrich to hunt. He will be avenged. We have to assess the situation here and leave. Will you help us?”

“Fuck. Fuck! I’ve got a dead body in my car and a fucked-up back end. What good does staying here do?”

“Payment and assistance with your troubles,” said Anatole. “We’ll put Dietrich’s body in our vehicle. We have space. And you may find answers to all this inside.”

“I don’t need answers. I need someone to fucking murder.” Though Crank fumed, he fell in with the others. Already, Sam had advanced to the edge of the garage with his pistol and a small flashlight, diligently sweeping for enemies or traps. Terrence stayed outside, examining the space. Jan stuck close to Anatole as always.

“Someone used the dolly.” Sam pointed to it laying between empty parking spaces.

“The wards are still up,” said Terrence. He pulled out his cell phone to use as a flashlight.

“They only protect against surveillance and spirits,” said Anatole.

Sam and Terrence took the interior door carefully and professionally, still wary of a trap. It opened without resistance. The dark silence of the garage continued inside, though Terrence seethed with his first look. “Damn it. Motherfucker!”

Anatole anticipated the discovery of bodies in the long hallway and signs of violence throughout. He recognized the scattered piles of clothing and weapons. More evidence waited at the smashed basement doorway. “Christ,” said Sam. “They used sledgehammers?”

“God damn it, they’re dead. They’re fuckin’ dead!” Terrence shouted from the bodies of his fellow sorcerers. He shook his head, fists clenching and his breath seething.

Anatole left him to process. Now that he was within the wards and near the basement, he noted the absence of Frank’s spirit. He had tied Frank to the basement personally. “Sam, I believe the threat has passed. Check the breaker, and then upstairs?”

Sam advanced. They waited only until he called out a reassuring, “Clear here,” and they heard a loud click. Overhead lights revealed the destruction in detail.

“We should confirm,” Anatole told Jan, nodding to the basement door.

Together, they ventured through. They saw all they needed before they were halfway down the stairs. Then it was Anatole’s turn to breathe slowly and control his rising fury.

“Everything,” said Jan. “They got everything. We made it easy by packing up for them.”

“They took more than this. We’ve lost agents and allies. I suspect we’ve lost Christian, too, one way or another.”

“Solomon would know how many of his kind we employed,” Jan noted. “We can’t hide all their deaths. Not after that fiasco in the streets. He has his own police contacts. The coincidence will be too obvious for misdirection. But if he finds out what was taken…”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Anatole. “He doesn’t know yet, though. I somehow doubt Murphy made some alliance there. We tell Solomon only what we must, and we do not have to call him yet. For now, we play the moves in front of us. Let’s close the garage and gate so we don’t invite police scrutiny too quickly. Any delay helps us.” Anatole nodded to the door up the stairs. “Let’s collect all the remains we can, and quickly. At least some gains can be salvaged from this debacle.”

Jan understood, returning to the hall with Anatole. “Terrence,” Jan said, coming to the sorcerer by the bodies of his friends. “We won’t leave them here. This is ugly, but we must take them with us. Help me?”

“Yeah.” Terrence steeled himself with an angry sniff. “Yeah, man.”

“Take Jamal. I will follow with Lexington,” said Anatole.

“Alright. Thanks,” Terrence muttered.

Anatole acknowledged him with a masterful nod of stoic sympathy. Then he turned to Crank as Jan and Terrence carried Jamal’s body away. “We saw at least two in the SUV. I know vampires have something of a distinct scent. Can you tell the difference? Would you know the other scents?”

“No. No, that’s the weird thing,” said Crank. “I’ve got the scents of the two bodies. Nobody else left a scent. I can’t even catch any ashes.” Pointing to the fallen clothing, Crank missed Anatole’s twitch of frustration. “Not in here or in the garage. It’s just those two bodies and the rubble. Everything else is clean.”

“No ashes?” Anatole crouched at a Victorian dress, turning it over and then tossing it to the floor when nothing came of it. “Damn.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Crank.

“It means I can’t—” Anatole checked himself, straightening and correcting with a deep breath. “Remains can sometimes leave pathways of investigation. Even vampire ashes. I might find answers with Dietrich, if you’ll trust me.”

Crank made a face. “What the fuck am I gonna do with his body? Pretty sure they shot him with silver. I’d have to be crazy to eat him after that.”

“No. Of course.” Anatole didn’t expect Crank to be so candid, but he knew what werewolves did with their own—and he could hardly throw stones. “We need to move. You can stay with us or depart on your own, but be careful of police and other nuisances.”

“Oh, I’m ditching that car as soon as I spot another. I’m out. Call me when it’s time to kill these motherfuckers.” With that, Crank departed.

Anatole turned to Lexington’s body with grim satisfaction. He hid the expression when Sam returned from the staircase. “What have you found?”

“Broken window upstairs,” Sam reported. “Feedback’s stupid outfit is out on the pool deck, so I guess he’s dead, too. Doesn’t look like any other fighting went on up there. Christian’s room looks looted, and it happened fast. Closets and drawers open, electronics and papers gone. I noticed his Bentley isn’t in the garage, either.”

Turning, Anatole threw one clenched fist against the broken basement door frame. Masonry cracked and rubble fell. Amid the damage, one more hit didn’t matter. “Damn him!” Anatole shouted. “Everything I invested, everything we hid under his name…!” He struck the frame again, doing more harm than any hit from the hammers laying with the rubble⁠—

—and then reasserted his self-control, fuming but otherwise calm. Anatole turned back to claim Lexington’s body. A single corpse was no test of his strength. Not tonight. His display apparently hadn’t tested Sam’s loyalty, either. The driver held his stance without flinching.

“Grab the computer from upstairs. Not the full set, just whatever holds data. Phones, too, if you see any. Then call Elizabeth. Warn her of Christian’s betrayal. He may have already locked us out of his accounts, but foresight isn’t among his talents. Loyalty is an even rarer gift.”

“Here. One block south. I see the mess.” The text popped up on Amber’s phone while she made a video sweep of the Explorer. Her shoulders sank with relief—shoulders covered only by her sky-blue shirt, because her jacket had to stay tied around her waist. She needed a few more shots of the SUV before she could pause. The vehicle’s tire treads wouldn’t likely come up in the investigation, but she preferred to be thorough.

She also didn’t know if her team would get access to the Explorer again. They wanted to rush back to the house in the hills where this all started. That was the obvious, high-priority, time-sensitive lead. Instead, they had bodies in the street and local police demanding answers they couldn’t give. They couldn’t hand the scene off to the locals without at least getting what they could first.

“Don’t give me this counterintelligence national security bullshit.” The uniformed lieutenant from LAPD spoke only inches from Sanderson’s ear while her boss took photos and examined bodies like the rest of the team. “You had this fucking shootout after running someone into a tree, and that vehicle got away. Not one notification until it’s over and we’ve got half the block calling 911. I’ve got six dead assholes in my street, and I’m supposed to just trust you and your national security line?”

“I’m afraid so, Lieutenant,” said Sanderson. “I don’t like it either. We’re on the same side. We need to trust the process.”

“Trust the—? These assholes are outfitted like SWAT! This one got killed by a fucking axe, and I’ll be seeing that mess in my sleep,” the lieutenant went on, pointing from the body behind the Explorer to the two along the side. Their mauled remains were covered now, but Amber sympathized with that particular point. “If someone else is still out there, I’ve gotta know. What’s going on, Agent? Is this spy shit? Counterterrorism? What?”

Sanderson turned and repeated steadily, “It’s classified under national security.”

“Oh come on,” the lieutenant interrupted. “You can’t even tell me what or where to watch?”

Amber didn’t envy Sanderson for this part of the job. She had done it herself, except she had to deal with age and gender biases along the way. “Hey. I’ll be back,” she told Sanderson. He acknowledged her with only a glance.

Patrol cars with flashing lights surrounded the scene, with a few more at each intersection beyond it to block and redirect traffic. A news van crew was already setting up outside the perimeter. Random stringers looked for angles at other corners while any number of residents watched and recorded from apartment windows. Amber expected a news helicopter before long, too. LA had them to spare.

Bridger had the Explorer open from the opposite side, searching and taking pictures with officers watching over his shoulder. Lanier had to remain at the office to monitor wiretaps and traffic, but Nguyen and Patrick had been called in from home. Amber’s personal back-up had beaten both of them here.

She spotted him at the corner, backpack over his shoulders, standing exactly far enough to keep from getting yelled at by the cop who blocked traffic—or, more likely, to avoid getting yelled at again. Thin and just shy of six feet, with short brown hair and unassuming eyes, Jason Cohen could still be mistaken for a high schooler. He was, in fact, barely within a socially acceptable age range for Amber, much like she was barely old enough for the Bureau… and yet, he had dropped everything late at night, threw on jeans and a hoodie, and found his way to her in a city he still didn’t know.

“Hey. You alright?” Jason asked.

“Yeah. You found everything?” Amber replied.

“Got it here. Brought some options, just in case.”

“Good. Let’s get some distance. Where’s your car?”

“Around the corner. Apartment parking lot. I’ll probably get towed if I stay long.”

Amber saw the entrance—and the gate. She made a face, but quickly dismissed her reactions. The police detour had been right there in plain sight when Jason arrived, so of course, he edged in as close as possible. Her boyfriend had more experience with magic and monsters than most of the task force put together; sneaking into a private lot was the least of his feats.

“How much can you tell me?” he asked quietly.

“Not much.” Amber followed him to a pedestrian entrance to the lot, which he had kept unlocked with a simple wad of folded paper in the latch. The lot itself stood quiet, with most apartment windows either dark or covered by curtains. Jason’s eight-year-old Civic sat in a visitor’s spot.

“Looks like a serious mess over there,” said Jason.

“It was.” She opened the door and stood behind it, pausing to assess the degree of privacy. The worst sightlines were covered, at least. “This isn’t sexy,” she warned.

“Why would I be thinking about—?” Jason already had the backpack open, but blinked when she handed him the jacket from her waist. Then he saw the blood soaking her slacks. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Yo, what the fuck?”

She kicked off her shoes. Blood still coated her legs and feet. “I’m okay,” she said, stepping out of her slacks and balling them up. “Pants?” she asked.

Jason bit back questions and handed her the backpack. “Slacks or jeans. Brought underwear, too. I’ve got a towel and water in the trunk.”

“Seriously? Oh my god, you’re the best,” she hissed with relief. He retrieved it all and then stood to block the open angle of the door while she cleaned up. The bottle of water and the towel were more than she thought to request.

“Should keep both in your trunk. Never know when you’ll need a towel.” Jason watched her work in grim, unromantic intimacy. She couldn’t blame him. He had reason for concern. “You said you needed emergency pants, but… you’re okay? Is everyone else okay?”

“Yeah. Everyone but the bad guys.” The job wasn’t perfect, but nothing short of a shower would fix everything. Amber claimed the underwear from the backpack. “I’m gonna be dealing with this incident all night, and… Jason, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Amber.”

“I got shot,” she whispered. “I’m okay, but it was bad. It came right through my hip. Literal magic saved my life.”

Jason blinked. “Bridger? I didn’t think he had that kind of juice.”

“Not Bridger.” Amber tugged the new pair of slacks on. “Someone else. We don’t know him. It’s a case, and it’s a mess. We had a chance to handle it but Sanderson… I can’t talk about it.” Then she looked up at his eyes—watchful, patient, and knowing better. “Okay, I’m not exactly fine, but I don’t have time for that. Later. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Okay,” he answered. He accepted that. “What else can I do? How can I help?”

“I need you to go home and stay out of this,” said Amber. “Seriously. I trust you, but it’s not about me. You’re my back-up. I’ll call if it comes to that, but that means I need to know where you are and that you’re safe.”

“Alright.” He still frowned. “Should I make a phone call?”

Amber pursed her lips. She didn’t blame him for asking. That had been on her mind since the shooting started. “No. Listen, I can’t have you calling your buddies into this right now.”

“They’re your buddies, too,” said Jason.

“I—yeah.” She bowed her head and smiled. “Thank you. I needed that. But no, I need to see if Sanderson will let me make a call. If he tells me no, then we’ll talk.”

That satisfied him. She could tell from his nod. Amber finished straightening up and closed the car door. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”

“I love you,” said Jason.

“Oh god, I love you, too.” She tugged his hoodie for a quick kiss, but couldn’t stay for more. “I’ll check in when I can. Gotta go.”

“Hey, Amber?” Jason asked as she walked away. He held up the ball of fabric in his hand. “You sure this isn’t, like, evidence now?”

She winced. Her bloody pants and underwear were the last things she wanted to bestow upon the FBI, but he was right. She didn’t know how to mend bullet holes, anyway. Amber tugged the bundle from his hands with a second muttered farewell.

The walk back to the scene felt less fraught despite the questions and scowls she expected from the team. Cleaning up after such an ordeal did wonders for one’s morale. So did the reminder of unflagging support from someone outside her job. The cop manning the detour took a good look at her FBI credentials and called in before letting her pass, but that at least meant he was serious about his task.

She’d been gone only minutes. In the meantime, she saw another of the task force’s Suburbans on the scene and Nguyen now with Bridger at the Explorer. Judging from their work with plastic bags, Sanderson had apparently defeated any objections about who got to claim the guns. That would mean wallets, phones, and anything else immediately found on the bodies, too.

Amber caught a glance from Sanderson, but she didn’t report in or interrupt him. It was enough that he knew she was back. She continued on to their Suburban, where she opened the back door and claimed another plastic evidence bag for her own clothing.

“Where are we at?” Marino asked from the back seat.

“Still in cleanup,” she said. “Local brass is grouchy, but they’re cooperating. I think we’re out of here in a few minutes, but I don’t know the plan. What about you?”

“We’re gonna have to wait on the warrant for that house,” said Marino. “Took me a while to get sorted. It’s a whole thing. Patrick texted. Parked a couple blocks out, so he’s almost here.”

“How are you doing? “Amber asked.

“Fine,” Marino muttered. “I guess. Shouldn’t be hiding in here running the phone.”

“You can’t be out there looking like you do.” Amber could hide most of her bloodstains with her coat tied around her waist. Marino was soaked from the chest down, with holes in his clothes he couldn’t cover. “Nobody blames you for it, either.”

“Who said—? Huh. Sure.” He looked away.

Amber opened her mouth to say more, but closed it. Marino knew magic and the supernatural were real—everyone on the task force accepted it—but he’d been skeptical of her since he showed up. Now she was trying to reassure a man who had ten years and a hundred pounds on her.

“How do you…?” Marino began unexpectedly. “How do we know he only healed us? Do we know he didn’t do anything else? Or mess with our heads?”

“Bridger would see magic still hanging on, I think. He doesn’t. And what little I know of mind-fuckery says Murphy didn’t have time, regardless of anything else.”

“I keep wondering if there’s some price to pay. I dunno, like favors from a demon or some other bullshit. Like he’s got leverage on us.”

“We didn’t agree to anything. If he claims any leverage, it’s nothing magical. I wouldn’t worry about it.” Her brow furrowed. “Do you keep a nail in your pocket?”

“No,” he admitted. “Sounded like superstition. The nonsense kind.”

“It’s not. It worked for me tonight. You should start.”

“Yeah.”

“I should get back to it. We’ll be done soon. Oh,” Amber said, turning away to find Bridger, Nguyen, and a newly-arrived Patrick coming her way with evidence bags.

“Hey.” Nguyen deposited her wrapped-up weapons and miscellany in the back of the Suburban before touching Amber’s arm. “I heard. You alright?”

“Physically, yeah. Fine. Just shaken up.”

“Marino?” she asked.

Still half-turned toward the back, Marino gave her a lazy wave. “I’m here. Same story.”

“Heard about your driving, too,” Nguyen told Amber with an approving grin. “Had our guy pinned before the hit squad showed up. Nobody else at risk. Good job.”

Amber received a nod from Patrick before he and Bridger turned back for more evidence. Nguyen moved to do the same. Amber walked with her, holding Nguyen a few steps back from the others and dropping her voice. “Did you hear about Sanderson, too? And Murphy?”

“Yeah, a little. You seem critical.”

“Murphy was helping me. Talking to us. Sanderson came out and shot him.”

Nguyen gave a deferential wince. “Let’s let him speak for himself, but… he didn’t know.”

“He didn’t stop to look,” said Amber.

“It was a firefight, and not your first. You know how these things go.” Nguyen shrugged. “He saw an agent down and a suspect standing over you. Anyway, you both got back up. We can’t hang onto these things.”

A new tension clenched in Amber’s gut. She opened her mouth to object, to say more, but it seemed pointless. Nguyen was her mentor and her real advocate, and the most experienced agent on the team. She spoke from a long time in the Bureau—for good and ill.

The conversation wouldn’t change or settle anything. Amber returned to work. Collection had to be done fast. Sanderson was already talking with a coroner, while a tow truck advanced through one of the police checkpoints. Patrick helped with the last bits of grunt work before Sanderson ushered the team back to their Suburban and out of earshot from the police. They opened the door to let Marino in on the conversation.

“LAPD’s taking possession of the bodies and the vehicle, which is fine,” said Sanderson. “We don’t have the resources, anyway. I know most of us still need to take a breath, but time isn’t our friend. We didn’t have time to compare notes before PD showed up, either. Anyone got anything we need to share before we move on? Marino, anything from Lanier or the warrant?”

“The judge is in the ER with some stomach thing,” said Marino. “Didn’t answer her phone. I got hold of her husband. She’s on painkillers and still getting diagnostic stuff, so she’s out until mid-morning at least. Doesn’t sound suspicious. It started before this mess.”

“And we can’t refer to anyone else under our security policies,” grumbled Nguyen. “I knew this would bite us someday.”

“Nothing for it now. What else?” asked Sanderson.

“Media’s running stuff already, so we should get out of here,” said Marino. “Lanier hasn’t seen anything else from our taps. Sounds like everyone either shut up or got too busy. Maybe they’re among the people who went down tonight, too. Only real news is that house. Lanier had to dig, but it was public enough. That place belongs to Christian Miller.”

“The podcaster guy? Hockey player?” asked Patrick.

“Yup.”

“That’s fuckin’ nuts. How’s he involved?”

“Don’t know, but his social media has been dark for a couple days.”

“Alright, we’re going back up our chase route toward the house,” said Sanderson. “The warrant is a hold-up, but we’ll see what’s in plain sight. Maybe we’ll get lucky.

“Nguyen, Patrick, thank you for getting here so fast and pitching right in. The rest of you handled yourselves incredibly tonight. I need you to keep doing it. And then we’re all going to have one hell of a report to write before anyone can call it a day. Sorry for that. Anything else we need to say before we get moving?”

“Yeah. Um.” Bridger lifted a hand to grab attention, but seemed unsure what to say. He gestured to the street and the back of their Suburban. “That shit Murphy did was wild. We’ve seen power, but magic isn’t usually so… I dunno, blatant. It doesn’t work that fast, and the really wild stuff needs some sort of concealment or misdirection. Murphy is something else. I don’t know what to make of it, but we need to take that seriously. My usual rulebook doesn’t fully apply.”

“I had similar thoughts,” said Amber. “Bridger’s the expert, but this is outside the usual patterns. More importantly, Murphy helped us. Marino and I were down. He jumped in to save our lives. Literally put himself between Marino and the shooters, too.”

“Let’s not prejudge or presume his motives.” Sanderson spoke as if he expected this topic. “It’s clear that he healed you both. We’re all glad you’re okay. Why he did that and the rest of this is still unknown. None of this happens in the first place if he’s not being chased by supernaturals, and that wasn’t his car. The woman and the dog are unknowns, too. We work with what we’ve got. Right now that’s a chase with multiple fatalities, resisting arrest, and fleeing the scene.”

“He helped us and then he got shot,” said Amber—quietly, but she said it. “Might have something to do with why he fled.”

If Sanderson took that badly, he smothered it. “We work with what we’ve got. On that note, we’ve got to move.”

“One more point,” said Amber. “I don’t want it to get lost. Bridger’s right. This is past anything we’ve dealt with. We’ve got help on tap. I think we should call it in. For advice, if nothing else. I don’t think we should wait.”

Sanderson glanced to Bridger and saw an emphatic nod. “I agree,” said Nguyen.

“Alright,” he decided. “I’ll drive. Maddox, go ahead and make the call.”

“Those fuckers are lucky you’re okay,” said Sunday. “Real fuckin’ lucky.”

“I am okay,” Evan reassured her.

“I know. That’s what I’m saying. If you weren’t, they wouldn’t be, either.” Sunday kept her hands on the wheel and her eyes mostly on the road, but her glances to Evan were frequent.

He recovered from his flop into the back seat within minutes—well enough for a quick stop to switch to the shotgun seat, at least. Soon after that, he had the energy to relieve the throbbing aches in his chest with magic, and then to cleanse himself and Sunday of sweat, grime, and blood. The longer he used magic, the more it felt much like a new layer of physical activity. He could run himself ragged, but a few minutes of rest were enough to at least get back on his feet. He could drag himself through the rest of the night, as long as they faced no more battles or confrontations.

“We should pull over and switch plates.” Evan still had the plates from the rental lot—switched briefly to the Camry, and then stuffed under his seat for this very contingency.

“Let’s get farther away,” said Sunday. “You already changed our color, and you’re spotting cops. If we keep away from them, the plates won’t matter.” Her hands flexed around the steering wheel, knuckles popping, then relaxed. “I thought Barstow would eat half those fuckers.”

“Woof,” Barstow agreed. Or echoed. Or just responded to her name. She sat with most of her mass tucked behind Sunday’s seat, poking her head between the pair. Her big, shadowy snout nudged Evan to ask for more head scritchies like any other happy family dog, apart from the glowing red eyes and the whispery quality to her voice.

Evan knew what was good for him. He scratched.

“Cop ahead. Think they’re in the opposing lane,” said Evan. Between the concrete dividers and light traffic to create cover, they didn’t need to worry much. “One of the feds was magical somehow. It’s hard to explain what that’s like. Magic doesn’t flash or glow with weird colors, but I can tell it’s there. He had something going on. And the woman, Amber I guess? She was harder to heal until she pulled a little nail out of her pocket. Soon as it was out, I could fix her like normal. But she didn’t seem magical.”

“Then she knew what she was doing. Keeping an iron nail in your pocket is a defense against magic. It’s not a complete block, but it helps. Like Kevlar.”

“Yeah. Like Kevlar.” Evan rubbed his chest. The ache was gone, but the memory lingered.

“It ain’t good when the feds shout at you by name. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t think things would go there,” he said wearily. “I’ve got a lot hanging over my head with that first fight at Christian’s place, but… the cop and the car and all the other stuff are all state crimes, right? Not federal.”

“I dunno how they decide that shit. Feds and local work together sometimes. They kept coming after they got jumped by a werewolf, one is magic somehow, another knows her shit. Never heard of that with cops, but it’s not impossible. Guess a couple of them are bound to be in the loop somehow. This ain’t about that stupid Lamborghini.”

“I’m gonna be fuckin’ pissed if I got actual magic powers only to find out two days later that magic is federally regulated.”

“First I’ve heard of it. If magic is regulated, they’re doing a real bad job.”

“They seemed like the real deal at first. Didn’t come at us the same way everyone else did tonight. And that hit squad shot at them and us together.”

“That’s the main point for me,” said Sunday. “Anyone can shout ‘Police,’ just to make you blink or freeze, right? Could be they all work for Anatole and didn’t coordinate, but Torres usually knows what he’s doing. Knew, anyway. Past tense now,” she corrected. “I dunno. Guys like Anatole love to keep cops in their pocket.

“Spookies usually don’t fuck around with the big leagues, though. Connections like that aren’t easy to use. Everyone’s got supervisors and paperwork and shit to justify. What we did back there is a huge fuckin’ fiasco, too. Vampires will kill each other for getting into that kinda shit, even if it’s not the vampire’s fault. Nobody wants that kind of heat. Now that heat is on us.”

“They only called my name. It’s on me.”

She rolled her eyes at him like he should know better. “Us.”

“Woof.”

They both looked to the dog. Evan kept rubbing her head. Sunday bit her lip. “I think she might be our first thing to worry about, before anything else. I don’t know what to do with her. She responded to going home, but I don’t speak dog, y’know? Or ghost dog.”

“Probably too much to hope for anything helpful in the books Omar gave me.” Those books still waited on Evan’s phone for perusal. Amid hurried planning, prep, and execution of their heist, he hadn’t so much as glanced at the contents. “She did respond, though.”

“Yeah. We did her wrong. That was Nahash, not me, but I still wanna make good on it. And I kinda doubt she’s big on deferred gratification.”

“What else are we gonna do? Take her to Sofia’s? I don’t want to risk that, for Sofia or the cats. She’s acting fine now, but…”

“Barstow?”

“Woof.”

Sunday laughed. “Wasn’t talking to you, puppy, but…” She glanced to Evan again.

“How long?” he asked.

“Couple hours. Two and a half, give or take. I’m good to drive. You look wiped out.”

“I am. Let’s do it. Guess I should probably let Sofia know we won’t be back soon.”

“Sure. I…” Sunday frowned. “We’re already using burner phones. If the feds can still catch all that, we’re already screwed, but be careful what you say.”

“Right,” Evan agreed. Thankfully, Sofia knew more about such tech than either of them. He knew the drill. He called rather than texting.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hey, it’s me,” said Evan. “We’re still out running around. Everything good with you?”

“I’m fine. Your cats are helping with laundry again. Both of them, now. Hey—I’m just sitting here playing video games, but I looked at my phone and some shit’s going on in Hollywood. That’s not gonna mess up your date, right?”

Evan’s grimace and glance toward Sunday were both involuntary. The grin on her face sent him looking away again. If nothing else, Sofia’s phrasing made him feel a little better about answering with only technical honesty. “No. We’re not anywhere near that. Things are good for us.”

“Cool. Still planning to come by?”

“Uh. Things got complicated. I think it’s better if we don’t. Also, we picked up a stray who needs a ride home. I don’t expect to come by tonight.”

“What kind of stray?” Sofia asked with clear dread.

“Literally a dog,” said Evan.

“Yeah, I’m not taking care of a dog for you. The cats are enough.”

“That’s what I’m saying. We’ve got this. Thank you for the cats, though. Again. I think I can take them off your hands soon.”

“It’s fine,” Sofia grumbled. “I’m starting to get it. I may need a couple of my own.”

“Hah. They do that. I’m gonna bounce. Take care, okay?”

“Call me in the morning. Normal people time,” she added.

“Gotcha. Night.” He ended the call and let out a long, tired breath.

“If you need to nap, I’ve got this. I’m not gonna fall asleep at the wheel,” said Sunday.

“I don’t think I can sleep, but I’m glad you’re driving. You’re not wiped out at all?”

“Always had a lot of energy. More after the demon bullshit, seems like. I’m good.” A sly grin spread across her face. “How much of that was code words just now?”

“We’re being careful with what we say. Why?”

“No reason. You’re not wrong, though. Things are good for us. We hit that fucker hard tonight.”

Her grin lingered. He wasn’t sure it was purely about victory in battle.

Evan rubbed Barstow’s head and did not stare at Sunday’s grin. Much.

Conversation fell off sooner rather than later, despite all they had to discuss. Sunday continued eastward, bringing them out of the metro area in under an hour. Her route took them to a familiar stretch along Pomona before she cut north on the 15. They finally stopped in Rancho Cucamonga to swap out license plates and take a bathroom break. They grabbed snacks and dearly-needed drinks for themselves and their companion.

They also bought a roll of duct tape. Evan thought the latter was too little for its purpose until Sunday put it into place. Once crosses of duct tape covered the punctures left by the hoodie-wearing sorcerer’s throwing knives, the Escalade’s profile dropped from suspicious to merely trashy.

City turned to suburbs, and then rose into less-developed hills Evan would have missed if not for his new eyesight. Traffic thinned. Stars shined no differently in the transition from the sprawl to the hills and then through Hesperia and Victorville. All the while, Barstow sat with her head poking between their seats, looking for affection. She showed no interest in the treats bought from the gas station, nor any offer of water. Nothing changed until the land flattened and dried farther outside of Victorville.

Barstow’s head rose. Sunday lowered the windows of the back row, unsure if it made any difference to a dog who could pass through walls. Barstow merely sniffed, left to right, and came back to her hosts for more attention.

“I dunno how this is gonna go,” said Sunday.

“How did you find her in the first place?” asked Evan.

“It was Jamal’s circle, New Money. I was only along as hired muscle. Jamal said she haunts this stretch of the Mojave—specifically that word, ‘haunts.’ Been here for decades, maybe a century. Mostly seen by broken-down drivers and truckers. Some said she attacks, others say she scared them back into their cars. Jamal figured that was just the survivor stories. It made sense at the time.” Sunday’s brow knit. The corners of her mouth turned downward. She gave a scratch that Barstow gladly accepted. “I assume something bad happened to her out here. That’s how these things usually start, or at least that’s how I understood it, or something Nahash knew. Fucker didn’t ask many questions, which meant I didn’t, either.

“Jamal had a wand made of bone and a weird chant. He took us out here, picked a spot to get out, and went to work. I expect he told his guys what was up, but they didn’t explain it to me. We all followed his lead. I blew off keeping track of highway signs and I didn’t catch any landmarks off-road. We had a clear night and a full moon, but I can’t see like you.

“Wasn’t long before Jamal caught her trail, and then he was locked in. We couldn’t see the road by the time we found her. They started pouring out salt and ash. Lexington had some kinda spell for running fast. He played bait and lured her in. I got down low and hid while the others backed off. When Lexington ran by the ritual circle, I jumped in and held Barstow in place long enough for the others to finish the circle. They threw powdered iron to weaken her. Only took a few seconds. Didn’t need to be perfect. They tightened the ritual circle bit by bit until they could put that collar on her.

“Suppose it wasn’t as bad as some of the other things I did with that crew. Nobody died. Still feels shitty.” Sunday scratched again. “I’m sorry, puppy.”

“She doesn’t seem to hold a grudge.”

“Maybe I wasn’t around long enough to build one. I didn’t really hurt her. No need.” She shook her head. “That’s the shittiest thing. Only reason I didn’t hurt her was laziness. Maybe the only reason I can make good on it. Lucky break.”

“Luck is what you make of it, too. Like now,” said Evan.

“Yeah.” She drove on. “We didn’t have to go all the way. Found her short of Barstow.”

“Woof,” the dog put in.

“What do you think, puppy? Anything familiar yet? This where you belong?”

Barstow looked out the windows again. Evan followed her gaze. Beyond the highway, he saw scrub plants, dirt, rocks, and not much else. “Not many landmarks. Hills in the distance, but I wouldn’t know one from another. I’m sure if I lived out here, it would mean more to me. We road-tripped a few times before my mom died, but not out to Vegas. Never been to the Mojave.”

“Almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter,” said Sunday. He turned; she grinned. “It’s from a video game.”

“Yeah, I know. You play video games?”

“Some. The good ones, with good stories. You?”

“If they’re cheap and old enough to run on my machine,” he said. Sunday laughed. “That wasn’t a slam. Really? You’re a gamer?”

“I dunno if I’m a gamer, but like I said, I’m not some old crone in a young body. I’ve been twenty-three for a long time. I go clubbing and hang out with young people, not oldie-oldsters. Stuff like music and TV just kinda stretch out longer for me. Games, too.” Sunday’s grin joined with a sparkle in her eye as she glanced from him to the road. “I knew you could hang.”

“What?” he blinked.

“You and me,” she said. “We’ve got more than magic and beating up on the same asshole.”

Butterflies thrashed around inside his stomach. Say something, he thought. She’s being friendly. Maybe flirting. She’s cool with you being a nerd. Say something back. Something good. Don’t be a dork. Say⁠—

“Woof,” Barstow put in.

“Aw, you’re cool, too, puppy.”

“Woof!” Barstow repeated, looking out the window to the right, and then whined.

“Is this it?” asked Evan. The highway lacked for mile markers or turnoffs, but at least the chain-link fencing that ran several miles along the roadside hand ended a while back. He glanced up at the stars and then at the ambient light of the far horizon. Amid chatting and thinking of Barstow, he hadn’t noticed how far they had come.

Then he realized he was guessing the distance to the town of Barstow by looking at stars over the desert. No. Not guessing, he understood. He knew. Like Mitu said.

It meant less than Barstow’s bark and whine. She seemed alert, but neither happy nor angry. Twisting in his seat to watch, Evan thought she seemed sad. Dismayed. “I think we may have hit it. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

“Should I pull over?” asked Sunday. She slowed with two more barks from Barstow.

Evan looked ahead and behind. Thin, scattered traffic passed on both sides of the highway, but nothing drew spotlights from above. “Sure, if you think you can. Up there, actually.” He pointed in line with Barstow’s nose and her whine.

Sunday slowed to a stop along the shoulder. Cars passed them by. She turned off their headlights and pulled farther away from the road, rolling on scattered dry grass and bare dirt. Distance and darkness granted privacy from passersby.

They moved only a few dozen yards before Barstow’s tail thrashed. She fidgeted and whined, looking left and right. If the Escalade had room, Evan was sure she would pace. Every breath carried a complaint, or a lament. Barstow nudged for scritches, but they didn’t seem to help.

“Should I stop here?” Sunday knew Barstow couldn’t understand, nor answer. She took the hint and brought the Escalade to a halt. With that, Barstow reluctantly passed through the doors. “Wait, puppy, do you not wanna go…?”

Barstow walked only a few steps before turning back with a look of red-eyed longing.

“We should follow her,” said Evan.

“Yeah.”

Outside, Evan’s night vision felt more important than ever. They heard the highway, but none of its light reached this far. Without magic, they would be in pitch darkness. Chill breezes cut past the pair, punctuating another difference between the urban southwest and the actual desert at night.

Barstow trotted off into the darkness, up a small rise paralleling the highway. She didn’t move fast. Her head hung low, and her tail with it. “Oh, puppy,” Sunday murmured.

The pair followed her, scanning the landscape for anything to make sense of her path. Sparse litter had tumbled and blown up from the highway over years, but none of it stood out. Cigarette butts, food wrappers, and small bits of shredded tires meant nothing. They found no tracks.

Perhaps a hundred yards from the highway, they found the ancient wooden crate. It tilted slightly against a natural rut in the ground, presumably arrested there amid some flash flood or windstorm. The crate was only half Barstow’s size and missing its top. Barstow circled it once before sitting low, looking up at her companions with eerie red eyes and a sad noise.

Faded paint clung to the crate with only a few still-legible words: Arizona Club, Nevada, Valencia Oranges, and Irvine. Inside sat a badly weathered and tattered wool blanket and a bit of rope—tied around one plank of the crate, knotted on the inside, frayed loose from whatever it once held.

Evan scanned their surroundings, finding nothing… until he spotted the open and rusted can in the same rut not far away.

“Is this yours, puppy? This belong to your people?” Sunday looked around. “Man, I thought we’d find an old crime scene.”

“I think we did.” Evan knew only a little about body language and communication with dogs, mostly for the sake of his job. It all seemed a bit late with Barstow, but he thought of it again when he met Barstow’s stare. He turned slightly away and stepped sideways to her, slowly, and crouched to her level. He didn’t want to take anything for granted. “We’re friends, right, Barstow?”

She rose timidly, nudging his hand. He scratched. She leaned into it. When he looked her in the eyes again, she held his gaze.

“Somebody threw you away, huh?”

Barstow leaned a little more.

Crouching no longer felt steady. Evan set down one knee, then the other. “Me, too.”

Barstow’s head and shoulders pressed against his chest.

“Aw, man. All the way out here? Fuck.” Sunday shook her head. “People get weird when they know they’re doing wrong.”

“Maybe. Maybe they couldn’t decide until they got here. Maybe they were awful. Same result, in the end,” said Evan.

“Yeah.”

Barstow nudged him again. He kept scratching.

“You don’t want to stay out here, huh?” Sunday crouched beside them, joining Evan’s effort of comfort. “You want to stay with us?”

Barstow’s lean and her nudging snout went from one companion to the other.

“Have you ever had a dog?” asked Sunday.

“No. Wanted one as a kid, but we couldn’t have one, and then…” Evan shrugged. “Anyway. Then I found out I’m a cat person. You?”

“Had both. Loved them all. Sad to see them go, so I’ve gone back and forth. It’s been a while.”

Barstow clung to her companions. At this point, she had clearly given her opinion on close contact and hugs. Evan felt terrible as her needs crashed against the commitments he barely met already.

He still had no home of his own. Anatole was still out there, and so was a likely warrant for Evan’s arrest, and now the FBI. They drove a stolen SUV full of stolen loot, some of it magical, much of it still unopened. He could be carrying enriched uranium and alien cadavers and the Ark of the Covenant for all he knew.

Above it all, he had friends to protect. Two of them had four legs and needed more care than the rest. Evan pulled out his burner phone. “Hope I don’t regret this.”

“Hm?” wondered Sunday.

Reception had to be thin out here, but the pictures already sat in the message thread. He opened the app to find Flip-Top and Lily astride Sofia’s laundry. “Okay. Hey. I need to know something.” Evan turned the screen to Barstow. “Are you good with cats? Do you see this?”

Barstow looked to the screen with interest, snorfing and nudging with her nose. She reached up with a paw and let out another soft, longing whine.

She didn’t sound hungry. Or hostile.

“Did you have cat buddies?” asked Sunday.

Barstow nudged the phone right out of Evan’s hand and then snorffed at it across the dirt.

“Okay, hey,” Evan laughed. He pulled Barstow’s attention back to himself. “I don’t know much about dogs and less than nothing about ghosts, but do you want to stay with us? Are we friends?” Evan reclaimed the phone, straightened, and stepped backwards with his hand out. Barstow followed, sniffing and snorfing.

Sunday beamed.

As they backed toward the Escalade at a slow pace, the invitation became clear. Barstow hopped around them both, colliding against their legs and barking with interest. “We’re good, Barstow. No worries,” said Evan. “The kitties are pretty accepting. We’ll figure this out.”

“Hey. Hold on,” Sunday said as he reached for the door to the Escalade. Evan turned.

Sunday threw her arms around him and held him tight.

He reached up in response, hesitating, but returned the hug. His breath shook.

“Yeah, I know,” Sunday said into his shoulder. “It’s fuckin’ cold out here.”

“Warmer in the truck,” said Evan. Barstow nudged at Sunday’s hip, and then his.

They didn’t let go.

16

SOMETHING TO LOSE

“We’re almost a hundred miles away and our ride is the wrong color, with the wrong plates. Parking head-in covers the damage on the front. There’s probably not a single security camera past the front entrance and lobby.”

Painted bricks and hotel windows stretched to the left and right. Evan looked from the dashboard to Sunday. “Are you convincing me, or yourself?”

“Both. I’m thinkin’ out loud,” said Sunday. “We’re good, but we’re good because we’re careful, you know? Gotta think shit through. Especially now.”

“Makes sense.” Evan looked through the window to the skies. His shoulders relaxed a little more. “Guess there are fewer cops out here, too.”

“And if they cruise through here, they won’t have any reason to check us out. We’re good.”

“It’s not dodgy that we showed up in the middle of the night and didn’t want to use a credit card?”

“Nah, man. It’s Victorville. People call it quits on road trips between here and Vegas all the time, and some places still take cash. Fuckin’ annoying how everyone wants plastic for everything anymore, though,” she grumbled. “We set?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Evan looked back at Barstow, to the small dish of food she still found uninteresting, and then to the plastic cases filling the back. “This place isn’t exactly high-end.”

“No.” Sunday read his mind. “Everyone takes the same risk parking here.”

“They’re not all in expensive SUVs.”

“We’re not unloading all this into a shitty motel for one night.”

He looked to her, then to the building, and back again. “I thought you said this place is average?”

“Average is shitty. Good keeps all their business in the actual tourist towns, not between them. It’s not a dump, is what I meant.”

“It’s fine. I’ve stayed in dumps. My point is, the truck is probably a thief-magnet.”

“You ain’t wrong,” Sunday grumbled again. It was a more likely danger than police or supernatural enemies. She didn’t normally drive with enough valuables to worry about it. “Is this gonna keep you awake?”

“Probably not.” He shrugged. “We don’t actually know what’s in here. We only know Anatole wanted it. If it all disappears, he’s still screwed, right? Barstow’s what matters.”

Their backseat companion woofed. Evan’s answer tugged at the corners of Sunday’s mouth. She liked that he thought practically and took danger seriously, but she also liked what his response showed. He wasn’t in this for the money or ambition. He didn’t get hung up on ego or rage, and didn’t get lazy or reckless. He cared about random innocents getting hurt. More than profit or revenge, he cared about who he was with.

She liked him more and more all the time, except for how often he looked away when she smiled. She had suspicions about that. “Then we’re down to the other problem,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Late check-in without reservation. There’s only one bed.” She got out of the Escalade, grinning. Her comment tripped him up a couple beats. Sunday threw open the back door and collected her bag from their morning shopping trip before he caught up again.

Their parking space left them only a short walk from the building entrance. In a gesture toward security, the door required their magnetic key card. She kept her eye out for cameras, thinking mostly of complaints about bringing in a dog, but found none. Inside the hallway, faint scents of alcohol, pizza, and cigarettes touched Sunday’s nose. Thankfully, she smelled no mildew. Their room number took them a safe distance from the vending machines and one room with the television warbling into the hallway.

The lock gave way on the first try. Lights came on with only a single blink. Sunday led the way into a beige and red king-sized single with air conditioning, a flat-screen, and all the other key amenities of two-star chain hotel comfort.

Barstow entered at Sunday’s side. Her snorfs of curiosity ended with a rumble of distaste.

“I’ve stayed in worse,” Sunday told her.

“I’ve lived in worse,” said Evan.

“Yeah.” Sunday remembered their first meeting. His place had been smaller, older, and the exteriors got less care. “Did your landlord at least keep up with the plumbing and⁠—?”

Silently, Evan waved his hand in a circle and pulled it back in a fist. A thin breeze of dust and lint flew up toward his motion—particularly from the bed—and disappeared before reaching his grip. He stepped around Sunday and did it again. This time, less dust rose and the bed had nothing to give up, but the carpet lifted and subtly brightened as if freshly vacuumed. Lighting improved with the removal of dust and stains on the lampshades.

The effect brightened more than the lights. Barstow snorffed around the room again with new interest, seeming to approve of the change. Sunday smiled broadly and bumped her fist into his arm. “Okay, I really like riding with you.”

“Guess I’ve got my uses, right?”

“Hell yeah. That, too,” she corrected, catching his eyes.

“Too?”

“You’re good company.”

His brain tripped. She saw it behind his eyes. He hesitated, but it was the right kind of hesitation. That pleased her more, though she stepped on that reaction; it wasn’t time. She didn’t want to set either of them up for disappointment. Practical issues mattered. “You’re exhausted.”

“I am.” It came out more as an admission than an escape from the tension he clearly shared.

Good.

“That cleansing magic can’t be better than a shower. You want to go first?” Sunday held back most of a grin as he blinked again.

“Yeah, I guess I should,” he said. Sunday tilted her head to urge him on. Evan set his bag by the bed, found his next change of clothes, and moved on to the small bathroom.

Sunday settled onto the bed to find Barstow looking up at her curiously. “You gonna be chill while we sleep?” she asked the dog. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And stuff?”

“Woof,” Barstow responded in equally softer tones.

“No jumping on the bed and making it weird, right? Not even if we make it weird?” Sunday grinned at Barstow’s innocent, glowing red murder eyes. “I’m sure it’s always weird for dogs. Don’t wanna kick you out, is what I’m saying. Don’t wanna be mean. But. You know.” She tilted her head toward the bathroom, and then grinned again. “Or not. You probably don’t know.”

“Woof?”

Sunday laid on the bed, only to sit right back up. “Okay, no good. If I do that, I won’t get up for the shower.”

“Rff.” Barstow sat up, closer to the bed, eyeing both Sunday and the comforter.

“Or do we need to have a talk about where doggies sleep? Do ghost doggies sleep, actually?”

Barstow hopped up onto the bed, turning a gentle but fast circle before nudging and licking Sunday’s face. “Gah! Okay, yeah,” Sunday groaned. “Time for that talk. Get down, Barstow. Get… c’mon, Barstow. Get down. I know you’re happy, but get⁠—!”

The struggle continued, but Barstow complied by the time the shower stopped running. Sunday looked to the clock and thought it surprisingly fast. Then it clicked: he was being considerate.

Evan emerged in a t-shirt and dark boxer briefs. He turned first to the mirror in the nook by the bathroom rather than Sunday and the bed. “Hey, I don’t have anything more to sleep in than this. Hope that isn’t awkward.”

“Same thing I’m gonna do.” Sunday grabbed her own set from the bag and moved past him with a downward glance and a grin. “You wear it well.”

“Um. Thanks.” He caught her peeking as she closed the door, mainly because she let him.

Chill, chica, Sunday told herself. We’ve both been running all day and night. Fighting and stressing and stuffing a whole warehouse-loading job into fifteen minutes, and then fighting again after that. We blew the after-action arousal window by driving past Victorville for the dog. The vibe running through her limbs and her core suggested that might not be entirely true, but logic and experience still had their say.

He's not used to killing people. We did a bunch of that. And he got shot.

Everyone thinks they can go all night until somebody gets off and then the rest of their day catches up.

The shower had its say, too. Warm water counseled relaxation and maybe standing under the stream until she passed out. She briefly considered that a cold shower might be more in line with her problems, but she didn’t need to torture herself. Denial was enough.

Then it dawned on her that she had stepped into a clean and fresh shower directly after a guy had used it. Maybe magic made cleaning up easy, but Evan thought of it without being asked. Her eye turned to the handle and the arrows pointing from hot to cold. She let the heat continue.

Cheap hotel soap and hair products did their job. The travel kit she picked up this morning did the rest. She didn’t need luxury tonight. She needed sleep.

One glance at Evan’s head sunk into a pillow brought out a counterargument of what she really needed. Sunday stepped on that thought. The ship had already sailed. At least he didn’t snore. No, she corrected with thoughts of her first marriage, that’s not an “at least.” That’s kinda great.

Sunday climbed into the other side of the bed with an involuntary smile and turned the lights out. The bed felt good, with or without the space between herself and Evan. The darkness felt good. She could wait for the rest.

Then the foot of the bed dipped with a new weight and pressure between them. “Barstow, no,” she said. “No dogs on the bed. Get down.”

Barstow whined.

“Man, that’s gonna be real unfair when she sees the cats sleeping next to me,” Evan murmured.

“She’s not a cat. She’s almost as big as us!” Sunday propped herself up on her elbows. “And how do you weigh so much when you’re a ghost?”

Glowing red murder eyes pleaded with her in the darkness.

“No lo jodas en la mañana,” Sunday told her.

“Don’t what in the morning?” asked their sleepy bedmate.

“Nada. Never mind.” Sunday pointed and gave Barstow a stern look before sinking back onto the bed. “Good night.”

“The Pit has claimed this soul. Such is the Pit’s due, and so it is done. I claim the body and all it leaves behind. I claim heart and mind, muscle and blood. I claim strength. I claim power.”

Blood dripped from the sack Anatole held forward with both hands. He repeated the chant in older languages, one after another. Candles ran the full circumference of the ritual circle, three feet in diameter, as well as the corners of the room. Only Jan observed from his post closer to the door. None of their newer associates could know about this. None but Jan and Elizabeth.

Most people objected to service beyond death. Anatole and his closest companions merely saw it as making the most of a loss—whether friend, enemy, or anyone in between. He turned waste into opportunity. This was only the newest and best method.

“Blood and ash hold all I require. The rest may pass. I give the Pit its due. Leave the rest to me.”

Burning orange light spread from the bottom of the sack. Anatole held firm despite the heat and the embers. Magic prevented any real harm. Magic also allowed blood to drip from the burning sack into the bowl at the center of the ritual circle.

Technology took care of the smoke as Jan hit the switch for the fan in the overhead vent.

The process finished in under a minute. Everything within the sack crumbled under internal heat. Once the blood finished dripping, unnaturally heavy ashes followed, until the sack itself burned up into embers that followed the smoke into the vents. With the ritual complete, Anatole sighed and relaxed his shoulders.

“That seems like enough for two draughts,” said Jan.

“Three, if we’re fortunate,” said Anatole. “Dietrich was a big man and a bigger werewolf. The potion should mimic all of his strength and abilities.”

“I can’t believe Crank let us keep the remains, even if they were tainted by silver.”

“One wonders if that’s really a problem. Crank may be operating on bad information—maybe from Dietrich himself.”

“Should we do the sorcerers next?” asked Jan.

“Not while Terrence is on the premises. I trust the chamber wards, but Practitioner circles create lasting bonds. We may not account for everything he can sense. Let’s not take the risk.”

The rap of knuckles against the door interrupted them, knocking three times, then twice. With a nod from Anatole, Jan opened and stood out of the way.

Elizabeth entered alone, as her knock assured. She wore a dark suit and thin, black-rimmed glasses, with her blonde hair tied back and no cosmetics tonight. The incident had taken her out of bed, but she answered the call without complaint as always. Sorcery did more to hold her in a timeless mid-thirties than any make-up, just as it did for the others.

Anatole gave up claims to titles like “sorcerer” and “practitioner” centuries ago. Ambiguity served him better than the respect carried by labels, and no one ever really trusted a necromancer. None but his closest companions.

“LAPD pushed for a rapid first examination by the coroner,” Elizabeth began. They’d been together too long to need greetings or preamble. “Six bodies. The FBI claimed identification and other belongings at the scene. We should get images soon, but the verbal descriptions line up with Torres and his team.

“One victim was shot in the head and neck within their vehicle by one of the FBI agents. That one is straightforward and consistent with what little the FBI conceded. The rest is less simple. Two victims were mauled to death by an animal. The coroner suspects a large dog or a wolf, but expressed some surprise at how the animal tore up their body armor.”

“We never thoroughly tested that dog’s bite,” said Anatole. “In the past, others like it bit right through armor as if it wasn’t there. They didn’t chew it up.”

“Times change,” said Jan. “Armor has changed. They manifest differently depending on the witnesses, too.”

“True enough. What else?” Anatole asked Elizabeth.

“Two more were shot with unusual, large-caliber rounds. They haven’t identified the weapon yet, but they have identified iron and silver in the bullets.”

“The attackers raided a house guarded by vampires.” Jan shrugged. “We assumed they knew what they were doing.”

“Yes, but the iron is curious,” said Anatole. “What else did they expect? Who uses iron?”

“Our final victim may hold an answer,” said Elizabeth. “Torres was hacked to death with an axe or a hatchet.”

Anatole’s face hardened, looking from one companion to the other. “Murphy had a dark-haired woman with him. We didn’t get a good look.”

“No, we did not,” Jan agreed. “They knew how to handle the guards in Christian’s house, and how to control the hound.”

“And Dietrich was killed by a silver-laden bullet to the face, fired from a moving vehicle,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps the coroner might try matching the bullets to very old firearms.”

“Torres was certain of Sunday’s death,” said Jan.

“We have no reason to doubt Torres in loyalty or perception,” said Elizabeth. “He may have been misled or mistaken.”

“Could Nahash have betrayed you?” Jan asked Anatole.

“Our deal was finite.” Anatole’s gaze drifted to the ritual circle and the bowl of blood and ash. “We traded knowledge in exchange for a host body. Neither of us held ongoing obligations. After that, we only hired them for limited tasks and limited payment. Arguably, the demon owed us nothing and therefore betrays nothing.” He let out a seething breath. “Nahash knew about her longevity, but he seemed as if I’d given him something more in the bargain…”

He folded his arms, lost in thought. Jan and Elizabeth waited patiently until Anatole spoke again. “What of the FBI? What have you learned?”

“They claimed secrecy under national security needs and gave the LAPD almost no details,” said Elizabeth. “Our sources say this is unusual. Secret or not, someone within the LAPD should be involved or at least consulted. This is apparently a mystery to everyone. The FBI confirms the operation, but nothing else. Torres had international government and criminal clients, but he crashed into this chase at its ending. He couldn’t have been the FBI’s target.

“As for other details, the FBI doubled back to claim Killer Six’s body, but you retrieved him first. No one within our LAPD connections mentioned Murphy by name. They don’t appear to suspect his involvement at all—or ours,” she added. “They know of an additional tailing SUV that disappeared after the incident, but not with details to point to your vehicle specifically.”

“Traffic cameras? Onlookers? Everyone carries a camera these days,” said Jan.

“Investigations have only begun, but our sources don’t hold out much hope.”

“And Christian?” asked Jan.

“Nothing yet,” said Elizabeth. “He changed passwords and locked us out of his accounts while you were in pursuit. He could be anywhere.”

“Christian concerns me less than Nahash,” said Anatole. “Let’s finish collecting the draughts and clean this up. I need to reach out to our friend from the Pit.”

Their room stayed comfortably dark in the morning. A thin crack of light shined at the edge of the drapes to confirm the sunrise. Sunday stirred with movement on the bed, opened her eyes, and found Evan sitting up and looking around. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Barstow,” he answered.

Sunday propped herself up on one elbow. Their companion no longer occupied the space at the foot of the bed. She didn’t lurk in the open, either. Her absence roused Sunday further until she traced Evan’s sightline to the couch by the dresser—which tilted and shook from some invisible force.

“What are you…?” Evan asked in the same gentle voice he used with his cats.

“Is she here?” asked Sunday.

“I guess? I see kind of a shadow curled up on the couch. A shadow with a tail.”

“Oh. It’s day. She might not be all here in the day. It’s a ghost thing.”

“Really?”

“Pff. I dunno. Maybe she’s being a good girl.”

Evan stood, stretched, and shuffled to the couch with one hand reaching out. He seemed to find fur to stroke and scratch, but Sunday still saw nothing. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. Sunday waited until he shut the door. “Good girl,” she hissed.

“Hrf.” The noise came so softly and so distant Sunday thought she might’ve imagined it. Like a ghost.

“Good girl. Stay.” Sunday stayed where she was, too. Grinning.

He came out again and washed up in the sink, moving quietly and looking her way to see if she’d gone back to sleep. Instead, she dropped her grin. “Hey. We gotta talk.” Sunday nodded to his side of the bed. “C’mere. Settle.”

“Okay?” He complied, expecting something serious judging by his breath and the way he sat on his side of the bed. “You sleep okay? I thought about checking the truck.”

“Like you said, it’s there or it isn’t. Probably fine. This is more important.”

“What’s wrong?” He braced himself. He hid it well, but Sunday had been around. She knew.

“You like me.” Sunday shifted on her elbow, facing him. “It’s more than the partners-in-crime stuff. It’s the vibe. The chatter. You’re always paying attention. You like me.”

“Yeah.”

“You hope when this is over—whenever Anatole cries, ‘Uncle’ or we kill him or he fucks off and dies—you hope it’s not over. Right?”

“Yes.” He stayed braced. Waiting for the shutdown. The let-him-down-easy, or maybe the cold dose of reality.

“What if it is over? What if I’m done? You good with that?”

Evan shrugged as if it was obvious. “Yeah. It’s too bad, but yeah.”

She waited for the turn or the tantrum. It didn’t come. She figured as much, but she had to know. “You like me, but you don’t flirt.”

“No.”

“Is it ’cause you’re not good at flirting?”

Doubt crept into his eyes. Doubt and suspicion. “We’ve both been through a lot, and we’re in a lot of shit, and all we’ve got is each other. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“Okay, but are you good at flirting?”

Doubt fell to suspicion, making him grin. “Situationally.”

“Christ. That’s a dodge. Do you want me to do everything?”

The flicker in his eye came before anything else—no magic, no special effects, just the final click of confirmation. Evan leaned in, one hand reaching behind her head for the pillow. Sunday was on her back when he kissed her. Soft, probing lips opened her mouth and took her up on the invitation for more.

Oh thank God, he can kiss, thought Sunday. She didn’t expect he had much experience. That humble account of his dating history might have been exaggeration… except the guy can kiss. None of the stuff guys these days “learned” from watching porn. She felt hunger behind his restraint, and shared the same urge.

Evan stroked through her hair, fingers gliding softly across her scalp over the ear. That move always gave her a shiver. He couldn’t know before he tried it, but he knew now. Their lips parted with her breath heavy, and then came together with her demand for more. He only met whatever she offered. He didn’t escalate. Didn’t want to screw this up.

Enough of that.

Without letting go, Sunday swept and kicked away the blankets that still covered her. Then she hooked her arm around his waist to pull him on top of her. If that didn’t make things clear, she slid one leg over his hip and downward.

That soft stroke through her scalp got more assertive. Evan turned her head, breaking their kiss to turn his mouth onto her neck, then upward, teasing her ear. His knee settled between her legs for support, but also teased her with more contact. He felt warm. Eager. Good.

Sunday tugged at his shirt. “Too many clothes.”

“This isn’t too fast?” asked Evan.

Her eyes rolled, but she grinned. “Oh my god. I thought about it back at Sofia’s, but I had to check my head. I know what I want. Gimme.”

She tugged the bottom of his shirt halfway up, confirming that lean body she expected. Evan didn’t lift his arms to cooperate; instead, his head turned slightly with another counter, though he, too, was grinning. “I didn’t grab any condoms yesterday. Did you?”

“If you want ’em, I’ll wait, but…” Her teeth dragged across her lip. “In two hundred years, I ain’t ever been pregnant or caught any nastiness. You can cure people with magic anyway. And I kinda like it when bodies do what they do.”

His shirt came off faster than her smile could spread. Evan closed in again, hungrier and less restrained as he kissed and stroked. His wandering, descending touch produced ripples of excitement and heavier breath. He traced the curve of her hip, then kissed her neck again while his caress roamed beneath her shirt.

Sunday writhed against him, twisting with luxury. He leaned back and pushed her shirt upward with an indulgent stroke of both hands going up her sides and over her breasts. She raised her arms and arced her back to make the rest easy—and found his eyes staring with awe, but not at her chest. “What?”

“Sorry. Don’t mean to… you’re… really flexible,” he admitted. “Didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“You know, you can keep the good stuff from the bad times,” she told him. “It’s okay. At least I got something out of being part snake for a minute.” Making her point, Sunday hooked a leg around his hip to pull him in, grinding his groin against hers. Contact send an electric tremor through them both. “It’s how we got here.”

He grinned, glanced lower, but then leaned in for a kiss rather than staring—until he caught her broad grin. “What?”

“You don’t have to hide it. I know they’re great,” she teased.

It won her a softly kneading hand over one breast. Sunday tilted into it, loving his touch. She also loved his breath and his words: “All of you is great. The hardest thing about being with you is trying not to stare.”

“Stop trying. I’m into it,” she said.

They slid together, kissing and grinding, thrilled with so much skin against skin. She wanted to keep his chest against hers. By the time his fingers hooked into her panties, she nearly yelped, but instead she released his lower body from her leg-lock and let him pull the fabric down and away.

Rather than returning to their embrace, he crouched low and trailed kisses up her inner thigh with clear intent. Of course, he will, Sunday shivered with anticipation. His lips fell between her legs. The first soft lick triggered only a small rush, like her body wasn’t sure this was happening. As he kissed with more contact, Sunday shook against the bed. Her legs closed around his sides to keep him in place. “Oh, fuck!”

He wasn’t her first. She’d been around, and with some great guys. But his feather-light licks hit just right and escalated with patience… and it had been way too long. Sunday moaned and grabbed at his hair, but stopped short of interrupting. Anything but that. Anything but an end to that tongue swirling around her… “Yeah. Ohgodlikethat yeah!”

Climax approached faster than it should. He was good, but it really had been way too long. Sunday tensed and gasped at the edge. Orgasm hit her with spasm after spasm, forcing broken moans from her throat. God, he felt good with his mouth still kissing and her legs trembling around his shoulders and back. She worried she might squeeze too hard, but that worry died under another tremor and another groan.

“Ohmygod. Too long.” She glanced down her body to find him pleased with her response. Hell, he could be smug for all she cared, as long stayed sweet about everything else… and: “You’re gonna do more of that, right?”

“All the time, if you’ll let me,” said Evan.

“Let you?” She beckoned him closer to her. “I need the rest of you, baby. Now.” He rose in answer, but Sunday snatched the waistband of his boxer briefs the instant they came within reach. The earlier grind had already given her a good idea of the reveal. It had been too long, but she still knew how to pick them.

Once again, he meant to take it slow. The brush of his cock against her sex was all the teasing she could tolerate. Sunday grabbed at his hips and rocked her own, taking full advantage of her flexibility. He had the right instinct and thrust with her. They shared a sharp grunt and a wide-eyed grin of pleasure, and then thrust together again.

Sunday pulled him in close. She wanted all of him.

“We’re gonna… do this… a lot. Right?” she asked.

“Hell yeah. God. You’re incredible,” he breathed.

“Hey. Your magic. Nnf. Healing and… stuff,” Sunday said. Evan slowed, rising a little to meet her eyes with a look of concern. She only grinned. “You cheat fatigue, right? Think it works on everything?”

Evan’s lips mashed against hers. Neither of them cared about technique now.

Unseen, Barstow rose from the chair, shook herself, and wandered through the wall to explore the hotel until her companions were done being weird.

17

EXPERT ASSISTANCE

“Yes, yes, keep it moving! Take it seriously!” Hal shouted across the ice. “Ivan, Erik, practice is part of your job!”

Both players skidded to a halt on the ice to wave back. The move interrupted their relays, but Hal wanted acknowledgements at practice. The pause also left Ivan pointing his hockey stick past Hal before he resumed the practice drill.

“The hell is his problem?” Hal wondered out loud—and then turned.

Christian waited in simple jeans and a hoodie pulled up over his head. He kept his hands in the center pocket while his eyes darted around. “Coach. I need to talk.”

“Yes, you do,” said Hal. “You’re an hour late. No call, no email. Where have you been?”

“Yeah, I had to wait for the iceplex to open for public skate. Needed to come in with the crowd.”

Hal’s frown was predictable. Christian had all the same building access as the rest of the team. His face alone could unlock as much as any ID badge or key card. “What’s going on?”

“Yesterday, that talk we had?” Christian looked around again. He needed all the eyes, needed the cold and bright normalcy of teammates on the ice and staff all around, and yet he also needed privacy. He needed to be seen by many and heard by few. “I’m in trouble. Real trouble. You’re not wrong. The people I’ve been around lately aren’t just greedy. They’re dangerous.”

“How bad is it?” Hal’s voice lowered. He took it seriously, yet seemed unsurprised.

“I can’t go home for a while,” said Christian. “I probably need a lawyer, but I also don’t know how much that’s gonna help. And I don’t think I should be alone.”

Hal watched him. Christian put up the best front he could, but his insides clenched with all the same tension he felt in his own laundry room amid gunfire and the howl of monsters. He wasn’t sure how much he could explain if pressed for every detail, but he had nowhere else to turn.

“Is it public?” asked Hal. “Anyone coming at you with a lawsuit or a news story?”

“No. No, it’s not like that. Kinda feel safer in public right now, y’know?”

“Alright. We can handle this. The team is your whole life until we get this settled. No podcast, no social media, no going out. When you’re not with the team, you live in the bubble. Okay?”

“Bubble? What’s that mean?”

“Christian, you’re not the first star athlete to get into some stupid trouble,” said Hal. “We have people for this.”

“What the fuck? Who the fuck are you people? Where the fuck am I?” Donny sat bolt upright in his seat, awakening from a faint crick in his neck and his back to full alarm at the passengers seated beside him. Flat scrubland passed by the windows at either side of the bus. A bearded man in faded flannel and someone’s grandmother stared back at Donny in irritation.

“I imagine you’ve got a hangover catching up soon,” said the man. “That’ll calm you down.”

“Hangover? What? I’m not drunk. Where are we?”

“Twenty minutes out of our last pit stop.” The man seemed unfazed by Donny’s coarse intensity. “Bathroom’s at the back of the bus. Might not be a line just yet.”

“No, I mean where the hell—? Fuck you.” Donny pulled carelessly on the seat in front of his and shoved backward on his own to get on his feet. Passengers let out plaintive noises that he ignored on his way down the aisle. He grabbed other seats for balance as his head suddenly pounded and his vision clouded. Motion from the road didn’t help.

It wasn’t a hangover. He knew that. His head throbbed from something much worse. Donny paused to pat himself down, only to verify all his worst fears: no wallet, no phone, no gun, not even his own damn car keys. The glasses Anatole gave him were gone, too.

“Driver! Hey, driver!” Donny demanded as he reached the front. “Where are we?”

“Just stopped in Buttonwillow.” The driver scowled as if Donny should already know that. “Not stopping again before Kettleman City. And you need to get behind the yellow line.”

“Kettle—? I never heard of it! You need to stop this bus right now!”

“Hah. Okay. You want to explain that to all of them?” The driver jerked her thumb over her shoulder. Donny followed the hint. A dozen faces watched him with sleepy interest and mild annoyance. Others hadn’t woken up at all—yet.

He had no phone, no gun, and no memory after leaving the iceplex with Christian. He needed to get off the bus, turn around, head back to LA. Most of all, he needed to call the boss… who wouldn’t be happy at Donny’s predicament. Hell, he might blame Donny.

A deep pit opened in his stomach. The bus rolled on through the middle of nowhere, carrying sleepy passengers and Donny’s aching head. Someone nearby made it all worse when they rolled up their window blind to let in the morning sun.

“It’s way too bright here,” grumbled Onyx.

Molly didn’t entirely blame her. They were both tired, tense, and out of their element. The latter had a bigger impact on them than most people. Still, Molly’s green eyes rolled sideways to her partner, whose fair face was shrouded by big sunglasses and dark hair that usually got more primping in the morning. “We’re not even out of the jetway yet.”

“I know, right?” muttered Onyx. “This is too much.”

“You’re being a stereotype,” Molly grumbled back.

“Hey, I’m several stereotypes, thank you.” Onyx backed that up with her outfit: her lightest long-sleeve top, an ankle-length skirt, and tall Doc Marten boots, all in black. Her trademark black frock coat stayed behind in Seattle to make room for climate-appropriate clothes in the single carry-on she wheeled at her side. “It’s never been a problem for you before now.”

“Probably helps that your stereotypes match my turn-ons.”

“Don’t flirt with me when I woke up at five,” said Onyx.

Molly grinned, though she shared that complaint. Her spiky red hair and usual ensemble of black band t-shirt and black pants were easier to throw together than her partner’s standards, but the worries of air travel and making it to SeaTac on time left her just as ill-rested.

The sponsor for their flight would have paid for any corrections without complaint. They knew that. Given the circumstances, the assurance didn’t feel any better.

Passengers shuffled off to the left and right coming out of the jetway. Impatient travelers crowded the gate, waiting to board the plane Onyx and Molly just left. More gate seating spread out in three directions, nearly all of it occupied and busy. Nearby, a child cried loudly. A voice over a PA paged an unfamiliar name.

“Oh my god. Too many people,” said Onyx.

Molly snorted. “You gonna make it?”

“I’m a big girl. It’s fine. We have crowds and sunshine at home, too. Sometimes. In the worst times.” The thin curve of Onyx’s lips beneath her shades suggested she had moved from sincere complaint to idle banter. “They have coffee and trees here, right?”

“Sure, and tech bros and hipsters. Wait ‘til we get on the freeway. More lanes, same traffic. You’ll feel right at home. Speaking of going, I guess we head for⁠—?”

“Molly, hey! Onyx, hi.” Amber stepped through the crowd, dressed in business casual and looking brighter than she sounded on the phone last night. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, same.” Molly saw no other familiar faces, nor interested onlookers. She took the chance to throw a friendly hug around Amber—and noted her blink and her hesitant return. Between the crowds and the pace of travel, Molly hadn’t looked at Amber’s aura before she moved. Now she saw the colorful spike of emotion: a soft, warm red of friendship and gratitude with a swirl of complexity behind it. “Ah. Sorry. Should I not?”

“N-no, it’s fine. Actually. Thank you.” Amber shrugged. “I… haven’t had a lot of hugging, um, friends. Sorry. I’m not complaining.”

Onyx caught the mumble, stepped in, and backed up Molly’s hug with her own. “We’re friends. Definitely. Don’t worry about it. You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. It’s not about last night, though that was a whole thing. I’m fine. I’m grateful you came down. Seems like you’ve got some doubts about all this.”

“Doubts about the feds and the principle, yes. None about you,” said Onyx.

“I’m supposed to bring you straight to the office. Do you need anything before we go? Bathroom or baggage claim?”

“We’re fine,” said Molly. “Carry-ons only. Didn’t want to travel heavy on short notice. We may need to buy stuff while we’re here.”’

“Good. Keep receipts. You can expense almost everything.” Then Amber paused. Strangers passed in mobs, none of them listening or caring, but her voice dropped several notches anyway: “You’ve got what you need, right? Magic stuff? Does that travel well?”

The pair shared a glance and a snort. Onyx asked, “You know what you say when the TSA asks about the magic wand in your bag?”

“What?”

“You tell them it’s a magic wand. What’re they gonna do about it?”

Amber had half a second of exasperation before the humor caught up. She laughed. That was a good sign. The hesitation wasn’t. She nodded to the busy pathway between gates. “C’mon, then. My car’s close by. Benefits of a badge, like being able to meet people at the gate.”

“Sure.” Molly caught another glance from Onyx as they fell in beside Amber. That was often enough for communication between the pair. “Do we want to talk before we get to your office? Y’know, in the um…” Molly winced at her own awkwardness, “crowded airport?”

“Or on the freeway?” added Onyx. She caught Amber’s hesitant pause. “You’ve got kind of a vibe, is all.”

“Okay, the hug stuff is old baggage from high school,” said Amber. “It’s not that.”

“Alright…?” Onyx prompted.

“Wait for it,” Amber said casually, and kept walking. The passing pair of uniformed police were routine enough in an airport, but Amber had noticed before either of her guests. “Not something I want overheard in LAX. That fight I mentioned on the phone? Yeah, I took a bullet through the hip and back. Lost at least a pint of blood. Another agent got it worse. One of the suspects fixed us up on the spot, right before he took off. We’re both fine… although that in itself also has everyone a little freaked out, on top of getting shot in the first place. By ‘everyone,’ I’m including myself.”

“Yeah, that’s a lot,” said Molly. “When you say, ‘fixed,’ how do you mean? Like me?”

“Like you, but way faster and it seemed easier for him. The nail in my pocket gave a little trouble, but I took it out and then, poof. Happened in a couple seconds. No tools, no words. That part has Bridger freaked out. That, and some other things our guy did.”

“You were in a chase, and then other guys showed up, right? You weren’t hurt and helped by the same guy?” asked Onyx.

“Different parties, yes. In fact, I think our runners may have helped us more than once in that whole mess. That’s what I wanted to tell you while I had the chance. My boss wants to hold off on the briefings until you’re in the office and he’s there, so I didn’t say anything about the case here, okay? But I think we might have our guy all wrong.”

“Mostly, I was afraid you might get all emotional and swoony on me. Or weepy.” Sunday claimed the cherry with her scoop of ice cream and planted it in her mouth before looking Evan in the eye. The comment was the perfect misdirect from her theft; she knew damn well which one would deserve a response, deflecting any objection from the other.

“Weepy?” Evan leaned closer across the table, spoon in hand, diner dishes pushed aside except for the shared bowl of ice cream. “You thought I’d be weepy?”

“Yeah, man. Seemed possible. You’ve been through hell lately, an’ you seem kinda lonely. The swoony romance bit seemed more likely, though. Zero to proposals, that kinda thing.” Her innocent shrug held no sincerity. “I suppose it’s possible you could get emotional about being with me.”

“Maybe I do get weepy sometimes, but not if it stops me from getting laid.” Evan smirked. “I’m not not emotional.”

“Good.” She grinned. “What if I am?”

“Emotional?”

“Maybe.” Her teasing look softened. “Haven’t liked someone this much in a long time. If this was just a fling, I’d tell you. I don’t like going straight from zero to heavy, but I don’t like guessing games, either. We on the same page?”

“Yeah. I… haven’t had anyone talk this out before. Not from the start.”

“I know, an’ that’s fuckin’ crazy, right?” said Sunday. “I mean, feel however you feel, but talk it out instead of bottling up and hoping the other person feels the same.”

“That’s easy to say until you’re afraid rushing it will scare them off,” said Evan.

“Alright, I guess that’s true. I get more guys coming at me with one-nighters in mind than the serious stuff. It’s just nice to be honest. More than a fling, less than a ring? For now?”

His heartbeat shifted up a gear. He couldn’t keep from mirroring her grin. “I like that.”

“Can I tell you something, then?” Sunday leaned in, head tilting from side to side in admission, or perhaps searching for words. “I like the romancey stuff, but I’m more about banging than the breathless movie romance sort of sex. That happens sometimes. It’s fine when it works. Mostly, I like having fun with bodies. I like being able to laugh. That cool?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Eh, everyone’s got their aspirations. Guys, too. You’d be surprised. And I like horny and flirty, but not so much in front of other people. No stunts for an audience. One-liners are cute, more than that and we’ve got a problem. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“I can dress kinda showy and glam. I like it when people notice. That means guys, too. Doesn’t mean I’m shopping. I had a guy who didn’t like that at all, and I played along to make him happy, but I’m not doing that again. Also, everybody window-shops. I’m fine with that, I’m fine with porn, I may even comment. Competition is different. Not interested.”

“We’re good. That’s never been a problem for me.”

“What has?” Sunday patted the table. “Cards out. Not just me. What’ve you got?”

“Um. Huh. You already know my situation and the crazy stuff, so there’s no big reveal and freak-out coming,” Evan considered. He thought of past relationships—or what passed for them. “I haven’t gone beyond the ‘dating’ phase much. Mostly had situationships from high school and college. If you’re mad at me for something, I need you to tell me. Don’t make me guess.”

“What, you’re not a mind-reader? Okay, fine,” Sunday joked. “What else?”

“God, I dunno. I didn’t expect this conversation. I guess… the cats have been my first priority since I got ’em? That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“They should be top priority. They’re your family.”

“Barstow, too, now.” Evan glanced to the side of the table. In daylight and public, she became little more than a dark and wispy cloud, invisible and unknown to everyone else. That seemed convenient, in a way. She gave a quiet grunt at the sound of her name, but didn’t stir. He frowned. “I wasn’t sure which one of us was adopting her, so I assumed it was me. I’m good for it, anyway. Whatever that means.”

“We share until this doesn’t work,” said Sunday, gesturing to him and herself with her spoon. “It’s good. You should be serious about pets, or you shouldn’t have ’em. What else?”

“Can I tell you when I think of it?”

“Yeah. You should. Always.” Sunday frowned. “I had a husband and a boyfriend who rolled their eyes at the whole ‘communication’ thing when it got more play in society, and so I did, too, but it’s for real. You gotta have that. People gotta figure out what they want, and then figure out if that fits whoever they’re with. Simple as that, label or no labels.”

Evan chewed on it, and the things she had laid out herself. “I’ve been in survival mode for so long, I never worried much about fashion. I care more about function and price than the rest. If style is important to you, you’re gonna have to teach me. I stressed and second-guessed over every dollar, every day until it became my default. That was normal for me. It sucked, but the sucking became standard. Still not really over it.”

“I noticed.” She flicked her eyes to the Escalade parked in view of the window. “What if we’re set for life on the stuff in the truck? It’s gotta be worth something, or they wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. Could be worth a lot. We didn’t stop to talk about that before we jumped. What do we do if we’re sitting on a treasure hoard?”

“You’re right. I’ve barely thought about it. Every time it came up, something else was more important. I don’t really dream of being rich. I’m sure that’d be great, but having a decent apartment and covering bills without worry would be enough, y’know? I’m still riding high on selling the car. This wasn’t about profit. It was about punching the bad guys. Am I crazy if I want to give a lot of it away?”

“No. Well, maybe not. Depends. Give it away to who?”

“I dunno. I don’t have a plan. I just… I know what a difference a little money can make to someone who has nothing.” He thought of the trinkets they found outside the boxes, and the more lavish spread he saw in his first visit to the basement. “Whatever’s easy to fence or cash in, I assume we’d split fifty-fifty. Some of that stuff is obviously Native American, or really old, or both. If it belongs with someone, culturally or historically or whatever, I’d rather they have it. We’ll have to see what we’ve got. That seems like our next step.”

“And a day or two off, right?”

“Yeah. Wow. Forgot about that. Yeah, definitely.”

“First priority, then, after the cats. And finding a comfier place to stay.” Sunday’s smile broadened. Her dark eyes took on a playful shine.

“Do you have another priority in mind there?” asked Evan.

“We didn’t have this whole long talk for nothing.”

“That brings you up to speed with everything we know.” Sanderson gestured to the rest of the team around the conference table. “A recap for everyone else seemed worthwhile, too.”

Molly and Onyx sat near the head of the table, closest to Sanderson and the projector screen. Nguyen and Bridger sat across from them, with Amber at their side. They already knew Lanier, too. Marino and Patrick were new to them, along with Sanderson… who came off as reserved, professional, and watchful, even while he did most of the talking.

The newcomers caught more than that, but said nothing.

Behind Sanderson, the screen held a high school senior yearbook photo of Murphy, a satellite map with a line tracing out the path of their chase, and pictures from the aftermath. A timeline of incidents and signals started with the presumed bounty from “A,” whoever that was. The latest notes listed phone traffic among suspected vampires. Several among their kind had apparently been killed overnight. Word spread shortly before dawn.

“How many people are you ‘monitoring?’” Molly pointed to the timeline, but looked the other way to Lanier across the table.

Rather than answer, Lanier looked up from his handwritten notes to Sanderson, who said, “They’re all supernatural suspects. Mostly suspected vampires. The wiretaps are all approved by a judge under the usual FBI standards.”

“How high is that bar? And when you say, ‘supernatural suspects,’ are they suspected of crimes, or of being supernatural?”

“Both,” Nguyen answered with a patient and understanding grin. “There’s no law against being supernatural or having unusual abilities. We need probable cause for anything like a phone tap… although the vampires tend to provide that probable cause as soon as they turn up.”

“Not to be blunt, Molly, Onyx, but some of your own activities would qualify as vigilantism,” said Sanderson. “Magic isn’t the issue. What someone does with it makes the difference.”

“Do you monitor our phones and email?” asked Onyx. “Are you watching us?”

“You established a helpful relationship with the task force. You don’t present the same need.”

“You’re also not biting people on a regular basis, right?” Patrick put in.

“We should stay on topic,” Nguyen suggested. “Murphy is our concern right now, and whatever he’s involved with. That mess last night could easily have gotten some innocent killed.”

Molly and Onyx needed no more consultation than a single glance. “We’re not sure Murphy is your bad guy here,” said Onyx. “He, or the woman with him, shot that werewolf who attacked you. He healed Amber and—it’s Marino, right?”

“Good guy and bad guy aren’t the same thing as legal and illegal,” said Sanderson. “We don’t know what’s going on. No one disputes that. Car chases and gunfire don’t come from nowhere, and every bullet fired lands somewhere. That’s Nguyen’s point. At best, this is vigilante violence and we need to get a handle on it.”

“So, we are conceding we don’t know what’s going on. That still matters, correct?” said Onyx.

“Correct. Not in dispute,” said Sanderson.

“Can I ask why you shot him, then?”

Sanderson didn’t stiffen, nor did he fume. His pause came without any gesture or expression at all. “I saw a dangerous suspect standing over a wounded agent. The suspect had abilities I couldn’t match. Any delay put us all at greater risk. I made a decision. I’ve reported the shooting to my own superiors. On first review, they haven’t objected.”

“But we know now that he healed Marino and Amber,” said Onyx, neutral and patient, “and he and his lady friend took down the guys who shot at you. They didn’t hurt you themselves.”

“They blinded us, resisted arrest, and fled. That’s all significant,” said Sanderson. “Ms… I understand you prefer just ‘Onyx.’ These are crimes. Every crime has context and complications, but the crimes remain and the public is in danger. We need your help. Are you willing?”

“If we agree that we don’t know what’s going on and we’re not out to bust anyone for having supernatural abilities, yes.”

“Then we have a mystery on our hands,” said Sanderson. “How can you help us?”

“Bridger,” Molly asked, “you said he used no tools? No wand, nothing? Is there anything you can add?”

“Yeah.” Bridger grimaced, glancing once to the boss. “When Murphy was shot, the woman and the dog came at us. I thought they’d fight, and it seemed like Murphy did, too. Instead, he put out that flash of light and we all lost track for a second. I heard them climb into the SUV and take off. The flash was the same as the rest. Bright as hell, happened in an instant, no words, no tools. Nothing.”

“And the smaller glowing bits he threw at the shooters seemed to have mass,” said Onyx.

“Yeah. Shooter reacted like it was an attack. I couldn’t tell what Murphy used.”

“I went through all of our pictures and evidence to figure that out,” Patrick spoke up. “Couldn’t find anything but ordinary bullets. Maybe every shot Murphy took went into a body, but we won’t know that until the coroner gets done.”

“Can you tell us anything about those abilities? Are the lights a weapon?” asked Sanderson.

“We haven’t seen much like that,” said Molly. “A bright light doesn’t sound too crazy, but I couldn’t do it. We can hurt people with magic. It’s easier when the harm has some kind of rational explanation, even if the odds are crazy, or if nobody ever sees it. Witnesses are a deciding factor. Magic is easier if everybody in the room is in tune somehow. That lets you do more. Out on the street, with at least some of you having no magic at all, and with all the special effects? And if he did something to protect a whole truck from impacts?” Molly shook her head. “That’s a lot.”

“Do you think you can help us find Murphy?” asked Sanderson. “Or the others involved? We may have a warrant and final clearance to investigate that house any minute.”

Onyx and Molly checked in with one another again, shrugged, and then Onyx answered. “We can experiment with a couple things. You should understand, with magic, it’s generally easier to hide than to find. If Murphy or his friend know what they’re doing, they may have the edge on us, regardless of how powerful they are. We can try. It’ll depend on what we have to work with.

“There’s something else you should understand, too,” she continued. “Bridger might’ve explained this, and we’ve talked with Amber and Colleen before. Magic is shared by Practitioners in a given area. Do you all know that part?”

“We’ve read your explanation,” said Sanderson. “We understand you form groups for a more efficient draw. No one has given us numbers or specifics.”

“I don’t know if anyone has ever worked out actual math on it,” said Onyx.

“A couple hermetic types have tried,” said Bridger. “I don’t know how reliable their work is.”

“Probably not very, and it might depend on the area,” said Molly.

“Right,” said Onyx. “The thing is, we’re not local. We’re not as strong in Los Angeles as we are in Seattle. You should keep that in mind. With Murphy, though… if he’s doing all this, I have to wonder how it affects the other Practitioners in the area. Or if it affects them at all.”

“I haven’t found any change,” said Bridger. “I’m bush league compared to you two, so I don’t know if I’d notice. But we haven’t, ah… well, the few occultists I know in the area haven’t said anything, and the wiretaps haven’t mentioned it, either. The one change everyone noticed is the stars—everyone with any supernatural ability, as far as I can tell. It’s freaky.”

“Guess we’ll see for ourselves after nightfall,” said Onyx.

“I’d like to take a look at the injuries from the fight, or the non-injuries, I guess,” said Molly. “If that’s not too awkward.”

“It’s fine. Other room?” Amber suggested.

“Sure. Doesn’t have to be just now, but soon.”

“Let’s break this up and check in at our desks,” said Sanderson. “I’ll see if we’ve got that warrant finished. We’ll go as soon as we’ve got it. All of us.”

Amber waited for a few others to shuffle out before she led Molly and Onyx to one of the bathrooms. Other groups shared the same office floor, requiring a quick check for privacy. “So that went… y’know, I can’t really tell if that went poorly or well. What do you think?”

Despite all their differences in appearance and personality, Molly and Onyx briefly shared the exact same frown and shrug.

“You’re our friend, this is a real mess, and we’re curious,” said Molly. “We’ll help. That’s not the problem.”

“Okay.” Amber winced. “Is Sanderson the problem?”

They did it again: mirrored glance, mirrored frown, mirrored shrug. “Shouldn’t rush to judgment,” said Molly.

“He carries a nail, right? You all do? Any other defenses?” asked Onyx.

“Bridger does his own thing. The rest of us only use nails, as far as I know. I don’t think Marino did at all until last night.”

“Okay. That might be hiding something from me, or not. Give us time.”

“Sure. First impression, though?” Amber pressed.

“Your boss has an A-plus poker face,” Onyx conceded. “The fact that he’s wearing one feels a little unwelcoming. And I get that cops aren’t supposed to say sorry after shooting the wrong guy or whatever, but he seems like he’s only angry that it didn’t work. The fact that Murphy saved your life and Marino’s doesn’t make a difference. Also, he was real careful answering us about the wiretaps. That was a non-denial denial in there.”

“You noticed that, too, huh?” asked Molly. “I got a real with-us-or-against-us vibe.”

“Definitely,” said Onyx. “Look, we’ll help you figure out what’s going on. If that means finding Murphy, fine. As for what to do about him, that depends on what we find out and how it goes—for us. I’m not sure Sanderson feels the same way.”

“Yeah.” Amber tilted her head back against a wall. “Fuck.”

18

ETHICS

“Idon’t think we’ve got anything to worry about,” said Sunday.

“Yeah. I get the same vibe. I’m still worried.” Evan glanced from the freeway to Barstow’s happy head once again poking between their seats. Daylight seemed to matter little now. She had her physical form again, returned as soon as they hit the road. He reached down, gave her a scratch… and worried. “We don’t know how this will go.”

“No, but we probably won’t get a better time to try,” said Sunday. “If I’m right, this is more magic-and-witnesses stuff. She’s stronger at night, but in day, she doesn’t want to be seen, or can’t. I didn’t know she was in the diner until you told me. I think she’s here now ’cause it’s just us. She might not show up to Sofia… and if it goes badly, I’d rather ‘bad’ happen in the day than at night.”

“Yeah. The ‘if’ is the part that worries me.” Evan shrugged. “What if it’s not just people? You think the cats will see her?”

“Far as I know, animals catch on to more of this than people. It’s a reason why people keep pets, or so I’ve heard. They can warn you of spookies, and the spookies know it. Far as I know, that whole thing about vampires controlling dogs and wolves is just to scare people away from relying on them. Misinfo stuff.”

“Dogs don’t like vampires, huh?”

“Hah! Nobody likes vampires.”

The drive back from Victorville had passed without incident. With greater vigilance, Evan discovered his spotlight spell hung on in daylight, albeit faintly and therefore with less warning. Daytime also brought heavier traffic. The Escalade still had dents from the start of the chase and tape-covered scars along one side and across the roof.

He took the freeway exit carefully, hating the mirrors and the sense of displacement from the road. “We really need a new ride.”

“Why? Do you hate SUVs?” Sunday grinned.

“Sorry. Have I said it a lot?”

“Only a couple times. Go off if it makes you feel better.”

“You don’t want that.”

“Just tell me I didn’t hook up with a guy who can’t shut up about how much he hates the latest franchise movie or what counts as ‘real’ rap music.”

“I’m not,” he said, and meant it—but made a mental note to avoid that anyway.

Parking required a short hunt through the side streets. They dared not leave the Escalade on the main drag, nor take it into the building’s lot, and alleys were rare in the area. With an inconspicuous space secured, Evan turned to Barstow. “You’re gonna be cool with my cats, right?”

“Hrrf,” Barstow grunted with unnatural distance in her voice.

“Even if they freak out a little? Because they might.”

Searing red eyes gave the same request as always. He scratched her head again.

“There’s gotta be a magic way to talk to dogs and cats,” said Sunday.

“Maybe. Nothing comes to mind. Guess we wing it like everyone else. Barstow, we’re going for a little walk, okay? Friend’s place. Friendly cats. I hope. Be nice?”

“Hrrf.”

Evan and Sunday climbed out of the Escalade. He wondered what onlookers might think of him beckoning to a dog they couldn’t see, but Barstow followed him out and faded into a shadow along the way. Sunday rounded the vehicle, scanned the sidewalk, and then raised an eyebrow. “So? Is she here?”

“Right beside us.”

“Good. You watch for her. I’ll watch for surveillance.”

He grimaced. That had been one more worry on his mind. Nothing came of it as they walked the block to Sofia’s building: no suspicious vans, no one sitting in parked cars along the street. The building seemed quiet and normal. If police or other dangers watched, they did a better job of hiding than Evan and Sunday could do at spotting them… and the prospect worried Evan less than the meeting ahead.

The internet had plenty of advice about introducing cats and dogs. It didn’t have much on ghost dogs and the complications of life on the run. Separate spaces and frequent monitoring weren’t so practical in Evan’s circumstances.

Barstow remained invisible on the way through the lobby, but took physical form on the stairs when neither of them looked. She climbed the steps with interest, outpacing her companions and then looking back to them eagerly. She was ready to climb the rest of the way before Evan guided her into the empty hallway of Sofia’s floor.

Sofia knew they’d come by. He reached her at work on the way over. She relayed no problems with the cats, nor any other concerns, and knew better than to ask for more than the vaguest update over the phone. Any reassurance of progress and safety was enough. Evan hoped he wasn’t about to blow that now.

“Alright, hey.” He crouched to Barstow’s level, petting her softly and slowly to match his voice. “Friends in here. Okay? These are my friends. And it’s another friend’s place.”

Barstow nudged his face with her cold, damp nose.

“You good?” asked Sunday.

“I don’t know how we control her if this goes wrong,” he admitted. Again.

“We grab her. We get in the way. If that doesn’t work, we wing it. Same as before.”

He unlocked the door and kept control of the knob as he pushed. Plenty of light came through the drapes on the windows. They found the same cozy apartment as before, with somewhat less clutter and laundry, and a few more random balls of scrap paper scattered around.

“Kitties? It’s me. I brought friends,” Evan called. He kept a hand near Barstow, wanting to lead by scratching and hopefully keep her calm. They entered without incident, closing and locking the door. Evan wondered if the barrier mattered if Barstow’s instincts prompted her to chase or hunt.

A small black shape came around the open door to Sofia’s bedroom. Flip-Top stopped, his tail high, and looked on. Evan held his breath.

Barstow sat on her haunches and watched for only a moment before looking away.

“Okay, that’s good,” said Evan. “Internet says that’s a good first sign from a dog. C’mon, cats.”

Before their lives turned upside down, Flip-Top usually heard Evan coming home and greeted him with a meow and a pass at his legs. The setting had changed, and with it the sounds. Flip-Top didn’t anticipate Evan’s arrival this time, but he ambled over without worry for the new company. Barstow glanced, but she didn’t tense. She settled lower.

“Flip, is this okay?” asked Evan. “Barstow?”

The dog made no sound or sudden move. Flip-Top slowed, but finished his approach and leaned against Evan’s ankle… and then met Barstow’s nose with his own. A slow, tentative paw followed; Barstow made only the tiniest noise of acceptance.

Flip-Top looked up at Evan as if to ask why he was so stressed.

“This seems like all we could hope for, right?” asked Sunday. “Halfway, at least. Flip-Top, where’s your sis—oh, hi.”

Answering her cue, Lily’s grey and black head poked out from behind a couch. She was used to Flip-Top checking things out first, and so was Evan. “Aw, are you being brave?” he asked.

Lily’s ears bent low. She rounded the couch, but kept a wide berth from Barstow. Her whole body leaned away from the dog as she investigated. The signals seemed clear enough, and left Evan with new concerns, but Barstow stayed low.

Lily meowed. Evan’s shoulders relaxed. He knew that meow. “She wants treats.”

Flip-Top immediately echoed Lily when Evan said the magic word. Barstow looked up.

“Oh my god,” Evan sighed.

“Are you alright?” Sunday grinned.

“Yeah. Finally.” He sank to his knees, able to reach both Barstow and Flip-Top. Lily kept out of petting range, but that was normal. So was her meow. The remaining tension of gunshots, monsters, and car chases drained away. The morning with Sunday thrilled him, but this was different. This was responsibility and relief. Sunday, and Barstow, and his two best friends were all safe and sound. “Now I feel alright.”

“Good. Let’s pack ’em up and get out of here before we get Sofia in any trouble.”

Lily meowed again. Delayed treats already had Evan in trouble with her.

“Every Practitioner’s magic has a kind of signature,” said Onyx. “It’s subtle. Faint. You have to know how to look.”

A few steps into the hallway with his camera in hand, Patrick stopped and turned to her. “But you said you don’t sense anything now?”

“No,” she answered in chorus with Bridger at her side. They stood at the short run of steps from the living room, holding back while Patrick took the first picture sweep. “Nothing now. Just a lingering vibe, like a scent. Whatever they did to the walls was probably a protective ward, and it’s gone now. You’re safe.”

Frowning, Patrick returned to his work.

Bridger held his rose quartz crystal under his eye and squinted harder. “Never heard of a signature effect. Can you show me?”

“No. That’s the problem.” Onyx folded her arms, frowning. “I can tell someone used sorcery in here, and probably a lot, because it’s not like every little spell leaves a trace. But we only found out signatures are a thing a couple months ago.”

Sanderson stood behind them, observing quietly, still at the top of the short run of steps from the living room to the lower hall. She almost forgot about him before he asked, “How did you discover these signatures?”

“Word of mouth,” said Onyx.

“You haven’t mentioned any of your sorcerer contacts in your communications besides the ones you’ve fought.”

“We didn’t have threats to report.” Onyx glanced over her shoulder, carefully choosing her words. Sanderson’s presence reminded her to be careful around the other agents, too. “Practitioners tend to small groups, but that still creates a loose community. I’m sure Bridger has told you.”

“He’s mentioned it. We’re interested in hearing more. Later, though,” he conceded. “Let’s stay on task. Find whatever you can. Look before every step and don’t touch anything.”

“We’re on it,” Bridger assured him. Sanderson pulled away, having a whole team to supervise across a large house. With the boss out of earshot, Bridger gave an apologetic look. “You’ll probably hear, ‘Don’t touch anything,’ five more times before we’re done. Maybe ten. It’s not about you.”

Onyx mumbled acknowledgement, returning to Patrick and the hallway. She recognized shell casings and bullet holes in drywall from previous experience. The smashed doorway was new, at least in style. “I don’t have any guess what happened there.”

“Sledgehammers,” said Patrick without looking up from his work. “Seen it before.”

“How long would that take?” she asked.

“Not long at all, if you know what you’re doing. And that’s for normal folks.” With his back turned and his attention occupied, Patrick didn’t see Onyx frown. Sanderson wasn’t the only one hiding his sentiments; he was just more careful about it. “Alright, I guess we’re clear. Watch the shell casings. Weird that they’re still here, ’cause the floors are clean as if someone swept the place after whatever happened. C’mon in.”

Bridger entered the hallway with his rose quartz up. Onyx studied the walls, ceiling and floors, centering herself and breathing slowly. A soft chant came to her lips in Greek, bringing a faint shimmer to the air and the surfaces. “Yeah,” she said. “Bunch of magic. And…” Blank spots along the floor stood out amid the shimmer. “Empty bits. Like something canceled it. Maybe salt?”

“Is it really that simple? Throw salt at whatever’s magical?” asked Patrick.

“It can be. Depends on the Practice, the degree of power involved, all sorts of things. But it’s a basic move that works.” Onyx did not mention all the sorcery she could rely upon despite such a move against herself. “If someone did use salt, they cleaned it up with the rest of the mess.”

“You’re seeing more than I am. You do it without tools, too,” said Bridger.

“Not for this one. I need them for other things.”

“They didn’t pick up the rubble around the door,” Bridger thought out loud, walking to it with Onyx. Other damage lined the walls and floors, but the door was the obvious point of interest. “Maybe they didn’t have time, or it didn’t matter?”

“Yeah, but it’s like someone swept and mopped. How do you do that but leave the shell casings?” Patrick pointed to the rubble. “Not much dust by the door, either. Chunks, but less dust. I don’t know how that works.”

“Neither do I,” said Onyx.

“Let me go in first? Part of the job.” Bridger never challenged Onyx’s senses or greater skill with magic. If nothing else, the guy didn’t make his decisions out of pride. He looked before he stepped, no hand on his gun, simply using his senses and his bit of rose quartz. “Something different in here,” he said with his first few steps down the stairs.

“You smell it, too? Kind of earthy?” asked Onyx.

“Yeah.” His voice turned grim, but not in alarm. With the lights on, they saw only an empty storage space at the bottom of the stairs with unoccupied shelves. Bridger leaned deeper for a quick look around the corners. “Smell that? Mushrooms. And soil. Smoke, too.”

“That sounds right. Do you see a source?”

“No, but that doesn’t surprise me.”

“You recognize it?” asked Onyx.

“Maybe. What have you got?”

“It’s a dark and musty vibe, but it’s not real,” she answered. “The basement is clean, just not like the hallway. It’s not mold. Gotta be something magical, but fading.”

“Yeah. Can I get around you?” Bridger asked. “If it’s what I think, it’ll be anchored on the door.”

The difference in the air was more noticeable when Onyx stepped back into the hallway. Suddenly the air was fresher, free of scent, and lighter. Something didn’t weigh on her out here. She watched Bridger scan the door frame and then run a small flashlight over the surface. “Fresh plaster around the edges,” he said. “They blended, but not perfectly. Harder to see where the hammers smashed through, but it’s here.”

“Find something?” asked Patrick, turning from his pictures of shell casings.

“Actually, yeah,” said Bridger. “Can you come in here for a second? Room’s empty, but I want to see if you notice something.”

“Sure.” Patrick moved past Onyx and then Bridger, going most of the way down the stairs. “What am I supposed to notice?”

“Anything. Whatever, even if you think you’re imagining it,” said Bridger. “This is where it helps to have someone who isn’t attuned to magic. The different impressions can tell us something.”

“Just an empty basement,” said Patrick. “Feels a little creepy, but that’s imagination. Maybe because I’m looking for it, too.”

“Observer effect is a thing. I don’t think that’s the deal here. How creepy is it? Imagination’s fine.”

“Like…” Patrick made a face as he searched for words. “Like a horror movie, but with the lights on. I know it’s only a movie. Does that make sense?”

“It does. Okay, that’s good. Here—notice the plaster?”

Returning to the top, Patrick looked over the door frame and nodded. “Yeah. I see it. Repair job from installing the door, maybe? I doubt this was original in the house. Kinda stands out from the other doors.”

“Or the plaster covers something new,” said Bridger.

“Scrape some off?” Patrick suggested.

“Eh. Warrant doesn’t allow for destructive search,” said Bridger.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Patrick leaned in to examine the portion damaged by the sledgehammers. He shuffled slightly on his feet, reaching to the door frame as if for balance, and pulled downward. Chipped plaster fell away. “Oops,” he snorted.

Bridger caught a frown from Onyx, rolled his eyes as if in sympathy, and then looked closer at the same spot. “Yeah. Something’s etched into the masonry. Looks Greek to me. What do you think?”

“I think you were just talking about how the warrant said not to damage anything,” said Onyx.

“Wall’s already damaged. Doesn’t make a difference to anyone,” said Patrick.

“Onyx, this sort of thing happens in investigations,” said Bridger. “It’s a paperwork delay. Not a big deal. People died in whatever started here last night. We can’t wait.” He nodded to the newly exposed damage. “I think this is necromancy. Maybe a binding for a ghost. A case like this is how I got on the task force.”

She stared as discomfort spread through her gut and her lower back. Her eyes twitched. “I’m not big on necromancy. Think I’ll stick to what’s in plain sight.”

“Didn’t think you were that big on every dotted i and crossed t of the rules, either,” said Patrick. “You keep secrets. Bend rules. It’s a secret task force. Nothing’s gonna be perfect.”

That discomfort spoke up again. She would have to look through the rest of the basement—wanted to, in truth, and she was curious about whatever hid beneath the plaster. She also knew to heed her intuition. “I’m good.”

Bridger shrugged and leaned closer with his flashlight to study the etching. “This translates to, ‘stay.’ Probably other words around the door frame, including the name of the ghost.”

“Actual ghosts, huh? You’re serious? What do they do?” asked Patrick.

“Depends on the ghost. Mostly, they scare the shit out of ordinary people. It’s actually worse if you’re in tune with magic. The binding is broken and the ghost is gone. That creepy feeling you have is a leftover.”

“Okay, but that’s not every time someone gets a creepy feeling, right?”

“No, no…”

Onyx left them to it. She didn’t particularly want to listen, but her ears were as good as her eyes. Bridger seemed to know more about ghost bindings than she did. She had nothing to add. He was surely correct about the ghost’s absence, anyway; if it remained, they would surely know by now. It wasn’t as if she left them in danger.

Instead, she felt danger from the way they casually exceeded their warrant.

Focus, Onyx told herself. Sense what you can. See, hear, smell… she would hold to the rule against touching, regardless of what the agents did, and she wasn’t about to lick anything.

The shimmer returned. It spread evenly through the center stretch of the hallway, altered only at the single blank spot. Onyx frowned in thought. The hallway itself could’ve been enchanted, she supposed, but she didn’t know what that would take. A Practitioner or two throwing around their strongest sorcery felt more likely. She stared, wanting to see more… and then noticed the light switch. Patrick had flipped it on when they entered. Touching, but not breaking.

She pulled the ebony wand from her boot and used it to push the switch down. Fingerprints avoided. Now then.

“Onyx?” asked Bridger. The agents noticed immediately, of course.

“I’m here. Just the lights. Trying another perspective.” Onyx let her wand rest on her open, flat palm. Carefully, she raised her middle and index fingers to give it a small tilt. “Show me,” she murmured in Hebrew, then Greek, then Spanish. She wasn’t fluent in them all. Bridger probably knew Greek better than Onyx. Mostly, she knew phrases for specific magic and specific spells.

On occasion, when not reaching for much, she could pull off a little improvisation.

Dimmer conditions reduced glare and distraction, allowing her to concentrate on the shimmer. She still found a relatively even spread through the hall, running from near the garage door to the longer staircase at the other end. Without the glare, the “blank” spot revealed a faint shimmer, too. Okay, so it’s not a full purge, thought Onyx. Still can’t think of anything but salt. Did the salt come before? After? Did the magic affect the salt, too? That can happen.

Walking the length of the hallway, Onyx had more than enough light to avoid shell casings and rubble. Marino and Patrick watched from the basement doorway. She followed the shimmer.

It wasn’t until halfway across the path that she caught the first soft flash of light. It seemed to hit the whole hallway, brightening the shimmer, like the faint blink of a strobe in a room already lit up. The shimmer took on a texture, too: countless tiny dots, like static or pixelation. Something coated the hallway with light, briefly but powerfully enough to leave a magical impression. More than once, she considered. That was only a hunch, but it felt right.

She found another blink, like the free-floating echo of a flash bulb near her hip level. Magic released in this spot, Onyx understood. Something strong. Angry. Desperate.

Then she saw the thin white trails stretching from mid-air to the walls and bouncing. They lined up with tiny dents like bullet holes in the plaster, but not the same. They matched bullets in size, yet didn’t drill into the wall, and left behind faint scorches. Some ran a straighter and shorter path.

Onyx traced out the trails of light. At the taller staircase near the end, she found soot and the scent of charcoal—neither of them literal, but showing up in her mind’s eye. Something else touched her awareness, recalling the memory of mental pain and the anguish she could drive into the minds of others. The feeling was awful. She hated using the spell and called on it only in desperation. Someone here had known the same trick.

Someone other than the source of all the light.

Molly and Onyx got curious about magical ‘signatures’ as soon as they heard of it, but found little written on the subject. As lovers and intimate partners in sorcery, they already recognized one another’s magic. Third-party examples for study were hard to find. The owner of their local occult bookstore practiced some sorcery, but his was limited and personal. Bridger’s was the same.

Whoever threw charcoal and mind-breakers from near the stairs was a serious Practitioner. The source of all that light was much stronger. Murphy had put out a bright flash of light at the scene of the shootout, too.

“Onyx?” asked Bridger.

“I think I picked up my first signature,” she said.

“In here? You were just saying you haven’t figured out how.”

“I hadn’t seen an example signature in fat neon Sharpie before now.” She doubted the trails would last. That blank spot suggested as much. Salt and other mundane elements could wipe away magic, but so would time. Her first understanding of signatures had come from something enchanted to last, too; spells in the heat of combat were generally one-and-done. Onyx wanted to check on Amber’s wounds again—in the dark, which surely wouldn’t be an awkward request. “I’m gonna meet up with the others.”

“Ah. Basement?” Bridger suggested. “Look, I won’t push about the warrant, but the basement itself is fair game.”

“Fine.” Onyx returned to the doorway, already losing the trails of light. The shimmer across the hallway surfaces disappeared when she didn’t pay attention, too. “I think our guy was here. Doubt I could prove it, though.”

“Hey, not everything you find in an investigation makes it into court,” said Patrick. “That’s the way it goes. What do you think Murphy was doing here?”

“Lots of sorcery. Fighting other Practitioners, I think. The other ones used some nasty magic.”

“Is that a good magic versus bad magic kinda deal?” asked Patrick. “White magic or black magic? The memo I read says that’s not really a thing.”

“It’s not.” Then Onyx stepped past them onto the basement stairs. She felt the creepy, musty atmosphere below, and remembered Bridger’s conjecture about the source. “Usually.”

“How many? No, not that,” Molly corrected. “How many people? I—oh my god. I’m running out of goodies, my dude.”

The raccoon perched on the white property wall lifted its front paws in something like a shrug. He kept chewing Molly’s last offering, but apparently wanted more. She shook her head and fished around in her pockets. “Is it one goodie per answer? Is that how this works with you?”

Her new acquaintance answered with a short, high-pitched chirp.

Molly scowled at the raccoon before turning to Amber. “Okay, now I get what you’re saying about the cost of living down here. It’s not just the rent.”

“It’s mainly the rent, but that’s Seattle, too,” Amber grumbled. The topic didn’t pull her attention from the raccoon, especially when it glanced to her and made eye contact. “Wait. Can he understand me? Is that how this works?”

“No, it’s just me. I’ve gotta be careful what I say.” Molly produced a tiny foil bag with a blue and white logo. “Okay, these are airplane pretzels. I know you can eat anything, but don’t make a habit of this.” Before she had it open, the raccoon chittered and reached out with a grasping motion of his tiny paws. She rolled her eyes. “No, you don’t get the whole bag for one answer!”

“Amber?” Colleen spoke from near the wall of the house, leery of interrupting. “Is this what it looks like?”

“Yeah. We found an informant,” said Amber.

“More like an extortionist. You can come over. He won’t bolt.” Molly raised a pretzel out of easy reach for the raccoon. “How many people were here last night?”

Again, the raccoon chirped. To Amber, it sounded just like the previous chirp, but Molly let him have the pretzel and frowned thoughtfully. “Two people, walking around, both dead. Gotta be vampires,” she translated. “What else? C’mon, bro, I know you’re holding out.”

“She’s talking to a raccoon,” said Colleen.

“Not the weirdest thing we’ve seen. Or done,” said Amber.

“There’s no way this is admissible in court, said Colleen.

“Yeah, but a friendly witness is a friendly witness, right?” Amber shrugged.

“Friendly. Uh-huh.” Molly offered two pretzels at a time.

The raccoon claimed one, set it down atop the wall by his hind feet, and then claimed the next. This time, he was gracious enough to chirp and click something out before stuffing his face.

“Whoa. Okay. She bit whom? Where?” Molly pressed patiently.

Her informant chewed, but the rest of his pretzel crumbled. He looked down at fallen crumbs with dismay, looked up again, and chirped and clicked more when Molly grudgingly offered another pretzel. The nod of his head and point of his nose seemed intentional. All three women glanced over their shoulders in line with his motions.

“Think I’ve got an answer to the broken window,” said Molly. “A couple vampires patrolled the grounds with some kind of ghost dog over the last couple nights. Whatever went down last night happened mostly inside, but some different vampire crashed through that window upstairs onto the pool deck. Then the ghost dog jumped out and chomped him. Turned the vamp to ash.”

“Ghost dog,” said Colleen. “Vampires I get. Ghost dogs?”

“Loose term. Never seen one, but I’ve read about them,” said Molly. “Animals don’t much like vampires, so maybe this compensates? I—oh, you’ve got more to say, huh?” she asked her furry informant. Then she made a face. “No, I’m not making you a drink. Jesus. I guess they had parties out here all the time. This guy would come along and scrounge whatever got left out overnight. Including booze. For fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, I came out to say the owner is still in the wind,” said Colleen. “One more guy without his cell phone showing up or card transactions in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Oh. Now I can lie awake at night wondering who tracks my cards, too.” Molly provided another pretzel to the raccoon. “Tell me about the ghost dog. Black? Scary? Wait, she seemed sad?” Molly listened before turning to the other women with a thoughtful frown. “The dog didn’t want to be here. They had some way to force her. Then last night went down and she was gone.”

“When you say, ‘ghost dog,’ are we talking, like, pass-through-walls?” asked Amber.

“I assume so,” said Molly. “Ghost dogs are mostly a rural thing. Probably avoiding witnesses, since that’s kind of standard for the night life. Ghost-people pass through walls, so why not ghost dogs?”

“It would explain what we saw last night during the chase,” said Amber. “I assumed a werewolf and a sun roof, but… what? You know this is nuts.”

“It is nuts,” Molly conceded, and then frowned back at the raccoon. “No, I don’t have nuts!”

“If it’ll keep him talking, I’ll make a store run,” said Amber. “He’s the most cooperative witness we’ve talked to all week.”

They heard a sliding glass door open, but the raccoon held their attention. Onyx joined them without the mild awe of the two agents. She had clearly seen Molly do this before. Perhaps often. “Hey, Colleen? Do you have a copy of the search warrant?”

“Yeah, on my phone. Everyone does. Sanderson has the printed version for our missing resident.”

“Could I read it?”

“Sure.” Colleen pulled out her phone, and brought up the document. “What’s up?”

“I wanted a little more clarity than, ‘We’ve got a warrant,’ and, ‘Don’t touch anything.’ That all sounds routine until you’re inside doing stuff and people are chipping at the walls.”

“Chipping? You were with Patrick and Bridger, right?” Colleen frowned.

“Yeah. They said it’s no big deal, but…” Onyx trailed off as she read. The document wasn’t long. She returned Colleen’s phone and folded her arms. “There’s a door and it’s already damaged, but that seemed like an excuse.”

“I’ll talk to them,” said Colleen. “We’re not cleared for that. Was it a lot?”

“Not much. Still,” said Onyx.

“Surprised Bridger would push his luck,” said Amber.

“Wasn’t Bridger’s idea, but he went along with it,” said Onyx.

“Listen, everyone’s a little on edge after last night,” said Colleen. “People died, we took hits, and this is all moving fast. And the law wasn’t written to deal with stuff like this. You two have to color outside the lines sometimes, too, right?”

“Yes and no.” Onyx caught a questioning glance from Molly, but shook her head gently. She had this. “We’ve got a Practice. It’s magical technique, but it’s also philosophy. Stuff like this isn’t against our Practice. We’re snoopy all the time. That’s not what bothers me. I’m bothered that your guys blow off your rules so fast. Especially when you can resolve it with a little patience.”

Colleen sighed. “It’s not in the warrant. I’ll talk to them.” She gave Amber a nod, leaving her with the witches to find the other agents.

“She understands,” Amber assured her. “This team is always on thin ice. Every case has to be a slam-dunk before it goes to a judge, or else our low profile could get blown. She’ll straighten them out.”

“She understands what I’m saying,” said Onyx. “I think she’s more interested in keeping us cool than fixing the problem. I didn’t get an objecting vibe off of her.”

Amber let out a heavy breath. She didn’t know what to say to that.

Molly leaned her back against the wall, practically putting the raccoon over her shoulder. “Okay, what’s the rundown of legal ethics on paid animal informants? Are we cool, or did I just bribe a witness?”

19

TREASURES

“Iam in L.A. to cos-play and take many, many pictures and videos.” Sunday cranked her natural Chicano accent to eleven, right along with the rest of her performance at the hotel check-in desk—all except for her volume. She kept that part low and conspiratorial, just for herself, the clerk, and the other staffer within earshot behind the counter.

Her long black coat was brand new, bought on the way over. So were the big sunglasses and the sweatpants. Incognito, but conspicuous about it, she had told Evan.

“We’ve gotta bring in a bunch’a stuff,” Sunday continued. “It’s all safe, all costumes and camera gear, but it’s gotta be on the DL. That’s the ‘why’ on the payment. I don’t need another stalker showing up at my room. I need my fans to follow and comment and like and subscribe and cloudfund.” She paused, frowned, and looked back to Evan. “Is that right?”

“Crowdfund,” he said, wishing to God she’d dial it back. At least that gave his performance a natural feel—he hoped. Exhausted photographer/boyfriend, she had told him. The bags hanging from his shoulders and his hands helped. The backwards ballcap on his head felt all wrong, but Sunday insisted.

She also insisted on stomping all over his rules of subterfuge.

“Anyways.” She leaned in, hand up near her mouth, and whispered, “It’s not porn, is what I’m saying. I know people do that in hotels. That’s not me. Cool?”

“Miss, you’re totally fine.” The clerk fought a grin through the whole spiel. She lost that fight but managed not to laugh. “You’re all checked in and your deposit is covered. We’re very serious about privacy. If anyone asks, you’re not here. And people bring in lots of luggage all the time, especially for long stays. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Okay. Okay. You’re sure?” Her eyes narrowed. “If anyone asks for me with less than a warrant, I am not here.”

“Of course, Ms. Ramirez. Or whoever you are.” The clerk winked.

Sunday winked back bigger. “Come on, Steven,” she said, and then turned. “Oh. Also. Do you have like a, one of those push-thingies? A dollar?”

“Dolly,” said Evan. “Baggage cart. I found them. Which elevator goes to the garage?”

“Right over there. Your card lets you skip the lobby, so you can go straight up to your floor,” said the clerk. “If you need any help, let us know.”

Sunday sauntered across the marble-tiled lobby toward the main elevators. Evan followed, face turned low and bags bouncing against his back and hips. They caught only a couple glances from passing guests. He spoke before they reached the elevators and the inevitable security cameras. “Did we need to lay it on that thick? Or at all?” Evan murmured.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Trust me. Misdirection is good.”

“It’s not about trust. I just don’t see how misdirection is better than, like, no direction. Wouldn’t it be better to get completely ignored?”

“Yes. We’re not light enough for that,” said Sunday. “We raise too many flags with the payment and the baggage. If you can’t go ignored, next best thing is to be too annoying to watch. They’re hotel staff. ‘Needy and obnoxious’ is just another Tuesday in a place like this. For every real celebrity or VIP, they see twenty nobodies who think they’re somebody.”

Her last sentence came out normally as they reached the elevators. Thankfully, no one else waited for a ride upstairs.

Windows through the elevator shaft gave him the kind of city view he had never seen. His first suggestion had been for something humbler in the suburbs or beyond, or failing that, to take over an inconspicuous empty home. That wasn’t his first choice, but he still had the skills.

Security cameras and microphones were a given within the elevator. Barstow’s invisible, intangible presence between them seemed to back that up, since she tended to manifest when they were alone.

Sunday moved close and spoke softly. “This place gives security, space, and peace of mind. High standards cut down on small problems and dumb luck, and it’s trickier to mess with us in a place like this.” She mentioned the latter already in choosing the hotel: it was a restrictive target for their enemies. If the FBI found them, at least they would presumably take steps to protect the public before moving in. “You wanted somewhere to chill for a bit. Me, too.”

“Hey. I do trust you,” he said. Then he blinked as her grin spread. Her smile thrilled him as always, but… “What?”

“That was hot.”

“What?”

“All intimate and reassuring and hot.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

“I know. That’s what made it work. Maybe you’re one of those guys who do better with women when they’re not trying.”

Despite her stare and her breath drawing him in, the jibe sent his eyes rolling away. “You’re telling me I’ve got no game?”

“No, you’ve got game,” she huffed. “It all comes from being yourself. You’re not a player, and you don’t need to be. I like that. I think being alone so long has been less about you and more about your circumstances.”

He had told himself similar things for years, but never fully believed. It always felt like an excuse, or compensation, or the grumble of walking off the field from a loss: “We would have won the game if…” He felt better hearing someone else say it—someone who had decided to get close despite all his problems.

The elevator carried past window after window. “Okay, the view is amazing,” he conceded.

“Bet it’ll be better around sunset,” she said.

They left the elevator and crossed the hallway in silence until they opened the doors to their suite. Broad spaces, plush furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows spread out with more square feet than Sofia’s apartment. Evan had been in nice, wealthy homes before, but always on guard. Always knowing he didn’t belong. This was different.

The bags weren’t the only weight to come off his shoulders. “Wow.”

Barstow became visible and solid when they weren’t looking. She snorffed her way around the nearest couch and end table before looking up. They still weren’t sure how her manifestations came and went, but her appearance brought some reassurance.

“A’right.” Sunday claimed the big plastic department store bag from their collection. “Smoke detectors.”

“Yeah. That’s all they are, right?”

“We can do the ‘safe traveler check’ for perv cameras if you want, but I think we’re cool here,” she laughed. “This place is serious business. They don’t want to get caught in that sort of shit.”

They split up, scanning the walls and ceilings for detectors in both bedrooms, bathrooms, and the big common area and kitchenette. Each detector received a simple piece of tape, to stay in place just long enough for Sunday’s plans.

In one bedroom, Sunday pulled the big chair and hanging drapes away from the window to clear the corner. She placed a candle on the floor and lit it, then moved on to the opposite corner along the window for another candle. She repeated the process in the common area and the other bedroom, and then the doorway and broadest interior corners of the suite. “Think we’ve got just enough,” she said, setting the last.

“We can get more,” said Evan.

“Nah. We’re covered.”

He waited. The candles flickered, but the room had better sources of light. He scratched his head. “I’m not seeing any magic.”

“Give it a sec, but it’s not magic. Not really. Anyone can do this. You just gotta know. And you gotta know it ain’t superstition,” she added.

“Did Anatole? I didn’t see this at Christian’s place, but we didn’t look around.”

“That dude’s got real magic and knows what he’s doing, so he’s got better options. This works for people who don’t have all that. Other spookies knew about his place, too. He knew they’d be looking. That’s kinda the point of staying here. When you want to work magic, be alone. When you want to escape magic, stick to the crowd.”

Though he kept an open mind, Evan saw nothing happen. He felt no change. Leaving the candles to do their thing as Sunday advised, Evan went to the big window for another look at their view. Towers shared the neighborhood with the hotel, crisscrossed by busy streets below. Evan saw a police car roll by, highlighted by a soft spotlight from above—but only because he thought to look for it. “Okay, now I’m seeing it.”

“Hm?” Sunday deposited their other bags in the bedroom before returning with a curious look.

“Cop car.” He pointed to the street below. “Barely saw the spotlight. It’s dimmer in the day regardless, but even more now. Shadows don’t help. It’s hazy.”

“Like looking through smoke?” she said.

“Yeah, but they’re candles. It’s hardly any smoke.”

“Symbolic. Look, you’re the sorcerer, but I’ve always heard that magic runs on symbols. This is what you do to keep the spooky eyes off your home. Magic or not, they’ve gotta know where to look if they wanna find us here. We don’t need to keep the candles burning, either. They did the job. Let’s clean up and fix the detectors. Then we can go get those kitties and ditch the truck.”

“We need another ride, too,” said Evan. “Probably want to take care of that before we get too settled.”

“Good point.” Sunday looked at the nearby clock, pondered, and snapped her fingers. “Got it. The sun will be down by the time we need it. Let’s go.”

“Darling, don’t be silly. Of course, it’s not too soon for a pandemic movie. You simply must take this role.” Aaron tilted the phone from his mouth to flash his table companion a charming smile. Once hooked in by his good looks and urbane charm, mortals could look right at his canines and never notice them. Katrina batted her dark eyes and sighed as if to prove it.

At least some mortals knew how to take their cue.

“I dunno, Aaron,” Summer told him over the phone. “All I see is another streaming service flop. The director has a rep for tantrums and the script reads like a writer’s room flowchart. I’m supposed to cry over all these characters that mean nothing to the audience. Why would anyone care?”

“You’re an actress. You’re Summer Roxbury. You’ll make the audience care. It’s what you do. Look, you saw the studio’s offer. The pay is great. It’s work.”

“It’s trash. I thought we were going for that regency romance? That was a good role!”

“For twenty percent less and you’d be unrecognizable in all the costuming. I like regency just fine, but this is business. Take the plague movie. When have I ever steered you wrong?”

Summer grumbled. Apparently she did, in fact, remember when he had steered her wrong. He’d have to work on that. “I’ll think about it. Let me call you tomorrow.”

“Do that. Goodnight.” Aaron hung up and shook his head. “Give them a little success and they get so wound up about the next thing.”

“I knew you rep Summer Roxbury, but I didn’t expect a demonstration,” said Katrina.

“Darling, I made Summer Roxbury. I named Summer Roxbury, too. Who would’ve every given a second thought to Suzie Rogers?”

Again, Katrina took her cue with a grin. “Who?”

“Hah! Exactly. See, you’re witty, pretty, vibrant. You could make a big splash in this town.”

“Wow. That’s…” Katrina tugged on her black curls, but her eyes showed a little too much wit for Aaron’s purposes. “That’s exactly what you’d want to hear from an agent, I guess. Right out of a script.”

“Because it’s true. Trust me, darling.” The soft red flare in his eyes along with the power of his voice went as unnoticed as his long canines, but he saw the desired effect. Katrina sighed and shook herself without further reticence. That was better.

His phone buzzed with a text. He expected Summer, but saw a note from Ice instead: “Solomon is in a mood. First person to bring him a good drink clears the books with me.”

Aaron planned to keep Katrina to himself, but he owed Ice more than one favor. An offer like that couldn’t be ignored—and clearly hadn’t gone out to Aaron alone. He flashed Katrina a new smile. “We should get out of here and talk at my place. You took an Uber here, right? No car to leave behind.”

“In the shop, yeah. This isn’t some ‘casting couch’ thing, is it?” Katrina frowned.

Aaron bit back a curse. When did this part get so tedious? He blamed the internet. “Nonsense. This is business. It’s not the eighties anymore.” Unfortunately, he added in silence.

“Are you sure? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

“Doesn’t suit my appetite. I only came for drinks.” Aaron swept Katrina from the table despite her wariness, smiling and nodding to familiar faces in the restaurant on their way out. Along the way, Katrina said something about being close to getting her SAG card. He paid little attention.

Melrose carried less traffic at the late hour, but the parking lot beside the restaurant was still packed. Aaron slowed to scan for his car.

“I thought they required the valet service for this lot,” said Katrina. “Seemed fancy.”

“Oh, they know me here. Besides, it’s a custom BMW M3. I can’t trust that to a valet.”

He missed Katrina’s dubious frown. He also missed the frozen portimao blue metallic paint job of his car in his first scan—and the second. Aaron strode past the first row of cars. He saw Teslas, sports cars, luxury SUVs, and not a single BMW. “Where is my car?”

“The lot isn’t that big,” said Katrina.

“Yes, thank you, you’re such a help.” He turned and scanned again.

“Maybe you forgot⁠—?”

“I didn’t forget my fucking car!” Aaron snapped, eyes flaring red and canines out.

Katrina shrieked, punched him across the face, and ran. Aaron reeled more in shock than pain, particularly at the jagged sensation of her punch. At a touch, he discovered three nasty cuts left behind by the keys interlaced in her fingers. Even if vampires didn’t bleed, he’d have to fix his cheek.

The two valets looked on with wary scowls. He stood alone in the parking lot, abandoned, punched, and carless. “Shit. Shit! Shit!”

Evan and Sunday returned to the bedroom of their suite and the plastic crates that lined its walls. Unloading and transfer to the suite passed without a single interested onlooker from the garage to their door. The Escalade sat three miles away, emptied and magically cleansed. The hotel garage now held a custom M3 shorn of its anti-theft tracker and bearing new plates and a newly black color scheme. Flip-Top prowled from the top of one crate stack to the next while Lily hid within the protective curl of a content black dog on a comfy couch.

Work remained, but now Evan and Sunday had plenty of time and space to do it.

They sat together at the foot of the bed, shoulders slumped, bottles from the suite refrigerator in hand. The convenience charge for snacks was absurd, but they didn’t need to care. Sunday leaned against Evan’s shoulder and gestured to a crate. “You wanna start?”

“We don’t have to do it right now. Or tonight.”

“Yeah, but we only peeked into a couple,” said Sunday. They hadn’t worried about carrying drugs, bombs, or magical plague rats until one of them made an offhand joke on the freeway. Then they pulled over and opened at random to find bolts of truly ancient silk in one crate and a carefully-packed set of porcelain urns in the next. It was enough until now. “We could be lookin’ at Christmas in June here, or a big pile of junk. We don’t know.”

“The stuff we already saw felt pretty serious. Not an art expert, but it seemed legit.”

“Then hopefully it’s Christmas. You wanna unwrap one for Christmas Eve and leave the rest for morning?”

Evan’s answer halted in his throat. He let a heavy breath escape, knowing it had to get out. “Wow. Didn’t expect that.”

“What? Oh.” Sunday winced. “Damn, I didn’t think of that. Rough holiday, I bet?”

“Yeah. I’ve had friends look out for me in recent years. Found a few people with messy family ties in college, so we did Friendsgivings and such. But that’s only a couple years, so, yes. It’s been tough.” Evan pointed to the cat staring down at them from atop the stacks. “Easier with these two.”

“Still sucks, though?”

“I can’t…” He felt like he should drop it, but he wanted to talk. “I shouldn’t get all heavy on you. Not now, and after all this.”

“Nah, it hit you.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Tell me.”

“What about you?”

“Ay, fuck, I’m all over the map. Demon Puppet Christmas was just streaming services and beer at home until businesses opened up again. Before that, I’ve had good family holidays and shitty lonesome holidays. It’s ups and downs. That’s life. I didn’t grow up that way. My family was great from start to finish. It hurt when they passed. Still hurts. But I was grown, at least.”

He nodded. She waited, then nudged again.

“It was shitty and lonely and sooner or later I’d cry,” said Evan. “Every year was different, but they all came out the same. Except by the second Christmas, I knew how to scope out homes. I spent every Christmas in a stranger’s house. Had to lie low and be ready to bail at any minute, but I was warm and dry and fed. Just not by anyone else’s choice. Usually nice homes. Real nice.” He gestured to their surroundings. “This is nice, too. Feels sorta the same.”

She said nothing and stayed close. She let him find the words. Flip-Top slumped to his side on top of one crate, his head hanging off the side, watching them.

“You ever have a purring cat in your lap?” asked Evan. “Kneading on you, wanting cuddles?”

“Sure. Cats are great.”

“After I got these two… so many nights, I was in that shitty apartment, but I was happy. Didn’t think about being poor or our future, because they didn’t care. If we had food and shelter and each other, that was enough. I’ve slept in sweet-ass vacation homes and McMansions and better, but I was good with my shitty little room. These two were better than anything I could buy or steal. Still are. I would think, ‘Maybe I’m bargaining with the bad shit and making all this up in my head to feel better,’ but nope. I had a cat purring and happy with me. Life gets fucked up and the world’s a dumpster fire, but we’ve got each other, so I’m good.

“I dunno where I’m going with this. Wasn’t thinking about it until you brought up Christmas, and…” he shook his head, then looked to her. “Suppose it’s just the bit about being with someone. Cats are great. They’re not you. Being here with you, sticking together through all this insanity. It means a lot.”

Dark eyes stared back at him. She bit her grinning lip and leaned in. “The sex is good, too.”

“Yeah, no Christmas is ever gonna beat that,” he conceded.

“You can unwrap me in a bit. Thank you for the other stuff. For opening up.”

“What, I didn’t skip straight into Way Too Heavy and Way Too Serious?”

“Nah. I pushed, and you aren’t looking for leverage or free therapy. Just being honest. Too many guys won’t. Not even when it’s more than a fling. At least I know you’ll talk.”

“I probably should talk, and not just to you.” Evan blinked, wide-eyed, considering it. “Wow. Maybe I can afford regular appointments for a while after this.”

“Hah! Maybe.” She gave him a different nudge, pointing to the crates. “Pick one. Let’s see.”

Evan grabbed a container and set it by the foot of the bed. Out of safety and common sense, they had set the heaviest crates at the bottom. This one had some weight, but nothing challenging. He popped the latches, removed the lid and the top layer of black foam.

The wooden chest inside ran more than a foot in length and half that in width. Carved knotwork patterns decorated the curved top, and presumably the sides, but black foam cut for a snug fit blocked the view. The metal had to be brass or perhaps bronze, regularly polished yet showing its age.

“You getting any magical vibe?” asked Sunday.

“No. It just looks old. Like you’d see in a museum.”

“Gotta be valuable. Craftsmanship, you know? That wasn’t made by machine.”

“I’m afraid to open it. Not because of magic, but because it’s old. What if I break something, or contaminate whatever’s inside?”

“Suppose that could happen. Might hold ashes or bone, or… fuck, I dunno.”

“Mitu said the ashes in the urns were important to Anatole. Didn’t know why.”

“I dunno, either,” said Sunday. “Cornelius kept it all like some freaky intimidation display. Should be mostly vampire ashes, maybe some other spookies. I dunno why Anatole would want that.”

“Is there any reason we would want it?” Evan asked, wincing with distaste.

Sunday made an equally uncomfortable face. “No.”

“Guess that settles that.”

They stared at the chest.

“Fuck it.” Sunday sank her fingers between foam and wood to find the latch and open the chest. A collection of old watches sat inside, arranged on a simple handkerchief to prevent scratching—with another layer of watches beneath, and another handkerchief for the next layer. “Oh shit,” she murmured. “These are old. Antiques, all of ‘em. Some of these were pricy back in the day, too. Ain’t seen watches like this in a long time.”

“Not as old as the box.”

“Yeah, but… Now my curiosity’s growing.” Sunday brought another crate to the floor, popped the latches, and pulled the top layer of foam. A wooden mask stared at them without eyes. Black lines followed the natural creases and wrinkles of a human face. The artist had carved with the same sort of care as the maker of the chest, though clearly far separated by culture, continent, and probably centuries. “Whoa.”

“That’s somebody’s history,” said Evan. “Should be in a museum wherever it was originally made. I bet a lot of this stuff is like that.”

Sunday pulled another crate from the top of a stack. This one was lighter than most. Its contents also needed no protective foam. Every item sat in its own plastic bag, with no need to worry about impact damage.

“Stuffed animals?”

“Beanie Babies,” said Sunday. “These were huge for a minute in the nineties. People thought they’d be worth a ton as collectors’ items, and then interest fell off and nobody cared. Maybe they’re valuable again, but you gotta find a buyer. Everything is only worth what someone will pay for it.”

“Okay, but the ancient vampire guy had old cultural artifacts and vampire ashes and also kitschy collector stuff?”

“Which crate is the real heavy one?” asked Sunday. Evan pointed. They agreed with a shrug before pulling the other crates away to drag it into the open. Again, foam inserts lined each side, sheltering four simple, elegant leather boxes the size of school textbooks. Sunday withdrew one with appreciation for its weight, setting it atop the others to open it.

Large, shining coins sat upright in long, slotted rows. Sunday’s eyes widened. She plucked one coin and stared at it. Evan saw common American markings: eagles, “United States Currency,” and “In God We Trust.”

“Holy shit. I knew. I fuckin’ knew.” Sunday pulled out her phone and started typing. “Ancient-ass vampire like Cornelius had to keep coins. None of the older spookies fully trust paper money, or electronic.”

“What are these worth?” asked Evan.

“Lots more than face value.” Sunday tapped a hit on her search, scrolled, and released a tense breath. She plucked another coin from deeper in the box, finding a different series and older art, but the same gold shine. “Some are worth hundreds. Some are a few thousand.”

Evan looked down at the set, then the other boxes beside it… and counted the boxes stacked beneath them in the crate. “This is legal? Like, is possession enough, or do we need some kinda certificate to go with it?”

“Yeah, it’s legal. We’ll find private buyers for coins a lot easier than for Beanie Babies.” Sunday gestured to the other boxes and grinned at Evan. “You wanna open some more?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Then Flip-Top leaped from one crate stack directly into the pit of plastic wrap and plushie toys. Evan sighed. “I should’ve seen that coming.”

“Wow. Okay. That’s a lot of stars,” said Molly.

“Wish I could see ’em.” Jason’s ordinary caution and sensibilities caught up as soon as he spoke. “Um. That wouldn’t be bad, right? The stars aren’t a weird enchantment or the way some freaky entity gets into your mind.”

“Hah! No.” Onyx turned from stargazing to laugh. “Not as far as we know. They’re only stars. We drove out to the mountains once to catch a meteor shower. It’s only a little brighter than that. Just shouldn’t be possible in the city.”

In principle, Amber knew Jason shouldn’t be present for the discussion. They also shouldn’t have been up on their six-story apartment’s rooftop. The area wasn’t set up to host gatherings, but Jason knew how to get access, because of course he did. Jason also had a closer relationship with Molly and Onyx than Amber did. He was the reason Amber knew them, and they were all friends. She couldn’t keep them apart for the whole trip.

That, of course, meant Jason knew things he wasn’t supposed to know. He figured out more on his own. There were reasons Amber loved him.

“Do you two stargaze much?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Molly. “The meteor shower just seemed like a good idea for a date.”

“I’m wondering if you see all the same stars you should see, and if they’re in the right places,” said Jason. “Like, do the constellations fit? Do you see more than you’d get in a dark night on the ocean? That sort of thing.”

All three women looked at one another, then to him. “That’s a great point,” said Amber.

“Is it?” he asked. “I don’t see anything and wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know magic. Just thinking about what I learned in school.”

“Nobody else thought of it yet,” Amber grumbled.

“It is a good point,” said Onyx. “It might help us figure out where this comes from, or where it’s centered. You said people have tweaked about it in other cities, right?”

“We’ve got a few taps on suspects in other cities,” Amber said carefully. “I can’t get into it, but some of them see it, yes. This has limits. We knew that when you couldn’t see the stars up in Seattle. But mostly, we’ve been focused on the names and facts we know locally. It all tracks with when this started.”

“Yeah, but as long as our guy is a ghost…” Onyx muttered, eyes turning skyward again.

“There’s no magic way to sniff him out?” asked Jason.

“We know some ways, but they depend on a lot of factors,” said Molly. “The biggest is how well you know the person, or how connected you are. Distance matters, too. We could find either of you with magic if you weren’t behind a ward or carrying a nail, or at least we’d know where to look. This is someone we only know by name and a couple old pictures.

“Also, it’s not our city. We’re not as strong here as we are in Seattle,” Molly lamented. “I’m not worried about taking care of ourselves in a fight, but stronger spells are more of a stretch. We need to go with the tried and true and lean on tools. This place has more Practitioners all drawing from the same well, basically. We can tell that just from what magic we’ve used. That’s why it’s wild that this guy isn’t using those tools. He should have the same issues everyone else has.”

“Wait a sec. What if he’s not drawing from the same well?” wondered Onyx.

“What’re you—oh.” Molly turned her eyes skyward. “Okay yeah, we should’ve thought of that already. Wow.”

“You think he’s pulling magic from the stars?” asked Amber.

“The timing lines up, and the theme you’ve seen so far is all about light,” said Onyx. “Also, that trace of magic from where he healed you only showed up when we looked in a dim room, and it had kind of a star shine.”

Jason let out a wordless grumble and folded his arms uncomfortably. Onyx grinned. “It’s fading,” she assured. “Probably gone altogether by morning.”

“I’m bothered you got shot,” Jason said to Amber’s glance. “I’m glad the guy healed you. It’s not like he’s the one who shot you, either, but we still don’t know for sure who the real bad guy is. Maybe he just didn’t want the complication hanging over his head.”

“We’re all there,” said Amber. “Okay, talk me through what you’re thinking about stars?”

“Magic comes from lots of sources,” said Molly. “We draw from nature. I’d argue that most magic ultimately comes from the natural world, but I’m kinda biased by my Practice. Some Practitioners draw from spirits, some draw from faith, some from making stupid deals with demons and whatnot. Hermetic Practice relies on a kind of weird secret physics and math. I haven’t heard of anyone who pulls from the stars, but why not? Stars are important.”

“What about astrology?” asked Jason.

Molly laughed. Onyx snorted hard enough to turn her face from the sky. “No. Not astrology.”

“Why not?” asked Amber.

“Okay, it’s part of the natural world. You can learn things from the stars,” said Molly. “I concede that we never figured out how to make astrology work for us, and neither has anyone we know, but someone else might. The more we learn about magic, the less we believe in fate or preordained outcomes. And like you said, we know the patterns of the stars. Life doesn’t follow that kind of steady predictability.”

“All that fixed understanding is why Jason’s thought about what we’re seeing is a good question,” said Onyx. “I only know a few constellations. They seem normal, but we should look things up to be sure. What stands out is the brightness. The intensity. To me, they’re brightest directly overhead. That’s not normal, right? But if we’re talking magic, and we’re at the center of a regional effect, maybe that makes a little more sense, and maybe it’s connected to our guy.”

“I don’t suppose you see a spotlight pointing him out for us?” asked Amber.

“No. I think he’s figured out how to hide.” Onyx waved at the sky. “If he’s figured this out, he’s gotta know what he’s doing.”

“Okay, I don’t know shit about any of this,” cautioned Evan, “but the Van Gogh’s gotta be fake.”

“If it’s not, the one in the museum probably keeps the official title, anyway,” said Sunday.

They sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, surrounded by scattered, half-opened crates instead of the orderly stacks they had first arranged. Contents poked out from some crates and sat atop others, some as reminders and others out of curiosity. Evan set aside the few items that resonated with magic, though that added only a curved knife, a pillow, and a black stone crucifix to the handful he found unpacked during the heist.

Several jewelry boxes held sets of fangs on silk cushions, leading Sunday to tell Evan more about the differences between vampire and werewolf teeth than he ever wanted to know. The urns did, in fact, hold only ashes—So many urns, Evan thought, but they found plenty more besides the creepy collections of remains.

Some items required a search online; others needed no explanation. The hoard included more coins, ranging from early America to ancient Rome. A few carvings seemed Roman, too, along with several blades and painted pottery. They found box after box of jewelry, some of it very old, some new, and some Sunday identified as cheap costume pieces. That issue came up again and again. For every treasure that made her gasp, they also found something that couldn’t possibly be genuine. The occasional internet search backed that up.

Fifty percent legitimacy still amounted to a stunning collection of paintings, small statues, wood carvings, and silks. All manner of ancient personal items turned up in silver and gold, from hairpins and buckles to goblets and trays. They found old, ornate books, including a Bible and a Quran that both rivaled anything else in the collection for artistry. One heavy crate held a fossilized dinosaur skull in a glass display case.

They found bits of old Hollywood: autographed celebrity photos, costume collectibles with certificates of authenticity, an Oscar from the fifties, and one crate crammed with old film reels. They also found more kitsch, valuable or not: a baseball autographed by Babe Ruth, a mint-condition Julius Caesar bobblehead still in its box, a campaign thank-you note signed by Ronald Reagan. Evan missed whatever Sunday muttered about ancient vampires amid that discovery.

Once the process grabbed their curiosity, they couldn’t stop until they had at least looked inside every crate. Even now, they had not yet plumbed each in depth. Too many things required delicate care and examination. What they had already found left them with much to consider.

“The gold coins we can move easy. Lots of ’em, anyway,” said Sunday. “I know a guy. Sketchy, but nothing awful, and no magic. We’ll have cash or debit cards on the spot, and the rest he can probably move over a little time. The US mint stuff is enough to live on for years. The bars and the really old coins are worth more. I dunno how we make it all legal and maybe that’s pointless with the FBI shouting your name, but don’t stress about finding a new job anytime soon.

“The random collector stuff we can move even easier for petty cash. That might be the smartest thing. We could go nuts trying to sell every little Beanie for top value online, but fuck it, right? We’ve got ‘fuck it’ money. The rest, though… the rest means finding buyers who know what they’re buying, and who won’t ask too many questions. Sellin’ all this shit would be its own full-time job. I dunno if I want to be an art dealer. What about you?”

“I don’t need to wring every dollar out of this. It wasn’t about getting rich for me.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Sunday cautioned. He let out a short laugh, but his eyes had slowly widened through her suggestions. She saw more trouble than excitement as he stared at their treasures. “What’re you thinkin’?”

“I think…” Evan shook his head. She waited. Eventually, he threw her a glance of gratitude for her patience. “I don’t have a better way to say it: I’m having some big feelings about all this. Sounds like I’m nine, but that’s where I’m at.”

“Ain’t either of us psychologists. Sounds like a good phrase to me. What’s up?”

“I was homeless.” He thought his voice would crack, or tears might come. It was all close enough to make any tough façade pointless. He didn’t bother. Maybe the honesty kept it in check. “I had fuckin’ nobody. Nothing. One of these coins is how much?”

“Internet puts that set around eight hundred a pop. A dealer will want to give less.”

“Yeah. And those are the cheaper coins.” The slow shake of his head continued. “I could survive on that for a long time. That’s motel nights for bad weather. A solid phone. Clothes. A few of these could get someone going again. That kind of money solves problems, y’know?”

“I do. I’ve been poor, too.”

“Anatole’s gonna be looking for us. All his guys. This kneecaps him, but he’s not down.”

“And those feds,” Sunday agreed. “Other spookies, too, maybe. Last night was noisy.”

“There’s no proof of ownership. This was all hidden in Christian’s basement, stolen from some dead vampire asshole, who probably stole it over all those centuries. And anyone out to find us will want this stuff, too.”

“Probably.”

“I wanna do something with it before they can stop us,” said Evan. “I don’t mean throw it all away, and I’m happy to keep some of my share for myself, but this is... I wanna do something good with it before anyone can take it away or tell us no. Anatole can’t take it back if it’s all gone.” Evan waved at the spread of artifacts. “Most of this stuff belongs somewhere, right? Different places. Lots of this is history. As for finding the best homes for it, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Nah,” Sunday agreed. Her brow rose. “But we know someone who would.”

“You know what I’m saying, right? Am I crazy?” asked Evan.

Grinning, Sunday moved closer and tugged on his shirt. “You’re not crazy. You’re the best guy I’ve met in a long damn time.”

20

PURPOSE

Most people drove by without acknowledging Donna or her sign. She expected that. She once did the same.

The occasional driver would stop with something to help, as her sign requested: a dollar or two, sometimes five or ten, sometimes the change from their cupholder. She thanked them all. As her sign said, anything helped. She didn’t always need the bottles of water, or the half of a Subway sandwich or bag of chips, but she wouldn’t turn down any kindness.

Few drivers opened their window to be less than kind, but it happened.

“You’re slowing traffic with this shit,” Donna heard earlier in the morning.

“You’re healthy! You can work!” shouted a bearded man from his pickup, just a few minutes ago. He didn’t ask if she was healthy, or what kept her from working. He didn’t ask why she stood beside an off-ramp through rush-hour with a cardboard sign and her spirits in shreds.

A cross hung from his rearview mirror. When the light turned, his pickup roared loudly enough to scare her.

Most people ignored Donna, or pretended to. Insults were rare. The shout and the roaring engine were fresh enough to make her flinch inwardly the next time a car window opened, but she had to step up. She couldn’t turn anything down.

“Hi.” The driver was young and clean-cut in a faded t-shirt, with a smile that signaled warmth. The woman beside him smiled, too. He held out a tight fold of bills wrapped in a rubber band. She felt plastic on the underside. “The card’s fully loaded. It’s all yours. Take care, okay?”

“Thank you,” said Donna. “Bless you.” She didn’t know what else to say and couldn’t say much before people started honking. The driver smiled and waved goodbye. She didn’t look at his gift until she was away from the curb and he was gone.

The handful of twenties wrapped in the rubber band made her gasp. She expected much less, and figured the plastic would be a fast-food gift card at best. The Visa logo and the sticker listing its dollar amount left her shaking.

Sunday lost sight of her in seconds as their car rolled on. “Did you add a note?”

“Nah. Couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t patronizing as hell. She knows what she needs. Most people do.”

“How many of those have you got?”

“Ten. Nine now. Gotta do more tomorrow. Doesn’t seem like enough.”

“Never will. Something’s better than nothing.”

“Freeway problems again?”

“I almost got out of the slowdown with time to spare, and then bam! Prius-on-Prius violence, right at the off-ramp,” Yesenia fumed. Thankfully, only Lucas saw her slam her car door. No one else was in the back parking lot at eight in the morning. With the museum opening at nine, showing up at 8:07 was only a catastrophe to their boss—who never came in before 10:30. “I got pics of them yelling at each other. Don’t know if anyone will care.”

Lucas picked up his stride to match Yesenia’s. Naturally, employees had to park at the end of the lot—though the museum’s two vans got spots right by the back door. “I could show you how to log in remotely from your phone,” he offered. “If it’s only a few minutes, who’s gonna know?”

“Carla knows, so she checks the badge reader log.” Yesenia still held her key ring, finding the back door key on touch and muscle memory. “I’ve got my review next week. There’s only so many jobs I can get with a history degree and I really don’t wanna teach. God, she’s gonna give me more shit about dealing with the unexpec⁠—”

They stopped short at the two large, translucent plastic tubs waiting in front of the door. One appeared to be full of fabric. The other contained smaller boxes of leather and wood along with a row of small, mismatched hardcover books. A single white page taped to the top of one box held a note in black Sharpie.

“Oh god, this better not be someone dumping their attic trash on us again,” grumbled Lucas. He snatched the letter off the box before Yesenia got a look at it. Then her eyes weren’t on the letter or Lucas at all. “Yep. ‘Mi ático,’ exactly as I⁠—”

“Lucas.” Yesenia swatted his arm to get his attention and pointed to the box. Right beneath the translucent lid, covered until now by the letter, sat a rosary in a velvet-lined display case. Perfectly polished silver beads and tubes connected an equally polished, hand-crafted silver Christ on a tubular cross. The museum had another just like it in the Rancho display.

The books were old. Yesenia crouched and peered, able to make out text in Spanish despite the foggy distortion of the plastic crate. The museum didn’t have anything to match these, but she had seen a couple over at the Huntington.

“Holy shit.” She made sure Lucas paid attention as she carefully opened the other crate. The containers seemed brand new, probably bought at a random Home Depot, but the carefully-placed bodice at the top of its contents was old and expensive. Yesenia knew that before she ran her fingertip over the filigree. “Lucas, this stuff is for real.”

“Seriously? Just packed in a couple boxes?”

“What’s the note say?”

“Nothin’.” He held out the note, written in Spanish without flourish. “Another ático, someone’s bisabuela. No name. Doesn’t list a neighborhood. Nothing.”

“This can’t be some random local. Some of this was worth a fortune when it was first used, and the books… this is a big deal.”

“Guess we’re covered for coming in a few minutes late, too.”

“Huh. Yeah.” Yesenia surveyed the parking lot. The overnight gate on the entrance would stay down until the museum opened. “Lucas, the gate was locked when you got here, right?”

“Professor, hi. Glad I caught you. I wanted to talk about our student films.”

“Jeong, I’ve got nothing against your film pitch.” Professor Green picked up his pace as Jeong closed in, despite the lack of traffic on the stairs and the ample time before class. “I gave it full approval, remember?”

“Sure. It’s not about approval,” Jeong persevered. He knew it would be like this. Getting Green to talk one-on-one was always difficult—almost as if the guy wanted to do something with his film training other than teach. “We had that in mind all along.”

“And you’re way ahead of the deadline,” said Green. “Your pitch isn’t even due until we get into next quarter. Honestly, I shouldn’t have accepted it yet.”

“But you warned us about getting funding, so we wanted a head start.”

“Yeah.” Green sighed.

The sigh wasn’t a good sign. Green sighed whenever he wanted to dodge a subject. The two people waiting outside his office weren’t a good sign for Jeong’s claim on Green’s attention, either. They looked like students, which meant competition. He had to press on. “We kept the project straightforward. Local, modern day, no special effects.”

“None of that is really the issue,” said Green. “You picked a controversial topic.”

“Sure. Don’t people do that all the time?”

“There’s controversial, and then there’s controversial.” Green’s frown deepened. “You want to make a heist film about gender.”

“Yeah. They’re stealing a social construct. There’s no prop. That’s the gag.” Jeong mustered a smile, knowing it would fall upon unimpressed eyes. He was right. “We’ve cut the concept down to the lowest budget possible.”

“That’s good. Securing funds is part of this project. I think that’s your only problem.”

“Sure, and if you could give your recommendation on our application for⁠—”

“Hold on. Hi, can I help you?” Green asked the pair waiting at his door. Jeong didn’t recognize the guy or the woman. From his tone, neither did Green.

“You’re Professor Green? They told me you’re the head of the archive committee?” The woman and her companion stood while Green reached for his door—dismissively, Jeong thought, but Green was often dismissive of students. She reached for a cardboard box beneath her seat.

“Yes, I am. I’m also kind of busy,” said Green.

“Cool. Should I bring these original 1930s reels to a different film school, then? They’ve got one over at USC, right?”

Green looked back from his doorway with a skeptical face, but did a prompt double-take when his eyes glazed over the reels in the box. Whatever he saw on the canisters or their labels spoke to him of authenticity.

“My grandfather worked at the studios in the seventies and had kind of a chip on his shoulder. When he died, we finally got into the van he kept in his garage,” she explained.

“What is…?” Green plucked an Oscar statue out of the box, blinked at it, and put it back with a sudden realization. “Where’d you get all this?”

“You need me to say it again?” She smirked. Jeong envied her freedom from Green’s authority as a professor. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ he had it legally, but he’s dead and it should go somewhere, right? I figure it’s here or the Academy’s museum, but I gotta make an appointment there if⁠—”

“Can we talk in my office?”

“Sure.” She held out the box. He claimed it.

Jeong couldn’t blame Green for the distraction, but his shoulders sank—and then the other stranger tilted his head with a private invitation. Something in his expression held sympathy and confidence. Jeong needed both. He followed the gesture out of Green’s doorway.

“Professor says your film project is too topical?” asked the stranger.

That was enough. Student or not, the guy got it. “He won’t actually say it, which is kind of worse,” said Jeong.

“Doesn’t sound like you need a lot of funding.”

“Not much, but I can’t do it on none. It’s thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands.”

“Gotcha.” The stranger nodded to the door. “She loves heist films.” Then he produced a pair of cards from his pocket. Jeong saw only the Visa logo and the word “prepaid” by his thumb. “You’re funded. But you don’t remember what we look like and we never had this conversation. Cool?”

Jeong blinked. He accepted the cards out of polite habit rather than conscious thought. “Um. Okay? Who are you?”

“Kinda defeats the purpose of the conditions,” said the stranger.

“How much…?” Jeong didn’t finish that question. The stranger already implied how much the cards held. “How will you know if…?”

“I don’t. Pay down your student loans if you want. But your film sounds awesome and now you’ve got secret funding. That’s a good start for a heist, right?”

“Okay, he’s on the phone,” the other stranger whispered on her way out of Green’s office. “Let’s go.” She lead the way with a brisk, quiet pace.

Jeong’s benefactor followed, pointing to Green’s office as he left. “Oh, and maybe go be a witness for a bit so he doesn’t just eBay all that stuff. Cool? Thanks!”

Though still stunned, Jeong’s attention turned back to the office. Secret funding for his heist film was beyond his wildest dreams. A little passive-aggressive revenge on his professor made his day even better.

“Hey. Thank you for all this. It means a lot.”

“What, this morning? Running around?” Like Evan, Sunday had scanned their surroundings warily before and after parking. Everything seemed quiet. “Whatever. I like being nice. I’m having a good time.”

“There’s being nice and then there’s making it a priority. We’ve still got big stuff to tackle.”

“Any second thoughts? Giver’s remorse?” Sunday grinned.

“No. It’s the opposite. It’s… charity vibes, but also relief and spite. Like, whatever happens next, we got something done. Made a couple things right, or at least better.”

“And the bad guys can suck on it,” Sunday added.

“Yeah. And they can suck on it.”

“Okay. I’m happy, too. Why the tone?”

“I mean…” Evan gestured to the gleaming white library on the grassy hill. “We’re back here again.”

“Evan.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t expect anything about you and I⁠—”

“Yes, you did, or at least hope, and so do I. He’s a good dude and we can trust him, but there are reasons we broke up. I got reasons with you, too. I’m not just banging you out of convenience.” She grinned again while that processed behind his eyes. “You’re gonna have to get used to receiving affection from more than your cats.”

Explanations and justifications rolled around in his throat. He let them all go and smiled back. “Thank you for that, too.”

“Yeah, I can accept thanks for it once in a while. Don’t make it weird. We’ve got enough weird to deal with right now. C’mon.”

They got out, scanned again, and locked up. Crossing the driveway and the short, steep grass to the library steps, Evan thought Sunday walked closer than before. He wondered if she was into holding hands. He didn’t have much experience, but neither objected nor felt like he should initiate… and then they hit the steps, and climbed to the entrance. She didn’t reach out.

She’s too cool for that, he decided. Probably wants her hands free. Could be danger anywhere. Gotta stay alert.

You’re in a supernatural underworld feud and you’re also a complete dork. And now we’re going to see her smooth and powerful ex. Again.

If Sunday heard his inner monologue or shared similar feelings, she gave no sign. She opened the door, passed the circulation desk, and looked around. Evan suspected a few students worked in the study room around the corner, perhaps a couple more in the stacks. Only two people were at the front desk: Omar, behind the counter, and an older woman standing at the other side. She dressed professionally, sharing a faint resemblance to Omar that Evan initially dismissed—until he noticed the same faint embers floating off of her.

The greater tell came with Omar’s wince as the two women saw one another.

“Sunday,” said the other woman.

“Speaking of reasons,” Sunday sighed. “Hi, Aminah.”

“You’re the sorcerer?” Aminah asked Evan.

He blinked and glanced to the adjoining rooms again. “Um.”

“Omar, how much have you told her?” asked Sunday.

“Enough. Not every little thing, but I couldn’t not…” Omar’s answer faltered under the displeased gazes of both women. He held up his hands in apology to Sunday. “It came up.”

“Evan, this is Aminah, Omar’s mom,” Sunday explained. “She’s got a title that wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

“He could learn,” said Aminah.

“Being Omar’s mom is enough.” Evan didn’t need another enemy if he could avoid it, and Omar hadn’t done them wrong. He offered his hand. “Yes, I’m Evan. It’s nice to meet you.”

Aminah’s brow rose in mild surprise. She accepted the handshake. “Likewise, I hope. Omar and I were just discussing you and other… recent events. Sunday, Omar tells me you are feeling more yourself?”

“Yeah. Talked about that, too, huh?” she replied.

“It had to be addressed,” said Omar.

“Do you believe it?” asked Sunday.

Aminah inhaled slowly and stared at Sunday with intent. Evan saw no rays of light, sensed no ominous rumble or change in the air, but he knew some magic had to be at work. Aminah nodded in satisfaction. “I do now.”

“Does it make a difference?” Sunday asked her.

“I should think so.” Aminah stiffened. “You have always made your own path, but I never doubted your conscience until things changed. Now I understand why. I am terribly sorry for what you suffered, Sunday. It must have been awful.”

“My own path? That’s a lot more tactful than calling me a criminal.”

Aminah clicked with some disapproval and another glance to her son. Apparently, the word hadn’t been said to Sunday’s face. “It was overly harsh,” Aminah conceded, “if literal, within its context.”

“We’re all criminals,” said Sunday.

Omar rubbed his temples. “Can we not do this?”

“Yeah, we’re in a library,” Evan reminded gently.

“In a city of aspiring actors and endless talk of fictions,” said Aminah. “No one cares. We assured privacy as soon as I arrived.”

“In the middle of my shift, unannounced, again,” Omar muttered to his desk. “All of you.”

“Sunday, Evan, I must ask you several important questions,” said Aminah.

“We came to talk to Omar. We didn’t know you’d be here,” said Sunday. Omar rolled his eyes as if to echo her second sentiment.

“I assumed as much, yet we are all here and matters are urgent,” Aminah countered. “I came to discuss an incident from the other night. Given what Omar told me of your experiences, I can likely guess what happened, but I don’t want to operate on false assumptions. Many are already in danger and this could all get worse. Please.”

“If it’ll cut this short,” Omar sighed, “Sunday, what did you want to talk about?”

She looked to Evan instead. He only shrugged. “I’m the new guy here. I trust you.”

“We’ve got a big-ass vellum Gutenberg Bible and a pile of other historical artifacts and valuables,” said Sunday. “Some are magical. We need help sending them where they belong. Also, the FBI is on our asses.”

Aminah’s eyes widened. She missed Omar’s dry frown. “Not false assumptions,” he said. “I’ll get someone to cover here. We have better rooms for this.”

“We knew the incident involved Anatole, given his departure from the meeting,” said Aminah. “Several of our people investigated. No one could pin down anything more than a chase and gunfight at the foot of the Hills with some traces of magic. Key evidence was claimed from the scene by those agents. We thought the federal smokescreen was a ploy by Solomon or Anatole, or their antagonists. Now that element appears genuine—and even more opaque.”

Omar’s idea of a better location turned out to be the front sitting room of the library, reminding Evan the building was once someone’s home. They sat in upholstered, probably antique chairs around an equally old coffee table, with a bricked-up fireplace against one corner. Windows and the front doors looked out over the palm tree-lined driveway up the hill.

None of the exits to the room had any doors. Omar and Aminah seemed perfectly comfortable with that, despite all the patrons elsewhere. No one wandered into the room, vindicating the djinn’s comfort. Evan wanted to learn whatever trick protected them.

“One of the feds used magic,” said Sunday. “They kept up with the chase despite being jumped by a werewolf. Another one pulled a nail out of her pocket when Evan healed her. They obviously know something, but I’ve never heard of that with the feds or cops in general.”

“It is concerning, but not our highest concern,” said Aminah.

“It’s not?” Evan hadn’t said much since retelling his story of the failed repo. Given Sunday’s history with the others, he deferred to her to tell the rest. That didn’t mean checking out on the conversation. “I kinda feel like they’re the bigger deal here. Anatole’s a problem, but we can fight him. The feds are a whole different issue.”

“These are not the first mortals in authority to know of the supernatural,” said Aminah. “I have seen it before. Small pockets of awareness are not so unusual. The nature of magic itself works against broader exposure. I would only worry about what they could do with modern technology and organization.”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried,” he replied.

“You have come this far in the shadows, Evan. We all learn to navigate mortal difficulties one way or another.”

“They used magic. They knew my name,” said Evan.

“And shot you,” added Sunday. “Aminah, I thought you would flip out. You and others.”

“Oh, the vampires would lose their minds, but they do that.” Aminah waved it off. “My people are less attached to mundane living. Most Practitioners lead fundamentally quiet, law-abiding lives of assimilation in society, or they accept the risks of discovery. When the supernatural comes into widespread public acknowledgment and fear, I’ll be more concerned. Until then, this is the same hurdle we have always faced.”

Omar’s grimace validated Evan’s discomfort. Evan wondered if the djinn and other immortals had an even worse generational divide than ordinary people. What’s djinn for, ‘Okay, Boomer?’

“We must focus on the here and now,” Aminah continued. “Supernatural factions across the city edge closer to violence while Anatole plays the peacemaker. Now I learn he had Sunday possessed and stole Cornelius’s treasure hoard. I had suspicions, but this is evidence.”

“Suspicions of what?” asked Sunday.

“I’m afraid there’s no gentle way to ask this. Please understand it is not an accusation,” Aminah began. “You were not in control. Recently, before you escaped Nahash, did you kill a man in Orange County? An accountant?”

Sunday folded her arms, hesitating, but answered: “Yeah. That was Nahash. Weeks ago. Anatole hired me to do it. Didn’t explain why, and I didn’t ask.”

“The man was an ally of the Orange Curtain. Mortal, but closely tied. He handled their money.”

“…fuck.”

“We’re not talking about the imaginary line between LA and OC, are we?” asked Evan.

“They are a circle of Practitioners who claim the term as a name,” said Omar.

“Asshole Practitioners,” Sunday grumbled. “Maybe the guy deserved a bullet after all, but that’s probably not why Anatole wanted him dead.”

“Unlikely, yes,” agreed Aminah. “Vampires have also been murdered recently, from all three of their largest factions. You know about Haisam. I suspect your ‘ghost dog’ killed him, but I also suspect the animal is blameless.”

“Anatole plays peacemaker, you said?” asked Evan. “You think he’s trying to take over the city? It sounded like things didn’t work that way.”

“Not under any formality, no, but feuds and power plays happen everywhere,” said Omar. “The nightlife are not so different from mortals. And without any unifying organization or law, many supernaturals are even more ruthless. To some, it’s a virtue.”

“Okay, so he’s fuckin’ with everyone and trying to start shit,” said Sunday. “You know all you need. Do something about him.”

“If only it was that simple,” said Aminah.

“How is it not?” Sunday pressed. “You’re djinn. You’ve got other djinn in the city, family and otherwise. You’ve got friends, too, and you roll deep. We just kicked Anatole’s balls up into his guts. We hit him in the wallet and took out a bunch of his muscle. Go get him.”

“I am sure he still holds formidable defenses, or you’d have killed him yourself.” Aminah shook her head. “This is not only about him.”

“Okay. Who else has he got? Solomon? So what?”

Aminah scoffed with equal disdain, but her expression did not change. “It is… complicated.”

“Mother,” said Omar. “You never doubted Sunday’s conscience. You said so yourself. Evan clearly has no factional loyalties or agenda. Sooner or later, we must trust someone.”

Her jaw set. She looked away, considering. “I don’t suppose you took pictures of your collected loot?”

“Only a couple things to show Omar,” said Sunday. “Wanted his cooperation first. Didn’t want all that on our phones, just in case.”

“Did you find a large book with raised gold geometric patterning on the cover? The script would look similar to Arabic, but not the same. Evan, might you have seen it during your captivity?”

He and Sunday shared a look before shaking their heads. “I didn’t get a good look in my first visit,” said Evan. “We made a pretty thorough search of all the loot once we had a chance. Nothing like that stood out. Lots of old books, including a fancy Quran, but none covered in gold.”

“What is it?” asked Sunday.

“A vulnerability. Leverage,” said Aminah. “Haisam, the djinni recently murdered, recorded every newborn djinni in this city and others nearby in that book. Such a tool makes those listed much easier to locate, among other things. We cannot find it. We dare not ask around, lest the wrong parties take interest—if such a party doesn’t have it already.

“When Omar told me of you and that basement, I hoped Anatole had it there. He clearly went to great lengths to conceal and secure that space. He may yet hide it elsewhere, but now it seems more likely he gave it to the worst possible hands.”

“Who’s that?” asked Evan.

“You are not yet familiar with my people, correct?”

“You and Omar are the only djinn I’ve met. I dunno if I’m even using the right terms of address. Mostly I’ve caught on that a lot of media genies are a big whitewash.”

“Yes. ‘Djinn’ is a broad term. We have factions among our own, from familial to more profound differences, but we are all djinn. The ifrit are a particular sort of djinn, often malevolent and ruthless. We share a tentative peace, which often strains. The local leader among the ifrit is named Uthman. Behind a veneer of tolerance, Uthman is aggressive and ambitious. He wants power and dominance.

“Ghuls are another sort of djinn, occupying the bodies of the dead. It is as horrific as it sounds. Uthman seems to be recruiting among them to bolster his strength.”

“Why—wait.” Evan made a face. “You all sound really powerful. Why would a djinn want to be inside a dead body? What’s the benefit?”

The two djinn winced as soon as Evan began speaking. Omar raised a hand. “Most of us see only drawbacks and perversion. The divide is so ancient that our people do not agree on its origins. Everyone has a racist and creepy uncle or cousin they don’t want to talk about. We have them in the hundreds of thousands.”

“The rest of us would never tolerate someone recruiting ghuls,” Aminah continued. “We would take action, but Haisam’s missing book puts the youngest among us at risk. If we fall into open hostility and Uthman has that book…”

“Then he goes after your kids first,” said Evan.

“Yes. He may not have it. Anatole may have it, to wield exactly the same leverage. The threat of handing it over to Uthman is enough. Neither of them have hinted at it. Instead, Anatole hinted this ghul agenda to me in private, but that follows the premise of pitting factions against one another. And a Practitioner warned me of grave dirt in Anatole’s aura. That only bolsters the possibility of some deep alliance.

“While we are cornered by vulnerabilities and unknowns, we dare not take action. Both Anatole and Uthman know enough about djinn to watch for us. We cannot afford to spark an open conflict until the book is secured.” Aminah’s brow rose. “Yet the two of you are already embroiled in such a conflict, without our vulnerability.”

“Aw hell, I should’ve seen this coming,” Sunday grumbled.

“You want us to go after this book?” asked Evan. “You’re all centuries old and loaded with magic. You’ve got plenty of people. We’re only Sunday and me, and I’ve been at this less than a week.”

“We are Uthman’s primary adversary,” said Aminah. “He knows us and our ways. His defenses will be arrayed specifically against djinn, and he will see us coming from miles away. If we act, we invite retaliation. You are an unknown, except for your feud with Anatole—whose security is likewise formidable, yet you have already defeated it. Twice, in your case.”

“You don’t know for sure this guy has your book,” Evan countered. “We don’t know him at all, or where he lives. Anything.”

“Oh, he’s an asshole,” said Sunday. “And an ifrit, with all your usual djinn tricks. Shape-shifting, flying, invisible whenever he wants, gives zero fucks about guns or blades, flies across LA in a single breath, and literally made of fire. Except you tell us he’s bigger and badder than most, and he bosses around the other ifrit. Probably won’t be alone.”

Evan muttered, “I’ve really gotta read those books.”

“Yes,” said Omar.

“We know where he lives,” said Aminah. “If he has Haisam’s tome, it will be there. If not, then we at least resolve the question. At this point I am sure he has it. He acts with too much confidence. It cannot be a bluff. He has the book, or it has been promised to him. We cannot know until we look, and looking has been too dangerous.”

“If it’s that important and you’re all on a hair trigger, why wouldn’t he keep it on himself?” asked Sunday.

“Haisam wove many defenses into the book to prevent such an approach. He shared the magical keys of the book with a few trusted djinn. Uthman must have it hidden in some prepared place.”

“What makes you think he won’t put two and two together once we hit him? If we get caught, he’ll figure out who we’re workin’ for real damn fast.”

“If you are caught. We must take the risk sooner or later, but once Uthman senses djinn or djinn magic, he will know his enemy. You are an unknown. You have already shown your ability. I wouldn’t ask this of just anyone. I believe you can do this.”

“We came here to deal with the loot from Cornelius, not pick another fight,” said Sunday.

“I can help you with that regardless of this,” said Omar. He didn’t look at his mother, as if he knew she would frown. “You are right. This specific matter is not your fight. It is still key to the dangers we all share.”

Slowly exhaling, Sunday looked to Evan. She seemed to expect what she saw. “We’re gonna talk about this outside,” she told the others. Evan stood up with her.

“Recover the book, and the djinn can act with a free hand against Uthman and Anatole,” said Aminah. “You will have the gratitude of every djinn within a hundred miles. And I will tell you all I know of Mitu.”

That got a double-take out of Evan and Sunday alike. “You can’t just tell me anyway?” he asked.

“I am old, but I am barely familiar with the name,” said Aminah. “I know djinn who are older, and others. I’d have to make inquiries, which might draw interest. You have enough of that already. It is not something to be done lightly.”

“Uh-huh.” Sunday took another step out of the room, but stopped as Evan lingered.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course,” said Aminah.

“You never doubted Sunday’s conscience,” said Evan. “Whatever your differences, you knew she’s a good person. She dropped out, started killing people, and you knew it. You never checked up on her? Never looked into it, or did anything about it?”

“For many reasons, no.” Aminah answered evenly. “You have come into a rougher world, Evan. The shadows wear on the best of us. Monsters abound. We cannot fight them all.”

Omar didn’t answer, except for how he looked away.

Outside, the sun shined and birds sang. Sunday walked to the hillside steps, looking all around and back at the building before she stopped and folded her arms. “Fuck.”

“What do you think?” asked Evan. “About any of this?”

“This is how the nightlife works,” she said. “You show you can get shit done, and then everyone brings you their shit that needs doing. Nothing but shit. Everyone’s full of it.”

“When you told me Omar was connected, did you mean through her?”

“He’s centuries old. He’s got his own pull. But yeah, he’s also got her, and…” Sunday waved at the door. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve, um…” Evan frowned. “Look, I’ve dated, but never to the family drama stage. Parents only ever met me so they’d know who to pull from a line-up if something happened to their daughter. Basics, y’know? Not this.”

“This is pretty much what it looks like,” Sunday grumbled. “Told you I had reasons. I was an outsider and a criminal and not good enough for her son. And he went with it.”

“Seems like you and Aminah have your own thing going on. With or without him.”

“Hah! Yeah. We do. Met her long before he came into town.” Sunday looked for a place to lean and settled for the rail on the steps. “Nobody’s in charge around here, but Aminah would love to be the queen bee. She kind of is, at least for the friendly and not-shitty groups like the djinn and the normal sorcerers. But I’ve been here longer than any of them. That matters to some. It matters to her, too. She just doesn’t want to say it.”

Doors flew open behind them, releasing laughter and shouts. A pack of children flooded out of the library’s adjoining recital hall. Evan had seen signs for summer programs, but didn’t look at the days and times; now he saw the attendees flood out, perhaps twenty in all, with an adult calling after them in warnings about running and the steps.

Evan kept quiet as they mob flowed past. He watched.

“You wanna do this, don’t you?” asked Sunday.

“I keep thinking about the girl from our last visit. Leela.”

“The thirty-year-old girl?” Sunday pointed out. “They’ve got all their own magic, Evan. Magic and connections and family. Most aren’t serious fighters, but they could call that in from out of town. It’s shitty of Aminah to put this on us. She’s looking for a bargain.”

“Maybe.” Evan watched the kids. “I know what it’s like when the adults in your life let you down.”

Sunday opened her mouth to respond. She stopped. Her shoulders dropped. “Fuck.”

“I shouldn’t let her put this on you,” said Evan.

“No, it’s…” Sunday folded her arms, grumbling and wrestling with something inside. “Yeah I guess it’s different once I’m not lookin’ at her patronizing face. And now I’m looking at your face.”

“What? Oh. Hey, don’t make it about me. I’m better when it’s not about me.”

“It is, though. It’ll be your neck out there. These people never did shit for you.”

“They’ve never done anything to me, either. Yes, I wish someone had looked out for me when I was a kid. All I can do about it is be better than I got, right?”

She sighed. “Yeah.”

“It’d be nice to get some other people on our side, too.”

“Don’t overrate that,” said Sunday. “I dunno how much actual help their gratitude gets us. I do know the other side of this is real trouble.”

“You know this guy? Uthman?”

“Couple run-ins. Nothing serious. No conflict. But he’s a big bad. Like another Anatole, and probably stronger. We’ve got enough problems already. Guess we shouldn’t let ’em team up.” She gave Evan a long, serious look. “I’m not gonna freak out about danger. We’re stuck with that. But I’m not thrilled about buying more of it for you.”

“Stuck with it,” he agreed. “Although maybe I can take the time to read those books before we get into our next mess? God, we’ve been moving almost non-stop since all this started. The only break we’ve had was…” He couldn’t hold back his grin. “Okay, that was the best possible use of our spare time, but still.”

“What? Oh. Yeah. That should be our priority. Would be, if the world wasn’t full of assholes messing with us.”

“Yeah?” Evan let his hopes rise.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Still. We are in this mess, and I’ve gotta get better at all this. We need a plan.”

“We do. C’mon.” Sunday walked past him to the library doors with a brief tug at his shirt. Every tiny flirtation meant the world to him.

They found Aminah and Omar as the latter returned to the front desk. Sunday held silent only until Omar’s relief at the desk moved out of earshot. “We meet up tonight for recon. You’re taking tomorrow off to help us get ready. You’re helping us get this done, too.”

“No,” said Aminah before Omar could answer. “We cannot be involved. That is the whole point of enlisting the two of you.”

“Yeah, we got that,” Sunday said—pointedly looking at Omar. “I understand the tactical problem. We’ll find plenty of other ways you can help. And if it means stickin’ your neck out, then at least you’re sharing the risk.”

Aminah shook her head. “Omar is not⁠—”

“Stop, please,” he spoke up. “You’re right. I’ll go. I’ll help with your other thing, too. Do you have a list? Pictures?” Omar accepted the thumb drive Evan had put together for that very purpose. Then he sighed. “Now can I please get back to my actual job? They don’t have me up here to host personal visits.”

“Good morning. My name is Butler.” He was broad-shouldered, dashing, and well-dressed, lacking only a tie. Slicked-back hair and a clean shave let his blue eyes and polite smile stand out. “Your boss has been howling across the skies of Tartarus for my boss all night. We need him to stop. May I see him, please?”

Terrence held the door with one hand and kept the other low and ready to react. He wasn’t worried; the mansion had layers of defense, and people didn’t come here by mistake. He also took nothing for granted, especially after the last few nights. “By my boss, you mean…?”

“Anatole. I’d cut straight to him, but his wards restrict the call to my boss alone and a response isn’t going to happen. Also, I suspect Anatole turned off his phone. Best practice for ritual summoning, I suppose.”

Despite the casual revelations, Terrence studied the stranger without ceding an inch. No bulges or awkward folds to Butler’s clothing gave any weapons away. The morning light touched Butler like anyone else, but his aura clung to him as a shadow from every angle. The effect was clearly magical, covering up exactly what magic was at play and what it might do.

“Then he doesn’t know you’re coming,” said Terrence.

“Not as such, no,” said Butler. “We haven’t met.”

“It’s alright,” Elizabeth emerged from the hallway to join Terrence at the door. “I’ll take him to Anatole. Thank you.”

“Peculiar timing, is all.” The code word warned of unfamiliar magic. It was the best he could do without contradicting Elizabeth in front of this stranger.

“Of course. Unexpected, but acceptable. Mr. Butler, we’re glad you’ve come.” She gestured for Butler follow her.

“Thank you, Terrence,” Butler said as the other man gave way.

“Hold up,” said Terrence. Butler and Elizabeth stopped and looked back. “Nobody’s said my name. We ain’t met before.”

“No, we haven’t,” Butler answered pleasantly. “My boss has you on his guest list. It’ll all make sense someday.”

Terrence dropped the guarded hospitality for a new warning look to Elizabeth. She nodded in acknowledgment. He had to trust her. “This way, Mr. Butler.”

The pair turned from the front living room to the hallway, passing white walls with classical paintings and red marble tiles. “Tasteful décor,” Butler observed. “Mature without being old-fashioned or anachronistic.”

“You have an eye for decorating?” asked Elizabeth.

“More of an eye for people. Wants and needs.”

“Is Butler a professional reference?”

“It’s a name. Elizabeth is nicer. You’re more than a butler.”

She smiled tightly before opening the next door. “Thank you.”

Steps led downward. Scents of incense, sweat, brimstone, and blood drifted through the open door. The vents couldn’t remove everything.

“Basements aren’t as common in this part of the country,” said Butler. “Special construction?”

“It is a custom home. I’m curious: does the basement make a difference in this case?”

“Not in function, no. That’s all a matter of your comfort and practicality. Your location makes no difference to us.”

“Interesting. Thank you.” Elizabeth led him onward.

White walls and red marbles continued in the lower chamber, with spacious arrangements and a higher ceiling than the basement label implied. Activity near the far wall marked a dire contrast to the open and bright coloring. Anatole knelt at the center of his ritual circle, shoulders bared and head bowed as he muttered an incantation over and over. Runes lined both sides of the circle’s barrier, with a larger, five-point rune crossing the full diameter. The bowl nearest to Elizabeth and Butler’s approach held a severed hand soaked in blood. Other bowls held even more gruesome remains.

“I can’t complain about his commitment.” Butler casually sniffed the air. “Someone young in the bowls? Risky. Not as useful as you might think, but the gesture is appreciated.”

“A young sacrifice is less effective?” The comment sent a rare crack through Elizabeth’s composure. “I thought… the lore says…”

“Lore written by which lunatic? Did they ask anyone’s preference?” Butler scoffed. “It’s not your fault. No one from the Pit bothered to correct. Let’s be clear: can you truly own another person’s life or soul? If not, are they ever really yours to sacrifice? More importantly, if you want to please someone of the Pit, you should offer a soul the Pit can keep. Souls go where they go. The suffering and death of innocents is delightfully crass to some, but it’s not exactly a gift. Like a holiday card without any money in it.”

Elizabeth turned from her affable guest to the ritual circle soaked in human blood and bordered by remains and ashes. Gruesome necessities had long been a fact of her life, but that necessity countered any guilt or remorse. For the first time in memory, she felt a crushing sense of waste—and the heavier emotions beyond it.

“What’s done is done,” said Butler. “Don’t let it get to you. Too late now, right?”

Another taunt. Weakness did her no favors. She inhaled deeply, scents and all, centering herself and reclaiming her composure. “Anatole,” Elizabeth said over his incantation. “Your call is answered. We have a visitor.”

Focus and concentration kept Anatole distracted until he heard his name. He stopped chanting and looked up, frustration turning to curiosity. He pulled the grey bathrobe gathered at his hips up over his shoulders, and stepped out of the ritual circle.

“Mr. Butler,” Elizabeth said as introduction.

“Nahash is not in a position to answer your request,” said Butler. “He sent me instead.”

“I’m not used to intermediaries,” said Anatole.

“Yes. Again, Nahash is indisposed, which would be the point—oh, I’m sorry. You’re searching for bona fides.” Butler smiled. “Nahash found you on some snowy battlefield. The Crimean War, was it? You weren’t a combatant, just a servant under the heel of some petty vampire nipping at the margins. You were looting the dead after the fighting when Nahash slithered out of a corpse. He taught you how to get the better of your master and claim the power of undeath from his ashes—fleeting for a mortal, but still useful.

“That’s been your method ever since: skulking at the outskirts, waiting for bigger monsters to kill one another so you can scavenge from the remains. You pose as something else, of course. No one cares for necromancers, let alone a mere supernatural grave-robber.” Butler’s brow rose. “That’s a nice ring on your finger. Ashes of a heart, but not from any vampire. Nahash paid well in your latest deal, didn’t he?”

“Very well,” said Anatole. “I’m satisfied. How is Nahash ‘indisposed,’ as you say?”

“He died.”

Anatole frowned.

“A few nights ago, Nahash—in his mortalish vessel—took up your request to locate someone. That particular someone turned out to wield surprising power and got the better of the confrontation. Nahash is now reconstituting in Hell. It will take some time.” Butler waved at the ritual circle. “This is an annoying distraction to his efforts. I came to get you to stop. Thank you for that.”

“He died,” Anatole repeated.

“Mm-hm. Well. His vessel died, and with it his hold upon her. As I was telling Elizabeth here, souls go where they go. Nahash is… I shouldn’t say too much, but right now he’s the faintest trace of a snake’s skull within a boiling and burning pit of slime. And a tongue, which he probably grew back earlier than planned in order to provide my instructions.”

“Damn,” Anatole murmured.

“Eventually, yes.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t be that,” Butler went on. “Anyway, Nahash demands an explanation from you for his misfortune. You sent him after a thief and killer. You didn’t warn of divine power.”

“Divine?”

“Divine of a sort. Not the Divine we usually talk about these days. The world used to have more variety. Nahash seemed unsure exactly who or what power he faced. That’s another reason I’m here. So, Anatole, would you care to explain?”

Anatole paused. “For what price?”

“Excellent! Thinking before you speak. Clever. Others would’ve given it away out of civility. I offer knowledge for knowledge. We’ll proceed from there.”

“I cannot fully explain,” said Anatole. “This matter is still some mystery to us. The target first appeared to be an ordinary mortal. He claimed to be on a mundane errand, but then stole an artifact from my collection—a prehistoric carving I had not yet identified. From that point, he displayed magical abilities. He has torn through many of my allies, supernatural and otherwise. He has a partner with him,” Anatole added. “Evidence pointed toward Nahash, or at least the host I acquired for Nahash.”

“Interesting. I suppose that suggests a worthy exchange. I referred to Nahash’s vessel as mortal-ish. That wasn’t about the possession. The girl you found for him, Sunday? You knew of her longevity and suspected some magical talent. As it happens, she enjoys something more powerful than a simple cheat against the ravages of time. Death cannot hold her long. Nahash thought he’d struck an unforeseen fortune in your bargain.

“They died together a couple times, but Nahash clung to her body as she recovered under her own power. This time, her death was rather dramatic. Nahash couldn’t hold on. Obviously, her own magic continued.”

One side of Anatole’s lip lifted and shook. “The girl is immortal?”

“Ish,” Butler corrected. “She ages somewhat. I’m sure she’ll pass on eventually.”

“But Nahash did nothing for this power? No rituals? No alchemy?”

“None of what he taught you, no. As I said, unforeseen fortune. Perhaps you should have examined more closely before you used her. Like this lost artifact you mentioned.”

Anatole’s knuckles cracked loudly enough to be noticed by all three in the room. “I had no time. It’s not that easy. I had to…” He stopped and inhaled.

“True,” said Butler. “It’s tough breaking into the supernatural on your own terms, isn’t it? Not gifted magic, not a true Practitioner. It’s been what, a couple centuries? Much of that spent making sure you keep adding those years? All the graves, all the rituals, scraping every iota of power you can from the dead for your little potions and trinkets. Thriving on the deaths of those more powerful than yourself—as long as they don’t notice and take offense. I admire the hustle.”

“Are you here to taunt or to bargain?”

“Both, of course,” Butler laughed. “I’m also here on an errand for my employer. You did Nahash a great favor. That body kept him out of the Pit for years. Now he’s back there, and the Pit has been especially rough lately. No one’s sure where it turns next. He’s sore about that. I’m here to offer some help in avenging your mutual woes.”

“You’ll help us hunt them?”

“Indirectly. If you want me to get my hands dirty, that will require a bargain of our own.”

21

SOFT SKILLS

“How the hell does real estate like that go abandoned?” asked Sunday.

“It happens everywhere,” said Omar. “Los Angeles holds at least a thousand abandoned homes. And offices, churches, stores. They get abandoned for financial reasons, liability, tax⁠—”

“Rhetorical, Omar. I was being rhetorical.”

“Ah. Sorry.” They stood on a low office rooftop, looking several blocks away at a ten-story tower of faded white concrete, graffiti, and local frustration rising against the night skyline. Most of the windows had been finished, but the corner balconies held only trash left behind by construction workers. “It’s not the biggest in the city. That helps it go unnoticed. That, and it’s not really abandoned, is it?”

Sunday rolled her eyes rather than push back again. “Evan? How’s it going?”

“I feel a connection, but…” He knelt near the crenelation around the rooftop, back straight and knees forward, feet tucked under his butt as if in prayer. Hard asphalt bit through his jeans. Magical armor protected from harm, but apparently not discomfort. Evan pushed his shoulders back one more time, exhaled, and frowned. “I don’t think sitting like this helps.”

“Every Practice is different.” Omar dismissed the issue with a glum wave. “You should try many techniques, but do as you will. Whatever works.”

“Not trying to be rude.” Evan stood, shook the cramps from his limbs, and looked to the stars. “It’s there. I feel something.”

“Can you describe it?” asked Omar.

“What’s it matter?” asked Sunday.

“I am trying to determine Evan’s Practice. If I can’t teach him much, I hope to at least set him on the right path. This isn’t self-interest.”

“What if he doesn’t have a Practice? What if he’s his own thing?”

A faint grumble rose from Omar’s throat. He shook his head. “Magic requires an open mind. It is possible. Frustrating, but possible. It would leave a great many questions unanswered, perhaps unanswerable.”

The stars pulled softly at Evan’s attention, but without hint or direction. Then he noticed the silence. “You two can keep bickering. It doesn’t distract me.”

“Jerk,” Sunday laughed. She poked him. “Alright, fine. What do you feel? What’s it like?”

“Like I’m trying to get an app to work on my phone, except it’s in my head. Y’know when you’ve got the log-in screen but you’re waiting on an update?”

“You… feel that?” asked Omar.

“It’s tugging on my patience. I feel like I’m working on a task. I’m engaged, not just imagining this.” Evan gestured to his head. “Also, when I close my eyes, all the stars are there against my eyelids like when you blink away from a screen. There’s a tone in my ear, too. Soft. More like wind than… I dunno, it’s not tinnitus.”

Omar and Sunday shared a glance. He shrugged. She frowned and waved. He shrugged again. “What should I say? Focus? Breathe deep? Concentrate?” Omar held up his hands. “How many clichés should I use?”

“Okay, wait,” said Evan. “Let’s reboot. Start over.”

“It’s sorcery, not a cell phone—sorry, sorry.” Omar stepped back, muttering about people born into the new century.

“I know I can do something like this. I’ve done it before,” Evan said, mostly to himself. He pointed to the nearest spotlight shafts he still saw emanating from nowhere in the night sky. “Cop, cop, ‘nother cop.” The gestures covered miles. His real concern rose above the streets in his direct line of sight. “If I can do that, I can do this. Let me see. Lemme see…” He stared intently at the abandoned condo project and imagined zooming in, tilting, making it glow. Something.

A slow, absent blink of his eyes brought a new layer of sight. His horizontal view of the tower remained, with a faint new vision over it: vertical, staring down at the rooftop of the tower and its vents, idle air conditioning units, and sagging cardboard boxes. He saw the connected garage to one side and all its empty rooftop spaces, the privacy fence that separated the building from the street, and the long-untended greenery inside the perimeter. Only a couple other nearby structures came close to the tower’s height; most were two-story houses.

At an impulse, without conscious thought at first, his vision tilted to his whim much like the camera in a video game. He gasped and willed his vision closer. Tower balconies seemed within shouting distance. Cars and trucks rolled along the avenue outside. A pair of people jogged down the sidewalk. “Holy shit.”

“You’ve got something?” asked Sunday.

“Satellite vision, yeah. Real-time. Movement and everything.” He risked a turn of his head. Beneath his overhead view of the tower, Sunday stood in front of him. “Oh my god, it’s still there. Like it’s superimposed over you, but I can tell the difference.” Evan waved his hand through his magical vision. “Wild.”

Omar murmured words Evan didn’t recognize, and then explained: “I can sense your magic at work, but cannot draw association. No lines of influence. It’s as if your spell affects only yourself. Curious. How do you feel, physically?”

“Little rocky.” Evan hadn’t noticed his breath until Omar asked. His pulse had picked up. He could feel it. “Like a jog. Not too hard, but it’s effort.”

“Okay, so let’s not waste it. What do you see?” asked Sunday.

“Right.” He looked back to the tower. The difference sank in immediately; he could use natural vision along with the spell, but it meant effort and distraction. Focus mattered.

The overhead view revealed only stillness at first. Everything fit the same image of neglect and decay they saw from the street. Algae and stagnant water filled half a swimming pool to one side of the tower, reminding Evan of his old apartment. Bushes and vines had grown wild since the project stalled out years ago.

Faint light from a balcony caught Evan’s notice, facing the widest street. At first he thought he imagined the orange flicker, but then he recognized the effect. “Got a djinn on the south side, balcony, halfway up the building. He’s watching the street.”

“You can tell he’s djinn?” asked Omar.

“You guys give off embers. At least when I’m paying attention, anyway. He’s got more than you or your mom, now that I’m watching.”

“An ifrit,” said Omar. “We are all born of fire. The ifrit burn closer to the surface. It is a choice. What does he look like?”

“Dark clothes, showing a little chest, might be a gym bro. Short beard and ‘stache, leans like he’s posing for an album cover. Seems young.”

“Djinn can look however they want,” Sunday reminded.

“Yes. Do you want to punch him?” asked Omar.

“Kinda?” answered Evan.

“His name is Humaid. He feels disrespected, and he’s right. There will be others.”

“You know a lot of these guys?” asked Sunday.

“A few personally, others by reputation. Ifrit are djinn. You are right when you say the nightlife are not a community, but to say there is no community would be wrong.”

Evan scanned, learning both the layout of the building and the functionality of his magic. Tilting his head turned his viewpoint; it happened subconsciously at first, but he soon adapted it as a means of adjustment. His sense of detail had blurred when he turned to Sunday. That hinted at limits to this magic, like the need for line of sight on his target. The stars provided some benefits over online satellite images, and some drawbacks.

Then he remembered details like the speed of light and the kind of distance involved in astronomy. Maybe he didn’t see through the stars literally. Maybe the magic of ancient gods didn’t care what science had to say. Maybe I shouldn’t overthink it.

“Got another one,” he said with his next discovery. “Embers, anyway. North side, ground floor, by the window.” Evan tilted his head, unaware of how his companions stared at him. “Can’t really get a good look. Guess there’s a limit to how low I can angle my sight.”

“Every form of clairvoyance has its limits,” said Omar.

“Got a category for everything, huh?” asked Sunday.

“Magic has been studied by many for a long time. Evan, you see only embers? Anything more?”

“That’s all I’ve got. It’s the same as Humaid. They must be near the window.”

“First floor and north, so facing the pool?” asked Sunday. “Wouldn’t be an apartment. Sentry? Do these other ifrit live there?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it,” said Omar. “Most djinn who live among mortals are capable of finding their own home. Someone like Uthman is unlikely to share. This is probably service in exchange for patronage and protection. Perhaps a rotating staff.”

“Looking around for more… hold on.” Evan squinted and leaned forward to stare at a palm tree outside the fence. Light from the street made him discount his first glances, but now he saw the motion, height, and… “I’ve got embers coming off a raven?”

“Layali,” Omar grunted. “Young, emo, dramatic. Not an ifrit, but feuding with her parents. I guess things are at the ‘fell in with a bad crowd’ stage.”

“Can we leverage that?” asked Sunday.

“I doubt it, especially given our time frame. We should try not to hurt her, but I don’t know how far she has gone in Uthman’s service.”

“Every gang has its wannabes,” said Sunday.

“Yes. Let’s hope that’s all she is.”

Ambient city light marked the tower on the skyline, yet every window, entrance, and porch light was dark. Evan hoped supernatural auras and other signs of magic would draw his notice, but the building stood quiet and still. “I think the top floors have blackout drapes. Some of the bottom, too. Could be anything going on in there.”

“Top floor would be all the spacious living and prestige,” said Sunday. “Uthman’s had time to renovate, but the top may have been finished early to sell off the best units first.”

“Possibly,” said Omar. “Ifrit commonly prefer tombs and caves. Low places. Uthman is the urbane sort, so I suppose he may break the pattern. There’s more luxury and prestige to the top.”

“It’s also more isolated. Harder to get into uninvited,” Evan reasoned.

“Harder for people who can fly, with or without turning into birds?” asked Sunday.

“A good point. We have an easier time with heights and windows than getting through walls and dirt,” said Omar.

“Good, ’cause it’s the other way around for me,” said Evan.

“Does your magic allow you to pass through walls?” asked Omar.

“No, but ground-floor walls usually have doors,” said Evan. Sunday snickered. “I’m not seeing much other light. It’s kinda quiet. At this point, I’m looking at ways in or… hrm.” The top of the parking garage held only scattered trash, discarded paint cans… and a lone figure huddled on the stairway. “Nope. There’s more. Not djinn.”

Short brown hair and the dark blue sleeves of a suit appeared normal at first glance, but the man rocked softly back and forth, huddled over something in his lap. Orange light blinked in and out, over and over, until the man finally lifted his head and lit a cigarette with emaciated, shaking fingers. Then the first puff of smoke blew directly out of the man’s mouth—and from the right of his neck, and under his collar.

“Somebody’s smoking on top of the garage,” said Evan. “The smoke is coming out of more than their mouth.”

“What?” asked Sunday.

“I dunno, it’s⁠—”

The suited man backed up on the steps, watching below. A blonde in a sleeveless white dress appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her hair haggard and unkempt. She beckoned to the man as if asking for a cigarette with a stiff and unnatural hand. Refusing, the man backed out of the steps entirely onto the top level, revealing a limp in his stride. The woman raced up the steps and tackled him, showing Evan her bare feet beneath her tattered dress when the pair fell together.

Then her arm fell from her shoulder, bloodless and limp. She gave up the struggle to retrieve it as if more annoyed than alarmed.

“Uh. You said ghuls are like zombies, right? The semi-intelligent, still-sorta-spry movie kind, not the dumb shuffling sort?”

“They are lesser djinn, inhabiting the bodies of the dead,” said Omar. “Their abilities are limited by the state of the corpse upon possession.”

“Yeah. Found ’em. A couple, anyway.” Evan grimaced. “That’s unpleasant.”

“Wait ‘til you can smell ’em,” said Sunday. “Where? How many?”

“Two on top of the garage, fighting over a cigarette. I guess they were buried in those clothes? One wanted to be left alone. Hold on.” Evan squinted. His vision pulled closer, increasing his strain to see within perhaps a dozen meters. One ghul fussed with her arm and the other jealously smoked his cigarette, but now the shadows of both figures stood out with constant movement. The motion seemed frenetic, as if in a constant struggle. “Do ghuls have to fight to hang onto a body?”

“Perhaps,” said Omar. “I admit, in all my life, I have never interviewed a ghul. They are pitiful creatures, and pitiless toward the living and the dead.”

“But you haven’t tried talking to them about why,” said Sunday.

“Every interaction has been hostile from the start,” said Omar. “Beyond themselves, they associate only with the worst of the nightlife. I do not believe our enmity is mere misunderstanding. Extend an olive branch if you like.”

“Nah, I think I’m good. Evan, what else?”

“Hold on. I’m thinking.” The effort of his magic continued on more as a warning than a challenge: he felt tension, breathed as if working out, understood he could not do this forever. Yet some of his magic happened with little or no apparent cost. He saw effortlessly through darkness. His defenses only taxed him in the casting, like a momentary exertion. Most of all, the lookout spotlights had tracked nearby police cars since he first enacted it. Daylight mostly washed out the effect, but the beacons returned with sunset. He never had to renew that magic.

It doesn’t catch unmarked cars, Evan considered. Probably only works because patrol cars tend to be distinct. Light bars, paint themes… are ghuls distinct enough?

“Okay, c’mon,” Evan murmured, staring at the pair atop the garage. “They’re magic. They’re fire inside dead people. It’s gross and freaky. Show me.”

Omar leaned closer to Sunday. “Is that his style of incantation?”

“What?” she hissed.

“This is how he casts spells? ‘Come on’ is his magical invocation?”

“He usually doesn’t use words at all.”

“Must be nice,” Omar grumbled.

Sunday shrugged. “Get good, noob.”

“Twitchy shadows,” Evan mumbled. “Decay. Actually dead. That’s gotta stand out more than a cop car.” His heartbeat picked up. His breath deepened. Evan clenched and unclenched his fists, brow knitting, focused. Is it too much? I’m new to this. Not like cop cars. Seen them my whole life. I don’t need to watch for miles around, though, just… maybe that’s it? Evan shook himself. Forced his breath to steady. Stared at the bickering ghuls. Imagined.

Remembering his first try at this effect, Evan raised his fists to chest level and opened them, fingers outstretched to the sky.

Their shadows took on a sickly, purplish hue that stood out in the dark. They shimmered.

Then he saw shimmers all across the property: one around a shape huddled on the tower rooftop, another curled up on a third-floor balcony, two more in the open dumpster by the unfinished barbecue grill deck near the pool. He found others hidden in the greenery inside the fence—and a couple hidden outside the fence, too.

“I’ve got ’em,” said Evan. “At least twelve, all scattered around the exterior. Hiding.”

“Will they stand out to you like police cars?” asked Sunday.

“Think so. I’m focused on the tower property, though. Don’t think it’ll reach past that, and I don’t know how long it’ll last once I let go.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. If you did it once, you can do it again.”

“Several ifrit and a dozen ghuls, and probably more inside,” said Omar. “This is a tall order, and we haven’t considered Uthman himself yet.”

“How tough are ghuls?” asked Evan.

“Depends on the spirit and body they inhabit,” said Sunday. “Being dead means they’ll ignore a lot of things that hurt the living. Bullets gotta wreck something to do real harm, but your magic should work fine. They can’t shapeshift or fly like normal djinn. We can take ghuls. They’re only the back-up for the ifrit. That’s our real problem.”

“And Uthman,” Omar repeated. “Evan’s magic should have at least some impact. You know other weaknesses. Yet if they are wary, those weaknesses may be difficult to exploit.”

“We can’t fight all these guys, and we’ll be lucky to take out one or two quietly,” Sunday thought out loud. “We’re not gonna get away with social engineering or anything elaborate, either. This one’s gotta be fast. Hit and run. Get in, find the book, and bail. They’ll notice a problem before long, and raise an alarm… so maybe we should use that to our advantage.”

“How so?” asked Evan.

“Djinn have bigger worries than the likes of us.”

“What do you mean?” asked Omar.

“Evan, do you think you can find a way in if the guards are distracted?” asked Sunday.

“Sure. It’s just a building.”

“Good.” She grinned at Omar. “You’re gonna help us with all those guards.”

“I cannot get involved,” said Omar.

“Oh, I don’t mean directly. You don’t have to face any of them… but it will be dangerous for you. Just a different danger. Sorry.”

“Are you, though?” Omar wondered.

“Yeah. Sure. Little bit.”

“I held that motherfuckin’ crowbar out to the motherfucker, and said, ‘Motherfucker, you go on and motherfuckin’ hit me as hard as you motherfuckin’ can, and⁠—”

“Bro, stop. Stop.” Cooper thumped on the bar in exasperation. Music played, boxers fought on the big flatscreen, and customers chatted at the tables, but JDK and his dumb story took up all the oxygen at the bar. “Saying, ‘Motherfucker,’ over and over again doesn’t make you sound tough or cool. It’s not witty. After a while, you sound like an idiot.”

“If ‘a while’ spans the length of a single sentence.” Dirty Dan had spent most of the story contemplating his Jack and Coke, but apparently he listened.

The casual rebuke brought conversation to a halt at the bar—and at the pool table nearby. The rest of the patrons knew to steer clear of JDK even when he was in a good mood. With six feet and four inches of dark muscle beneath faded denim, JDK could intimidate most people simply by standing up. “Motherfucker, what?”

“Change it up with a different two-syllable modifier at least. Chickenfucker or monkeyfucker or maybe badgerfucker.” Though not much smaller than JDK, Cooper rarely flexed and worried even less about his image. His twelve-year-old Superbowl t-shirt attested to that.

“Badgerfucker conjures too bold an image to serve as disparagement.” Dirty Dan spit a dark wad of saliva and tobacco into the glass beside his drink. “That combination of words implies considerable nerve and fortitude.”

“Yeah, guess I overreached,” said Cooper. “That only proves my point. You’ve gotta put at least a little thought into this.”

“Motherfuckers, what are you saying to me?” JDK’s bushy brow flared over dark eyes. “Are you two talkin’ shit?”

“They’re sayin’ you’re uncreative, fool.” Sergio pulled JDK’s attention without raising his voice. He stood with the pool stick in hand, frowning in mild annoyance. “It’s repetitive. They’ve got a point.”

“Brotherfucker has the same auditory impact while being more provocative,” Cooper mused.

JDK smashed his beer bottle over the corner of the bar and waved the jagged remains at the other two men. “That’s it! I’m fuckin’ done with both of you motherfuckers! Outside, now!”

More than a few customers took the cue to leave altogether. Cooper grinned and stood without looking at JDK. “Better’n listening to you.”

“Indubitably,” Dirty Dan agreed as he followed.

“Stop flexing with the college words!” JDK sputtered.

“Out back. No audience.” Sergio pointed to the door to the fenced-in side patio, away from the departing patrons at the front. “And no killing, or I get the body and the idiot who broke the rules.” The warning got only a wave from Cooper on his way out and a glare from JDK. All three left without another word. Sergio pointed to the bar. “Hey, Crank. Got a mess. Clean it up.”

“Man, I don’t work here!” Crank put away his phone and stood from the booth despite his protest. He did not, in fact, work at Sergio’s dive bar, but he knew he was in the doghouse with the others. He knew why, too. Crank passed the pool table to hunt for a towel in silence.

“How long do we hold it over him?” asked Sergio’s opponent. Leslie stood nearly as tall as the men in the bar and carried herself with all the same confidence. No one challenged her lightly after the display she made of Nine-Iron a year ago. She still wore his claws on a necklace.

“Until someone fucks up as badly or worse,” said Sergio.

“Could lose him to Jackson’s pack in San Bernardino. Or the one in Riverside.”

“Pff. Fucker wants to go live out in the Valley of the Dirt People, let ‘im.” Sergio lined up his shot and missed. “Man, I’m nothin’ but good luck lately.”

Pictures and neon signs bounced on the side wall from the impact of one combatant or another outside. Leslie caught Sergio’s glance and shrugged. “You let ’em do it.”

“Way of life,” said Sergio. “Your turn.”

The front door opened, drawing glances from them both. Neither one recognized the new arrival, but the combination of a working man’s flannel and denim with such carefully-styled curly black hair and perfectly-cut stubble didn’t fit right. He also didn’t have the pale look that usually went with sunglasses after dark. It made a little more sense once Sergio caught his warm, coal-like scent.

At least the newcomer didn’t beat around the bush. He only looked around the bar before coming to the pool tables. “You’re Sergio?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Call me Abdi.”

“Heh. I know three guys named Abdi, and they ain’t djinn.” Sergio met Abdi’s raised brow with a snort. “I can smell it. You’re wearing a disguise, but you’re djinn.”

“Sure. You don’t need to know who I am,” said Abdi.

“That’s true. I don’t need to know anything but how your heart tastes.”

“You’re not gonna eat me here. There are people here.”

“I could get rid of all the people in two seconds.”

“Which is all I need to bail,” said Abdi. “We through with that now? Can we talk?”

Sergio shared a skeptical glance with Leslie, but waved a hand. “You came to me. Talk.”

“Somebody got robbed the other night. One of yours died in the mess. Who was it?”

“Lots of people died the other night.” Sergio’s eyes narrowed. A djinn in his bar held his attention by default, but now Sergio was interested.

“True. Do you happen to know who didn’t lose anyone?” asked Abdi.

“Crank!” Sergio barked. The younger man was already within easy earshot, wiping up the mess at the bar. Sergio pointed to a spot beside him. “Stand here. Did you run into any djinn in that fuckin’ mess the other night?”

“Man, how would I know? It’s djinn, right? I don’t know any,” said Crank.

Sergio pointed at Abdi. “Get a good whiff. Familiar at all? Anything like this guy?”

Frowning, Crank made an audible sniff and then blinked in mild surprise. Abdi waited and observed with quiet interest while Crank shook his head. “Nah. Nothin’ like that. Wasn’t that many people by the time I got involved. I knew most of ’em.”

“Alright. Stay. Don’t talk unless you hear bullshit.” Sergio returned his attention to Abdi. “Dietrich bought the farm. No secret. Bunch of vampires ate shit. Couple wizard types died, too, and some normal hired muscle. All workin’ for Anatole. No djinn, though. Didn’t think of it ‘til you asked.”

“You were at a meeting at the time,” said Abdi.

Wall decorations bounced again. Sergio tilted his head toward Leslie, but didn’t take his eyes off Abdi. “Could you tell them to put it on pause?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Leslie kept a wary eye on Abdi until she passed through the door.

“What do you know about the meeting?” Sergio asked their visitor.

“I know who was there, and a little bit about who left with who.”

“Uh-huh.” Sergio remembered that part. “You one of Aminah’s?”

“Aminah would be nice and direct with a message, if she didn’t come herself.”

“Hmh,” Sergio grunted. That was true. He sniffed again. “Runnin’ a little hot there.”

“Guess so.”

“Alright. Why don’t you try being direct? Nah, don’t tell me—nobody knows you’re here. That’s why you’re in disguise. That, and being djinn. You guys are always in disguise.”

Abdi’s eyes flared. His scent turned hotter. It mattered little, except for the satisfaction of cracking the mystery visitor’s façade. “Okay,” said Sergio. “What do you want to tell me about that raid? Do you know who did it?”

“Who did it isn’t the interesting part. I know who set it up,” said Abdi.

“And why come to—?” Sergio stopped as first guesses clicked into place. He glanced at Crank. The younger werewolf had already given his full account of that night, including all the names he could remember. “Who set it up?”

“He left with Anatole when the call came about the robbery,” said Abdi. “Posing as an ally.”

“Huh. Cute. No names. That a thing with you?” Sergio looked to Crank again. “Anyone mention Uthman, or any other djinn? Anything at all?”

“Nah. Nothing.”

“Why would Uthman set all this up?” asked Sergio.

“How loose are the lips around here?” replied Abdi.

“Hey, I’m not a snitch,” Crank protested.

“Stop.” Sergio kept his eyes on Abdi, who returned his gaze evenly—but Sergio could see the wheels turning on new information. He had to live with it. “Gossip ain’t our thing. We don’t talk. We act. Say what you’ve got to say.”

“Anatole had all of Cornelius’s loot,” said Abdi. “That’s what the robbers stole. Nobody knew, especially not the vampires. Nobody except one guy, who set up the robbery and then played buddies with Anatole during and after.”

“Why? What’s Anatole to Uthman?”

“Dude trades in treasures and magical bullshit.” Abdi shrugged. “He’s got more to steal, too. Now he needs better protection.”

“So is it a protection racket, or…?” Sergio glanced at Crank, this time involuntarily. The younger man kept his mouth shut, at least. Maybe he didn’t suspect anything. Again. Sergio thought his questions through before asking. “Uthman sets up a robbery, then tells Anatole he’ll prevent the next one? Did that plan work?”

“He’s gotten everything he wanted so far,” said Abdi.

“Then what’s Anatole paying Uthman for his protection?”

Abdi’s stare with Sergio cracked. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or don’t want to tell me?”

“No reason to hold that back.” Abdi shook his head. “Like I said, the boss doesn’t tell us everything.”

“What if Anatole handed over Diet—ow!”

Sergio cut off Crank’s outburst with a swatting hand, but the question gave away too much already. The damn djinn watched and waited. One more shifty bastard among many—but this shifty bastard connected some big dots. Maybe. “Why?” Sergio asked. “Why are you telling us?”

“Maybe I don’t see anything in it for me,” said Abdi. “The guy making the deal isn’t the one who has to run the protection. That’s for little people, right? Someone else has to be there, doing the work, taking orders. Maybe I don’t want to do that for some fuckin’ mortal.”

Sergio snorted. That, he could believe. Aminah and her djinn wanted to play nice with the herd, or at least live and let live. Uthman’s crowd had fewer scruples and less patience. Both had reason to be twitchy about werewolves recently, but one was more ruthless than the other.

The whole pack thought Crank was a fucking idiot for letting Dietrich’s body go to waste. Some shouted, others mocked. All that power in his sire’s heart, and Crank let it go without a single bite, worried about “silver poisoning.” Bad enough to leave it with a hack like Anatole; much worse if Uthman had it. Who knew what an ifrit like that could do with a dead werewolf?

“What do you expect us to do about this?” asked Sergio.

“Oh, I can’t expect anything,” said Abdi. “I thought you’d be interested in either the loot or the deal. Maybe both. Sounds like you’ve got other questions. The answers will be at the Sunrise View Towers on the east side.”

“What happens if he finds out you betrayed him?”

“Who? I never gave you a name.”

The back door opened. Sergio caught the scents of Leslie, the guys, and more than a little blood. He glanced backward to make sure it wasn’t a problem, and then immediately cursed himself for it. Crank had looked away, too, because of course he did, and none of the mortals in the bar were any help. Abdi vanished in that single heartbeat. His scent trailed to the door, but following would be a challenge and a pain in the ass—and pointless. They had better things to do.

“Get your shit together,” Sergio told his pack. “We’re goin’ into the city. Right now.”

“You ever think eternity was gonna be somethin’ different than this?”

Shrouded in the long, deep shadows of strategic parking and a felt fedora, Nick pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “How many times are we gonna talk about this, Harry?”

“None of this is what the movies made it out to be,” Harry explained, his voice nearly as flat and steady a Nick’s. He, too, had a cigarette and a fedora—grey to contrast with Nick’s brown. “Detective work looked exciting before I got into it. Same with bein’ a vampire.”

“They only made one or two vampire movies before I got the bite. I was a gumshoe before they started makin’ movies about us, too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re the original Hollywood PI, whatever. Heard it before.”

“I’ve heard this from you before, too. Keep your eyes on the bar.”

“Nothing’s happening, same as the other nights.” As if to demonstrate Harry’s point, leaves and litter stirred at the front door to the dive bar before settling again. Nothing changed. Harry let out a puff of smoke. “That’s what I’m sayin’. Decades later, powers of undeath, and we’re still doin’ this. Still sitting in a car, smoking and watching the night go by for other people.”

“It’s what we get for letting the same dame walk into our offices and reel us both in like fish on a hook.” Nick shook his head. “I swear, Solomon turned her just so she could recruit for him. How many would-be starlets you think he turned before he got one who really had the chops?”

“I dunno how many turned. Most of ’em died in the process,” said Harry. “He told me himself the second or third time I had to deal with a body for him. ‘It’s like they don’t want to walk among us,’ he said. You know the kids call women like her a ‘snack’ now?”

“Don’t try to sound hip,” said Nick. “I get funny looks just for wearin’ this hat nowadays. Kids don’t know shit. World’s gone to hell since the bite and it’s only getting worse.”

“Maybe for the cattle. I’ve seen some things get better. I’ll tell you: at least Solomon is more proactive than Cornelius.”

“Yeah, if he can keep Teng or Felicia from taking over,” Nick grumbled.

“That’s what I’m saying, though. Teng is short-sighted. Felicia’s practically a kid. They don’t have the big picture vision to do stuff like this.” He waved to the bar. “You don’t see them keepin’ tabs on the neighbors.”

“You were just complaining about this,” said Nick.

“I’m complaining about us doing it, not—” Harry shut up as the door opened. Sergio led the way, followed by Leslie and then JDK. The others came out right behind them, all walking with purpose to the truck, muscle car, and Harleys parked out front. “Shit. Where are they going?”

“I dunno, but they’re all in a mood.” Nick reached for the ignition, but didn’t dare rev the car until the werewolves got rolling. Even the dumb and direct ones had sharp senses. “Call it in.”

“Yeah, I’m on it.” Harry fumbled with his phone. “Christ, you ever get used to these things?”

“No. Why do you think you’re calling and I’m driving?”

“I figured you don’t want to talk to her.”

“I don’t.” Nick pulled out into the road to follow the exodus at a safe distance. “But put her on speakerphone, would ya?” In the corner of his eye, he caught Harry’s hesitation and his frown. “It cuts out a middleman.”

“Sure. That’s why you want to hear her talk.”

Omar swept across the street and atop the nearest two-story building before returning to form. The brief chance to fade from eyesight had been too much to pass up, especially with his message delivered and more werewolves coming back into the bar. Invisibility, in turn, allowed him to render himself into dust without the inhibition of mortal witnesses. The gap under the front door was an unfortunate choke point to his escape, but he knew it would serve his needs. He made sure of it before he entered, along with two back-up exits.

Holding all that magic so close to the surface and ready to go had been exhausting, to say nothing of the trial for his nerves. Even with all his defenses and getaways arranged, werewolves posed a real threat to the djinn. Safely reformed on the rooftop, Omar pulled the shadows close, checked the direction of the wind, and watched the bar.

This was a terrible risk. Several risks.

Though invisible, concealed, and upwind, Omar dropped to a crouch as the bar opened and the pack exited. Two went into a pickup, another into a muscle car, and the rest had motorcycles. Omar got his phone out, but he was a little slow to take good pictures. He didn’t beat himself up over it. The details mattered much less than their departure.

Omar found the line in his contacts—her new number on a burner phone, rather than the one that stayed in his list for a year after their last meeting. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have had this phone on him at all. She warned him about that sort of thing. It didn’t matter now.

“Hey,” Sunday answered.

“They’re moving,” said Omar. “I cannot say where for certain, but they seemed to take the bait. I think they were primed for it.”

“Oh? They got bad blood already?”

“Perhaps. If I infer correctly, Anatole claimed the body of the werewolf you killed. His name was Dietrich. When I suggested the scheme, Sergio jumped to a conclusion that the body may have been traded. I encouraged the thought. It seemed to motivate them.”

“Cool. Whatever works. How many?”

“At least seven, spread between bikes and cars.”

“That’ll get some attention. We should get ready. Good job. Thank you.”

“I shouldn’t say you’re welcome,” Omar grumbled. “This is exactly what my mother wishes to avoid.”

“Hah, yeah, ironic. Oh. Sorry. Djinn don’t like iron. Sorry.”

He sighed. “I truly wish to make amends, Sunday.”

“I know. We’re good. I’m not mad anymore. Mostly.” The dig made her answer credible.

“I could return to our vantage point,” he offered. “That would at least put me nearby. If this goes wrong, my alibi won’t mean much anyway.”

“It’s not just an alibi. You’re our drop-off. And all the other reasons we’re doing this still apply. We need you clear. You already did your part. We’ve got it from here. Thanks.”

He exhaled as she dropped the call. Fighting ifrit, ghuls, and now possibly werewolves didn’t hold much appeal, but leaving Sunday and Evan to handle it didn’t make him feel better. The danger only felt marginally lighter, too. He still had more danger to face when Aminah found out about their plan and his role in it.

That sort of thinking was why they split in the first place. Frowning, Omar looked at his phone. “I suppose I should’ve listened to you then,” he grumbled. He had to listen to her now.

22

PARALLAX

“Told you this place would be a zoo, especially at night,” said Amber.

“I believed you,” Molly grumbled from the back seat.

“We don’t talk about zoos,” Onyx put in, half-grinning and half serious.

Amber glanced from the crawling car in front of hers and the people strolling across her headlights to the rearview mirror. “Touchy subject?”

“Enh. Zoos are good and bad,” said Molly. “Depends on the animal. But it’s not like I can explain all the animals’ issues to the zookeepers.”

“Feel like I can relate.” Amber rolled down her window and waved to a security guard directing traffic through the observatory’s jam-packed parking lot. She flashed her ID and badge wallet. “Hi. Do you have law-enforcement parking spots?”

“Sure,” said the guard. “Up along the curb there. Anything going on?”

“We’re here on a follow-up. There’s no situation.” Amber couldn’t blame the guard’s double-take at her passengers—both decidedly not dressed like law-enforcement. Still, he nodded and waved them onward.

“So, are we with the zookeepers in your problem, or the animals?” asked Onyx.

“Huh? Oh gosh, no,” Amber laughed. Thankfully, they only had to wait for a couple tourists to clear out of the reserved spot. “More like I’m trying to explain things to my boss when he doesn’t really accept my knowledge… or maybe because what I know challenges his whole outlook of the job. And life.”

“This got existential,” said Molly.

“We’re at an observatory. It’s all existential here,” said Amber.

“And busy. Yikes,” said Onyx.

They stepped out of the car and joined the steady stream of people who had to park along the hillside driveway to Griffith Observatory. Some had to hike half a mile or more. Tour and school buses took up much of the lot. Couples, families, and large groups moved all about, taking in the views from either end of the hillside or coming and going from the main attraction.

“Can you do what you need here, with all these people around?” asked Amber.

“It’s all sensory stuff,” said Molly. “Nobody will notice, so onlookers aren’t such an issue. The problem I see is how the wildlife will steer clear. I thought there might be a little more greenspace around the building, but this is pretty tight. We might not find a local to question.”

“If we don’t find anything, we still check out the observatory,” said Onyx.

“Without the hike for parking,” Molly chided.

“See? This is how police corruption starts,” Amber lamented. “First it’s easy parking. Next thing you know, you’re abusing authority left and right.”

Onyx gave her a long glance as they walked. “You’re only half sarcastic about that.”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Been thinking about it a lot, especially since this mess started.”

“Are we back to the zookeeper thing?” asked Molly.

“I’m worried about Sanderson,” said Amber. “He’s got reason to side-eye me and Bridger. I’ve gotta give him that. But I’m worried he’s coming at this case with tunnel vision. Maybe shooting Murphy was just a bad call in the heat of a fight, but it doesn’t feel that way. Everyone else either backs him up or treats it with a loud silence at best. He’s also frosty to you two when you’ve been nothing but helpful. So are a couple of the others.”

“You think they’ve got a general suspicion of magical types,” said Onyx. “Us-and-them stuff.”

“Yeah. That’s on top of the usual us-and-them from this job. I dunno, you’re both good at reading people. We talked about Sanderson after you first met him. What do you think now?”

“Well…” Onyx and Molly trailed off together. They didn’t even look at each other this time.

“Oh god, just tell me,” Amber sighed. “Bad news and all, even if it’s about me.”

“Everyone on the team carries a nail, so it’s hard to get a deep read,” said Molly.

“Also we’re running on limited exposure,” said Onyx. “Haven’t really studied.”

“Sure,” said Amber.

“You’re right about Sanderson’s antipathy toward us,” Onyx conceded. “I had to figure out how to take the nail into account for his aura. Once I did that, I saw resentment every time I looked. The new guys, too. And Colleen always kept some distance. Not hostile, but not warm, either. And it’s there toward you, just less intense.”

“Your boss is a dick,” said Molly.

“That, or we’re only catching him on his dick days,” said Onyx.

“Great,” Amber groaned. “There’s no rule that says agents can’t be dicks. Or supervisors.”

“On the bright side, he’s listening to you, or we wouldn’t be here,” said Molly. “And we don’t get a sense that he sees us as enemies, just… deep suspicion.”

“He’s tolerating us,” said Onyx. “Probably because we’re useful.”

“I’m sorry. That’s shitty. I shouldn’t subject you to that.”

“Not the worst thing we’ve dealt with,” said Molly.

“Probably ought to make good on that ‘useful’ bit, too.” Onyx came to a stop at the white obelisk standing tall before the observatory, with men sculpted in white concrete looking outward from its base. The full range of visitors spread out around the monument, from foreign tour groups to local kids chasing one another around. Scattered people in every direction lined up their best selfies. Onyx looked to Molly with a shrug. “It’s a centerpoint.”

“Oh sure, totally not awkward,” Molly said as a child ran past her waving a sparkling stick. From a thigh pocket of her black pants, Molly produced a small tin for breath mints. They had spent some of the afternoon replacing the mints with the results of a fussy, multiple-store shopping quest.

Amber folded her arms and watched. “Tell me again what all that does?”

“Shavings of hawthorn and mistletoe for sight, ground hazelnut for wisdom, and moonflower petals to invoke the passage of time,” said Onyx. “This happened a few days ago. Time might be a factor.”

“And a good old easy-reach lighter to blend it all together.” Molly held out the little device of red and black plastic for her partner.

“We’re really doing this here?” Amber winced.

“It’s like smoking,” said Onyx. “Who’s gonna care? Stand in front of me if you want to block.”

“Yeah, Amber,” Molly teased. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you cool?”

“That’s not—oh my god.” Amber pointed to the sculptures at the base of the obelisk. “That’s Galileo, and that’s Kepler. He had to defend his mom against charges of witchcraft. You really want to do this in front of him?”

Molly and Onyx looked up and blinked. “Holy shit,” said Molly.

“Yeah. Huh,” Onyx concurred.

“I dunno whether that makes this inappropriate or more appropriate.”

“Right?”

Amber slapped a hand over her face. “Also maybe don’t play with fire in front of children?”

“See, this is why I avoid kids,” said Onyx.

“Okay, over on this side.” Molly pulled the group to the carefully-cut bushes at the boundary of the lawn, where they would at least face fewer passersby. Amber’s nerves diminished, but she still took Onyx’s suggestion of standing close and angling to block onlookers while Onyx set the flame of her lighter into the little metal box.

Shavings and petals burned up in a flash. Onyx leaned forward and inhaled the smoke, murmuring something Amber couldn’t understand. Gingerly, she touched the ashes with a fingertip and then dabbed them across her eyelashes. Onyx closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and then gave their surroundings a slow, full-circle look.

“Nothing much,” said Onyx. “I don’t see the fallout Bridger described. Guess a few days of traffic and people makes a difference.”

“Do you think Bridger got it wrong?” asked Amber.

“Nah. He doesn’t strike me as the type to… wait. There.” Onyx pointed to the boundary curb with its sidewalk and the low fence beyond. She started walking. “That tree—the ground shines. It’s faint, but it’s there. Little on the trunk, too.”

“The little fir?” asked Molly. They walked without an answer from Onyx, but Molly had her own as they closed in: “Oh yeah. Wow.”

“You see it, too?” asked Onyx.

“Like a round scorch across the dirt and grass? Yeah,” said Molly. “Now that we’re close, I totally see it. Not perfect coverage, though. Maybe some of it blew away.”

“How big is it?” Amber saw nothing, of course. The ground looked undisturbed to her. So did the tree, and the fencing that blocked them. “Where, exactly?”

“Right here, maybe a couple meters across.” Onyx pointed through the fence.

“Do we need to climb over and get closer?” asked Amber. “We’ll draw attention, but we can deal with that if it’s important.”

“No, I don’t think we’d get more from it,” said Onyx, though she leaned on the top rail of the fence and peered intently. “Molly, is the tree special?”

“Special as any fir. If anyone lives here, they’re probably out for the night to avoid the people and noise. I’m guessing it’s vacant.”

“Amber, can I look at your back again?” asked Onyx. “Sorry. Not trying to be weird. I want to compare what I’m seeing.”

“Sure.” Amber turned and lifted the back of her jacket and shirt. It wasn’t the oddest thing she’d done in public, though she hoped no passing civilians would spot the gun on her waistband.

“Huh,” said Onyx.

“Huh,” Molly agreed.

“Okay, you’ve gotta tell me more than, ‘Huh.’” Amber settled her clothing back into place.

“It’s the same shine, but much fainter,” said Onyx.

“Yeah,” Molly considered slowly. “That’s gotta be the spell at work.”

“Wait, only one of you did the smoky-eye thing,” said Amber.

“Sure, but I cast a little sensory magic every day,” Molly explained. “Onyx is using extra right now, and sensory stuff is one of her talents. That’s why it’s weird that I’m seeing this now, too.”

“That burn on the ground is the same magic that healed you, but more of it,” said Onyx. “Way more. Your injury was only a couple days ago and the mark in your aura is almost gone. This is days older and it’s still bright as hell.”

“And the mark in your aura is brighter now that you’re next to this,” said Molly.

“Okay. Same source and stronger,” said Amber. “What else does that tell us?”

“It points to this as the light Bridger saw. Maybe not confirmation, but it’s likely,” said Molly. “This is the observatory, so it’s more star stuff, I guess? I doubt that’s important in a magical sense, but maybe it’s important to our guy? We’re up on a high point, too. It’s accessible. Maybe that’s all that mattered.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Onyx reasoned. “Bridger said the light went straight up in the sky?” She kept hold of the fence to lean backward, head tilted as far as her neck allowed, hair dangling off her shoulders.

“One more data point, I guess,” said Amber. “Do the stars look any different from here?”

“Nah,” Onyx answered thoughtfully, but trailed off… and stared. Her head leveled out. She pulled herself into a straighter posture. “Yeah. They do. That way.” She pointed across the LA skyline.

“I’ve got nothin’ but stars. They all look the same to me,” said Molly.

“They blink and change over there. They twinkle,” said Onyx. “God, I never thought of that as an actual thing before.”

“Stars twinkle, planets shine,” said Amber. “That’s the rule.”

“Those twinkle more.” Onyx slowly lowered her arm, still pointing. “What part of town is that? Past the hills. This place goes on forever.”

“Those would be the Monterey Hills, still part of LA. Then it’s Alhambra. Separate city, same sprawl.” Amber pulled out her phone and started typing a search. “Do you have a sense of how far you’re seeing? You’re looking at stars, right?”

“It’s a soft shimmer, like sun rays, but vertical. They disappear behind the hills.” Onyx folded her arms. “Maybe our guy is over there doing something.”

“What’re you looking for?” Molly asked Amber.

“Elevation. We’re at eleven hundred feet here. That gives us up to thirty miles to the horizon. The hills are easily within that. Onyx, you’re sure?”

“This whole effect is new to me. I can’t be positive of anything, but I’m not imagining it.”

“And it’s the same sort of magic?”

“Oh yeah. I’m still learning to identify, but this is super distinct. I’ve never seen star magic before all this.”

“Good enough. C’mon.” Amber headed across the parking lot for her car, pulling up her contacts.

“You calling the boss?” asked Molly.

“Yeah. Worst he can say is no, right?”

“Sanderson,” he answered.

“It’s Maddox. We’ve got a lead on our suspect. It’s vague, but he looks active on the east side, right now.”

“I’m listening,” said Sanderson.

“Wish I could take you on a nicer date than this.”

Walls and greenery kept their alleyway vantage point out of reach from the street lamps, and darkness no longer bothered Evan. He left the ground-level surveillance of the street and the wall around the tower property to Sunday, anyway. Magic filled his vision with the overhead view, where he mainly focused on the front face of the tower and adjoining street.

Sunday kept her eyes on the wall around the tower’s pool and patio. “Yeah? Is this a date?”

“We’re sleeping together and literal partners in crime. It’s not not a date.”

“Good.”

His spirit rose. Every affectionate or romantic comment and gesture felt like a risk. Yes, they slept together, they had trust—and she was still a total bad ass. He didn’t know how she’d take the softer stuff. Didn’t know how serious she was, even without the ex in the mix.

“What’s a nicer date?” she asked.

“I dunno. We haven’t really talked about what you like. It’s gotta be something more than dinner and a movie. Never got that. Dinner’s fine, but then you spend two hours in the dark not talking.”

“It’s the shared experience thing. Also shows what your date is like when something else is the center of attention.”

“Oh. Huh.” Evan grimaced. “Never thought of it that way.”

“Also it’s easy.” She nudged Evan’s arm. “What’s the best date you’ve ever been on? Maybe we do that.”

“Pff. I don’t think I can take you to a school dance.”

“Aw. All that shit you had to deal with, taking care of yourself, and you still made it to dances?”

“A couple. I decided I’d be damned if I missed out on prom.”

“Who’d you go with?”

“Her name was Leslie. Classmate. Out of my league, but I asked, and she said yes.”

“How’d it go?”

“Nice. Didn’t go far, but it was nice.”

“You still in touch?”

“I’m not hung up on her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“More like I wonder about your experience. It’s not a measurement,” she elaborated. “Hell, I’ve been married four times and every relationship is still its own new thing.”

“I don’t see how that works,” said Evan.

“Experience can teach you about yourself. You figure out what you want and don’t want. The other person is still a whole new deal, every time. And your own situation is always different. Society changes, expectations change… everything changes. Feelings are still messy.”

“You miss them?”

“Three of them, yeah,” said Sunday. “The first was a bad decision. Rushed, pressured, felt guilty. In the end I felt bad for both of us. After that I got a little better about picking, at least.” She tilted her head with a glance, grinning again. “You?”

“Leslie’s in Cabo with her new finance bro and a couple other friends. Haven’t thought of her in two whole days.”

“She’s a sucker for letting you go.”

“It was a bummer, but I can’t hold it against her. It was only high school. She didn’t know my whole situation, and she was looking for something else anyway.”

“Ooh, maturity. I like that.”

“Any other likes I should know about?” he asked.

“Hah. I’m just saying, not a lot of guys are tough and kind. Bad call to let that slip away.”

Evan bit his lip. He didn’t expect that. He didn’t expect the heat in his eyes, either, but he blinked it back without it showing. “Thanks.”

“Also, keep looking at me like a cartoon wolf with heart-eyes when you notice a curve or some skin. I like that, too.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“No. You keep tryin’ to cover. It’s cute.”

“Okay. You’re really fuckin’ hot.”

“You don’t gotta impress me. We’ve both got money. Giving away so much of it impressed me more than if you had spent it all on me.” She let it hang in the air before she shrugged. “I mean, you can spend lots of money on me if you want to, but⁠—”

“Whoa, hold on,” Evan interrupted softly. His view from above adjusted with simple movements of his head, eyes, and interest. Vehicles had trickled past the street since after sunset, but the small and tight group that approached stood out. “I think this might be something.”

“Yeah, I hear engines. Loud shit,” said Sunday.

“The guys on the bikes seem… big. Weirdly big. And yeah, they’re all pulling up to the front of the tower. The street spaces are already full, so they’re blocking cars in.”

“Bikes and muscle cars?”

“Yeah. Three bikes, a car, and a big asshole pickup.”

“That’s them.” Sunday pulled the gun belt with her revolvers from the dark gym bag at her feet. She swept the rig around her hips with practiced ease. “This means they wanna talk first, or we wouldn’t know they were here ‘til the fight started. What about the ifrit and the ghuls?”

“Moving,” Evan reported. Soft trails of embers and fidgeting clouds of shadow stood out in his vision, all the more for their shift in attention and direction. “Most of them are moving toward the front. The bird-djinn is staying put in her tree. I don’t know how they signaled each other.”

“Could use magic, could use a group chat for all we know. What about the wolfies?”

“Unloading from their rides.” Evan’s eyes narrowed with a closer look. Like the bikers, the rest all seemed a touch larger than life to his sight. Hulking, furry shadows on the ground were easier to make out now, too. “I think they’re all werewolves.”

“They don’t really do the wannabe thing, far as I know. Either you’re in or you’re out.”

“Seven altogether,” said Evan. “Looks like maybe two women, five guys? Sergio is the one with slicked-back hair, right? He’s waiting at the curb with the rest. Someone else is going up to the door. The rest are a little spread out, but all in speaking distance. Huh—that ifrit on the balcony, Humaid? He was leaning back out of view, but one of the women waved at him. The ghul on the third-floor balcony hasn’t stirred. Still making like a pile of trash.”

“What about the one on the first floor, in the back?” asked Sunday.

He tilted his head to adjust his viewpoint. “Still some embers in the window. I’m only tracking one ghul at the back patio now. He’s up at the edge of the pool, away from the wall, like he’s waiting to move in. The other one went inside.” A distant, masculine shout drifted across the block. Evan tilted his viewpoint back. “The wolfie in front is banging on the door. The others are standing around all tough and cool.” Evan grimaced. “This looks like way more trouble than Christian’s house.”

“More trouble for them, too. And we’ve got our secret weapon.”

“This is the Twenty-First Century and they aren’t immortals or elders. They’re trash, but they know how to use a damn phone.” Uthman fixed his jacket in an irritable stride through the hallway. He didn’t bother with a tie, nor did he expect these visitors cared one way or another. Their impressions meant little to him regardless; his appearance was a matter of personal pride.

The pair of ifrit at his flanks took care with grooming and fashion, too. Uthman demanded it of Marwan and Ashraf if they wanted to keep their unspoken rank in his court. “Do any of them have our phone numbers?” asked Marwan, frowning.

Uthman dismissed the point with a wave of his hand. “They learned we are here somehow. They could figure something out or find one of our people on the street if they cared. Instead, they came here. How many?”

“Seven in all, Humaid reported.” Ashraf checked his phone for updates. “Sergio is with them.”

“He’d have to be, with this many here,” said Uthman. “But what does he want? Why now?”

“Youssef said the one at the door wouldn’t say,” answered Ashraf.

“I know he—” Uthman held up his hands to stop his companions at the corner. The next turn would bring them to the door and their unwelcome visitors. “Most of them are as boorish and bestial as they seem. Sergio is clever. Let me do the talking. If the discussion comes to you, say as little as possible. Tell them nothing: no truths, no lies. Let them ask and reveal. Anything they say may give us leverage.”

“And if it’s a fight?” asked Marwan.

Uthman delayed that answer with a glance before they turned the last corner into the unfinished lobby. A low wall with thick windows created a wide vestibule between the lobby and the exit, waiting for post boxes and other accoutrements that never came. The wider lobby itself held bare concrete, a chandelier without lights, and figures lurking and crouching in the shadows.

Most wore suits or white dresses, ranging from upscale to thrift store donations. Two wore military uniforms. A few had simple street clothes. Their weapons ranged from scrounged tools and debris to a few firearms grudgingly donated by Uthman’s vassals, but every ghul had the unflagging strength of the grave and a dulled nervous system. All were gaunt and paler than in life, though only a few showed real signs of decay or the injuries that killed their bodies. Embalming made a clear difference to separate the ghuls from the living.

Only Aamir stood where the visitor at the door could see him, still keeping his silver blade hidden in his leather jacket. At least one ifrit was prepared for this sort of trouble. He waited inside the vestibule at the door. Crank stood on the other side.

“If it’s a fight, we fight to win,” Uthman told the group. “They did not come here this openly for a fight. Sergio wants to talk. Even so, they are murdering beasts, and he is clever. Do not start anything, but be ready.”

“Only a few of us have fought werewolves,” said one of the uniformed ghuls. Uthman didn’t bother to remember their names. Dead and useless organs left his voice rasping. “These bodies are stronger with our presence, but the wolves will tear us apart. We are stalkers, not warriors.”

“I like this body,” complained a thin blonde in a cheap dress. “I can still feel the drugs.”

“Your strength is in numbers and daring,” said Uthman. “We will find new bodies for any in need. You have nothing to lose. That is how you should fight. We shall do the rest. More likely, this is all posturing, and there will be no fight. Now keep silent and out of sight.” Uthman was halfway to the door when the stench of rot and filth doubled at his nose. “And don’t embarrass me.”

Catching either the stench or the hint from his patron, Marwan swept a low hand backward with a trail of hot air that he sent off to the hallway. The cooler air of the lobby followed, creating a breeze to carry the smell away from the door. Sheltering the ghuls required ongoing work at odor control. Only that diligence combined with luck prevented the werewolves from catching the scent—unless they already had, and hid their disgust, but that was more subtlety than they usually showed.

Uthman passed through the vestibule to stand at the open threshold. Crank moved aside from the door. Three concrete steps led down to the sidewalk, providing the only separation from the werewolves waiting at the curb. “Sergio,” Uthman said to the man at the center, leaning back against a parked car.

“Whassup, Uthman? How you doin’?” Sergio hardly concealed the accusation in his tone.

“I am well. What brings you here?”

“Why don’t you come down and we’ll talk about it?”

“I think not, my friend. You could join me inside. Do you drink tea?”

“Nah. Ain’t fool enough to take that invitation. I don’t know what’s in there.” Sergio held his arms out open wide. “Everyone can see what’s out on the street.”

“I believe we are both safer under my customs of hospitality than yours,” said Uthman. “Stay outside if you like. I have made my offer.”

Considering options with a roll of his shoulders, Sergio came off the car to approach the doorway. His pack followed, but a low wave of his hand held them all a few steps back. Sergio stopped shy of the threshold—yet close enough to pounce. “Heard some shit I came to verify myself.”

“They’re face to face, talking,” said Evan. “Doesn’t look like a fight. Not yet.”

“We can’t wait on hope. Let’s go.” Sunday tapped his shoulder on her way out of hiding to keep him oriented, but Evan’s overhead vision didn’t fully replace normal sight. He banished the magical overlay with a long blink and the shake of his head. She reached the wall ahead of Evan and their shadow.

A pair of passing cars forced them to hesitate longer. Thankfully, it was the only activity of note on the side street. Some houses and apartments had lights on, but a quick glance showed no one at their windows and no pedestrians. It had to be good enough.

They chose their spot for the cover it offered on both sides of the wall: a gap between street lamps, a truck with a camper shell parked at the curb, and shadowed greenery on the other side.

“You got this?” she whispered.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Evan grasped the top with both hands, turned his hips to the side, and swung his outer leg up to hook his foot on top of the wall like he’d done a hundred times. He didn’t need to clear the wall with upper body strength alone.

Then he felt Sunday’s hand on his ass and found himself mounting the wall with far less effort. He had the wits to accept it rather than question or protest. His attention went to the pool patio and the search for sentries, clocking the lone ghul in a burial suit at the tower entrance. Thankfully, the ghul was turned toward the sliding glass door while Evan dropped behind the bushes. The ground floor entrance was as dark to natural sight as in Evan’s overhead visions.

His pride caught up to him right along with Sunday dropping into a crouch at his side. His shoulders fell. His eyes turned to her, then rolled away in acceptance. Yes, I can take a wall on my own, and yes you’re stronger than me. Everyone made their point. Fine.

He raised one finger to signal the lone sentry and then pointed toward the ghul. Sunday sprang from the bush in a headlong but stealthy rush along the edge of the abandoned pool. Evan matched her drive and focus, but not her speed.

She covered most of the distance before the ghul turned his head, and then her hatchet flew.

They wanted to avoid magic on approach, she had said. They didn’t know what the ifrit might sense, or if they could conceal some ward on the patio from Evan’s sight. They wanted to keep quiet as long as possible.

Sunday’s hatchet landed in the ghul’s skull with a sickening crack. Evan thought the whole neighborhood might hear it. The ghul made it worse as he stood rigid and twitching, with low and guttural noises: “Guh. Uunnh!”

She covered the rest of the distance in those few seconds, sweeping around the corner of the pool with her dagger in hand. Sunday slashed through the ghul’s throat and shoved him to the deck without mercy. His whole body jerked when she tugged her hatchet free. Then he went limp.

Catching up, Evan got his first breath of the ghul’s sickly stench, like all the worst human body odors and decaying trash all at once. Skin arrested in a perpetual rot sagged with gaps and blisters from the face of a long-dead man. Evan’s disgust took a backseat to alarm when the fitful shadow of the ghul’s aura dissipated like breath on a cold day. “Shit. Oh no,” he hissed.

“What?” Sunday whirled, blades up, ready for another opponent.

“What happens when they die? The body, I mean?” Evan whispered. “They’re djinn inside corpses. Without the body, does he go warn his friends?”

“Fuck, I dunno. Why didn’t you ask before?”

“I didn’t think of it before!”

“Neither did I. Fought ’em a few times, never had to care. Too late now.”

“Shit.” Evan continued on to the sliding glass door. He still saw no sign of magic along the building’s exterior. The open, unfurnished room on the other side sat in natural darkness.

The door held firm against his first tug. He looked and saw no bar set in the sliding track, so he went for the simplest tactic: Evan lifted on the handle and tugged hard. The latch came free and the misalignment of the track made the door slide roughly, but he got it open. Constant guard meant no one ever needed to set the lock, let alone install a better one.

Sunday entered ahead of Evan with a wary eye on the hallway and the corners. She waved her hatchet in a circle to beckon him in. No lights rose as he entered, but the rec room brightened to his sight. A faint orange glow appeared down the hallway, unseen before now. The change seemed to confirm some sort of interior ward or defenses, or perhaps some minor privacy ritual like Sunday worked on their hotel room. Now his senses were inside that perimeter.

The first scent to touch Evan’s nose threatened nausea: sickly sweet, musty, and rotten. It wasn’t as immediate as the stink of the ghul outside, but it clearly warned of more in the building. Nothing and no one occupied the room besides the two of them and the unswept dust and debris of delayed construction. He had to assume that warned of a great number of ghuls in the building. Beneath the stench, Evan caught a faint breeze of warm air that reminded him of meeting Omar and Aminah. That distant hallway glow flickered like the embers of the djinn.

“One ifrit that way,” he whispered. He saw no other light or odd sign to point toward magic. “Nothing else. No other signs.”

“Then it’s up or down. Down will go faster,” Sunday murmured. Evan nodded.

“Najib,” hissed a voice from the hallway, “we need you outside—shit!”

Her dark outfit looked rugged and pricy all at once, with equally dark hair and makeup that also spoke of money and care. It was all Evan saw of her before literal fire burst from her eyes and her arms snapped out in a sudden wave. Sunday was already on her way into an ambush spot by the wall when the newcomer first spoke, but it didn’t matter. The woman swept both intruders off their feet with a blast of hot air that slammed Evan through the sliding door and Sunday into the adjoining drywall.

The crash put Evan on his back astride the sliding door track. Sunday wrenched forward into the wind to hurl her hatchet at their attacker. Either from anticipation or lucky timing, the woman turned from flesh and clothing to a human-shaped cloud of dark sand in a snap before the hatchet flew through her. In the same moment, she let out a loud, awful shriek.

Evan snapped back at her with both hands out in finger-gun gestures. Tiny starlight orbs tore through the cloud-woman, forcing her back into solidity with a choked noise of pain. White light stood out at her hip and shoulder where his stars struck. Then Sunday charged into her with a tackle and that iron dagger, sending both women to the floor. Sunday’s elbow jerked as she brutally stabbed again.

For a heartbeat, then two, Evan thought they had killed the other woman. Instead, she collapsed into dark sand beneath Sunday. As a cloud, she flew out from under Sunday and past Evan in a new rush and a scream of pain. The snaking trail of black dust curved and soared out into the night.

“Aw hell,” grunted Sunday.

“You seemed tight with Anatole at that meeting.” Sergio stood at the threshold, close enough to Uthman to make a statement without crossing. “What do you know about the raid at his place?”

Uthman didn’t care for staredowns and bluster; he liked backing down less, and so he did not. “That it happened. Why do you ask?”

“You know more than that.”

“You have seen me twice in the span of a week, which is more than in the past year,” said Uthman. “Anatole’s departure signaled the end of the meeting, so I left. What more gives you suspicion?”

“Flowery fuck,” Sergio grumbled. “What happened with that robbery?”

“Sergio, you came to me. I owe you nothing. If you wish to barter for information, make a request or an offer.”

“Oh, I’m already at the bottom line, fool. It’s that robbery. What do you know, and did you get anything from it? What do you know about Dietrich?”

“Dietrich?” Uthman frowned. He knew their names—Crank at the door, Leslie right behind Sergio, the rest holding back only a few meters. Uthman made a point of keeping track of names and numbers. He also knew of things like Dietrich’s mercenary work, though he never hired the man himself. “What does Dietrich have to do with anything?”

“Don’t play dumb, man. You—” Sergio stopped as if something had caught up to him. He sniffed, and then glared. “Motherfucker, you got ghuls in there? Everybody caught the smell of somethin’ rank and nasty. Is that what you’re hiding?”

“I offered hospitality,” said Uthman. “Had you accepted, I would have nothing to hide.”

“Bullshit.” Sergio’s eyes narrowed and the muscles of his neck tensed. His lip curled back with greater anger and his voice turned to a growl. “Have you got Dietrich’s body?”

“What?” Uthman preferred words if at all possible. Any fight with Sergio’s people would inflict losses he didn’t need. He also didn’t know where that question came from.

“Is one of my guys in there being worn around by a fuckin’ ghul?”

Uthman didn’t know how Sergio came to such a premise. The others seemed tense and angry, too. Uthman took a single step back from Sergio’s boiling rage. “Hold on. Where did you⁠—?”

The shriek of warning from the other side of the tower cut him off. For a single, critical instant, the unexpected werewolves and strange questions that pinned Uthman and his forces down at the front of the building made entirely too much sense.

Uthman pulled back and swept the door shut. “Keep them out,” he said without looking away. “Keep them out of the⁠—!”

Sergio battered the thick, allegedly bullet-resistant glass door with a kick that strained both the center and the frame. His second kick came with bulk and fur growing from his head to his hands, and struck much harder. The glass cracked and buckled. His pack surged forward.

The door and its lock were designed to hold off mortal intrusion. None of the original builders knew a thing about werewolves. Sergio and his pack crashed through the door and the open vestibule while Uthman was still in the lobby, and then the mob of ghuls closed in from all sides to meet them. Aamir burst into a burning, brutish form before grappling one werewolf; Ashraf tried the same, but fell under claws and teeth as Leslie charged in at mid-change and met him as a full monster.

Flames, claws, gunshots, and fists filled the lobby with thunder and blood.

“Oh man, this worked better than I hoped,” Sunday said at the eruption of booms and shouts.

“This is better?” Evan passed through the hallway door into a dark set of stairs. Finding the door unlocked and unguarded had been lucky, but crashing violence nearby didn’t seem like an improvement. “How is this better?”

“They’re fighting each other instead of coming after us.” Sunday kept close as they hurried down the stairs. “I thought we were fucked when that girl screamed.”

“If she could fly away from all that, I do not want to fight another one,” said Evan.

“Sure, but we fucked her up bad. Getting away was probably all she could manage. We did it once, we can do it again. She didn’t fuck off ’cause she thought she had the upper hand.”

“Wait, is this your first time fighting these people?”

“Not ghuls, no, but I avoid this sort of fight. Obvious reasons.”

“Fuck,” Evan groaned.

“That’s why I’m sayin’. Better the wolfies fight ’em than us. Less of everyone all around that way.”

The ghul in uniform had been right about their chances. His kind were stronger than mortals, but not vastly so. Indifference to pain was not the same as true resilience. Limbs and funerary clothing flew as the werewolves tore through the mob.

Despite the mismatch in power, the ghuls weighed heavily in the fight. A corpse in a blue suit caught JDK’s beastly arm and pushed back long enough for another in a white dress to aid him. Together, they opened the werewolf’s guard so Marwan could plunge a burning fist into JDK’s chest. Ashraf in his burlier “battle form,” as he called it, had the worst of a wrestling match with Leslie until that uniformed ghul shoved a pistol into Leslie’s hip and unloaded the magazine. She howled and slipped, allowing Ashraf to throw her off and scramble backward—but she didn’t go down.

The ghuls also bought space for Uthman to back off tactically rather than fleeing outright. Three got in the way of Sergio’s furious charge. Sergio rent one from collarbone to gut in a single, bone-severing swipe. “Kill!” he roared, one of the few words his snout could manage, and shoved another ghul aside.

Uthman stayed out of his reach, though it meant backing away from the lobby and his underlings. He gathered a ball of flame in his hands, drawn from his own essence and power—a limitation his enemies didn’t need to know—and hurled it against Sergio’s chest. The werewolf reeled and howled, grabbing another ghul to hold up as a shield from further harm.

Like the ghuls themselves, Uthman’s flame would not be enough against this assault. Nor would his subordinates.

Crank bit clean through a ghul’s axe-wielding arm. Leslie slapped the gun away from the uniformed ghul, taking one hand off with it. Closer to the door, Aamir’s burning fist battered and burned the werewolf with the Caterpillar ballcap, but the other woman in the pack pounced and raked Aamir’s enlarged shoulders with her claws. Ashraf crawled out of the scrum toward Uthman’s feet. Marwan was buried so deeply in the brawl that Uthman could only see random flickers of firelight.

Outside, Humaid had a front-balcony view. He could come at the enemy from behind, but the street would limit his magic until he entered. Layali out in the trees had the same problem, and she was not ifrit; this would test her loyalty and conviction. Uthman assessed it all in a single breath.

He expelled that breath with the magic of a trinket he won in lower Egypt centuries ago. The scarab charm in his pocket shattered under his grip. Magic filled Uthman’s breath with thousands of scarabs, adding a new danger to the lobby. Firelight dimmed under the cloud of insects and more than one ghul let out a rasping yelp of surprise, but the scarabs bit only the werewolves.

“Marwan, Aamir! To me!” Uthman shouted. Magic carried his words to them despite the chaos; simple Arabic would conceal the meaning from most, if not all of the beasts. Aamir collapsed into a cloud of burnt sand to escape his grappling foes. Marwan did the same. Both of them fluttered between legs and claws to escape the lobby and reach Uthman.

Ashraf, already on his way, didn’t make it. Leslie pounced on him before he could recover, and this time her jaws found his neck. JDK was dead on the floor, and now Ashraf with him. To Uthman, it was not an even trade.

“Upstairs,” Uthman told the others. He vanished from sight as he backed away, but invisibility was of limited benefit against a werewolf’s other senses. Speed mattered more. An ifrit could climb the tower’s stairs or elevator shaft in a heartbeat if unimpeded. “Go! Now!”

Crawling on the floor, the uniformed ghul recovered his pistol with his remaining hand in time to hear the order. The other ghuls fought on, but Uthman and his ifrit retreated. “Wait,” he croaked. “Where are you going?”

A clawed foot came down on his head before he heard an answer.

Construction on the tower ended before all the doors received labels. In some cases, the doors themselves never got installed. Pre-raid online sleuthing through old advertisements gave Evan and Sunday an idea of the layout. Neither of them could tell which space was meant to be residential storage, or custodial spaces, or where the missing water heaters and furnaces belonged, but they at least knew how many rooms awaited.

“Five,” Sunday huffed before she slapped down a handle and pushed the door inward. None of the attached doors had been locked so far. She trained her pistol on the interior, weapon close to her chest to avoid disarmament.

“Empty. Nothing,” said Evan. It wasn’t literally true, of course; this one held used and abandoned paint supplies. The others before it hosted drywall dust and packaging scraps. “No sense of magic. If these are illusions, they do the job.”

“I don’t think it’s illusions.” Sunday pulled away from the door and moved back to the dark hallway. “I think it’s what it looks like.” She opened the next door to find more of the same. “God damn it. That’s six. They wouldn’t leave this shit unguarded. Nobody’s jumped us and nobody’s rushing down to reinforce. And it’s dark and dusty everywhere.” She moved to the next door, nodded to Evan for discipline’s sake, and checked again. “Seven,” Sunday declared: another unguarded, empty room.

“Ifrit like ruins and tombs, right?” Evan suggested. “Doesn’t this fit the aesthetic?”

“They like living away from mortals. Ruins only fit the bill. They still decorate and clean their living spaces.” She glanced at the stairwell door and then back to him. “Only one more.”

“We came this far.” Evan did, in fact, see reason to turn back: time meant everything. He also had no better ideas, and Sunday wasn’t wrong to finish this.

The last leg of their search took them into the stairwell. A roar, a crash, and a howl echoed down the steps. Sunday paused Evan with one hand on his shoulder and her other up and armed to cover their exit. The noise didn’t last long. One fighter or another got the better of the battle and rushed up and away with scratching footsteps.

The final door at the bottom of the lightless stairwell held firm. Evan patted himself for tools that might pick the lock, but Sunday reared back and kicked hard. Metal pins snapped as the door flew open, revealing only machinery mounts and pieces of a furnace no one ever assembled. “Shit,” Sunday fumed.

Sharing her frustration, Evan flicked a pair of starlight orbs into the room if only to call the bluff of any possible lurking foe or illusion. Light flashed across the walls as the projectiles ricocheted and kicked up dust. Nothing else reacted.

A blood-curdling scream echoed down the stairs, broken and interrupted as if the source tumbled through his pain and terror. The cry ended in a note of pleading, and then nothing.

“We’ve gotta do it,” Evan huffed.

“Yeah. They’ll move the book after this. It’s gotta be upstairs. Probably at the top. Twelve floors, once we’re out of the basement. You good?”

“Glad I stretched out first,” he grumbled. “If magic can make me fly, I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Never heard of any sorcerers who could fly, but who knows? They never teach you the good stuff first.”

“Where the hell is everyone else?” Uthman swept the upper penthouse with a desperate, angry glare. White walls with arches, bright couches and low tables, lanterns, and lush Persian carpets hosted not a single waiting ifrit. They belonged in the fight rather than in his home, but he found his vassals in neither place. “They can cross this city in seconds. Where are they?”

Marwan reformed from his swirl of blackened dust to his typical visage at Uthman’s side. “They have to hear the call before they answer it.”

“You are all on your damn phones night and day! All the time,” Uthman raged. “How are they not looking now?”

Lower to the floor at Uthman’s other side, Aamir floated as a similarly dark cloud of dust, slower to reassume his human form—which still remained low, kneeling and braced by one hand. His other hand clutched at the chest wound beneath his torn silk button-down shirt. It wasn’t his only injury; blood flowed from a long gash at his cheek. “Help,” he rasped. “Help me.”

Scowling, Uthman yanked Aamir up by one shoulder. The older ifrit set a red-hot hand against Aamir’s chest wound, giving it an orange glow of searing heat that quickly turned black. Aamir gasped and winced. “Fix the rest yourself,” said Uthman.

“We left the battle too soon,” said Marwan. “I killed one. Others are hurt. The ghuls helped us. Now we’ll lose them.”

“The ghuls buy us time!” Uthman snapped. “Ashraf is dead. Look at Aamir. The beasts have the upper hand. We had to retreat.”

“We made a stand-up fight while you withdrew. You are the strongest. You could have⁠—”

Uthman slapped Marwan hard enough to draw sparks. “I am wisest, too. I assessed the fight. We could not win. We withdrew. We have no time to argue.”

“Then what do we do?” asked Aamir, fighting to stand straight.

Silence struck all three men in the wake of Aamir’s question. They couldn’t hear howls, shouts, or the din of battle yet, but they all knew it was coming. Uthman glanced across his broad, empty living room again; his ifrit had the numbers to handle this fight, if only they’d get here. They had magic, versatility, and flame on their sides. This could all turn around in seconds.

“Uthman?” Her weak, pained voice only broke through once the other ifrit stopped talking. Her shaking, ashen hand reached up from the back of a couch. “Uthman. There are others.”

He swept through the living room and around the couch to find Salwa on her back with markedly different injuries from Aamir’s. Her jacket sat crumpled on the floor, leaving her in a tank top to address the wounds. Blood soaked the couch. Uthman recognized the gash of an iron blade through her gut and the magic she used to heal it, but the blackened and bleeding holes in her shoulder and hip did not come from any weapon or magic he knew. “Who, Salwa? Djinn? Who did this?”

She shook her head. “Sorcerer. I don’t know him. Young, white, blond. And a woman. Latina. She used iron.”

“Lat—Sunday?” Uthman wondered.

The soft sound of a latch and a sudden breeze turned Uthman and the others to the windows. Only their own could slip through the wards around the upper floors. Humaid stepped off the balcony, bearded and muscular and not at all hurt. Small, dark wings flapped across the open balcony door behind him before Layali stepped out in her ridiculous baggy pants and hoodie.

“Where were you?” Uthman barked before either spoke.

“I thought we were gonna fight,” said Humaid. “We came down and threw fire at the back line, but you were all gone.”

“I sent an illusion through the halls and stairs to confuse them. It won’t last.” Layali rushed to the other woman’s side. “Salwa, let me help you.”

“Anatole,” Uthman thought out loud. “Sunday was close with the djinn, but Anatole turned her. Why would he send…? This makes no sense!”

“What do we do?” asked Aamir. “Ghuls and illusions won’t be enough.”

Supporting Aamir’s point, a howl reached through the door. It would only be the first.

“Hold them.” Uthman moved to the center of the living room and kicked a big, heavy oak table aside. A sweeping hand brought up a hot wind to clear away the heavy Persian rug. Beneath that laid marble tiles, one of which he shattered with a heavy stomp. He looked back to find the others watching in bewilderment. “This isn’t about the wolves. I need time. Hold them!”

“Salwa can’t fight,” Layali argued. “Look at Aamir.”

“They won’t stop!” Uthman snapped back. With another gust of hot wind, he blew away the shards and dust of broken marble tile to reveal a rectangular carve-out in the concrete floor. Ice filled the space, etched in runes—holding a large, leather-bound book with gilded designs around its borders.

The complexity and resilience of the book’s hiding space was meant to keep it secure. Breaking it free would take minutes. That seemed like effective security when Uthman could retrieve the book at a time of his choosing. Now it worked against him.

Uthman summoned a flame to his palm and thrust it against the ice. It would not melt instantly. He looked to his subordinates. “Use your wits. Use flame. They are brutes; you are ifrit. Fight!”

Marwan turned to the door with a face set for battle. Humaid and Aamir followed, the latter grim but obedient.

“You are the strongest,” said Layali. She stayed with Salwa.

“I must do this,” said Uthman. “I cannot lose the book.”

“We risk our lives, but you cannot lose a book?” Layali glared at Uthman as no ifrit ever would. Then the wayward djinn slid her arms under Salwa’s legs and shoulders. Both women turned to swirls of dust, one borne aloft by the other, and flew across the living room. Uthman’s free hand snapped toward the balcony to pull and lock it tight, but too slowly. The pair were gone.

“Damn you!”

Last to reach the hallway door, Aamir looked back at his patron. Uthman couldn’t leave the book now that he had started this; he had to continue. Whether he understood or not, Aamir moved on with his fellow ifrit.

The fight reached Uthman’s door sooner than he hoped.

“Oof! Fuck,” Sunday’s kick made no impression on the stairway door. “Why the hell would they put this here? Is it a firebreak?”

“Shit. No. It’s weird,” Evan huffed, pointing to the corner. “It’s magic somehow. Both of them. The door is magic and so is this wall.”

Sunday plucked a bullet from her gun belt and tossed it at the wall. The faint shimmer in Evan’s vision buckled as the bullet passed through, letting him see the stairs behind it. “Yeah. Illusion turned us around,” he said. “That’s the way. Same as the trippy spatial effect between here and the last ghuls.”

“Wish I could see magic.” Sunday noticed his hand on the rail. “Nine flights. You okay?”

“Yeah. Taking advantage,” he explained breathlessly. Evan made a circling gesture and clenched his fist, drawing it to his chest. His next breath came easier. His knee and ankle stopped complaining. He was still tired, but healing took the edge off of it. “Okay. I’m good.”

“Sneaky from here,” she warned. “Eyes and ears up. Once it’s on, it’s on.”

“Didn’t climb all these fuckin’ stairs for nothing,” Evan agreed. She threw him a grin before leading onward.

The other side of the illusory wall brought clearer sounds. Where they had assumed distance and doors muffled the noise of battle, they now heard it up close. The door leading out of the stairwell hung from a single bent hinge, revealing orange flashes of fire and an intimidating, huffing growl. A tower of muscle and fur blocked much of the dark hallway, sniffing and slashing at the darkness. Despite smoldering burns at its shoulders and sides, the werewolf caught enough scent or perhaps sound to whirl on the doorway. It tensed to charge, but a brilliant flame crashed into its back and turned the beast toward the darkness once more.

Risking no words, Sunday urged Evan onward with a light tug. They hurried up another flight of stairs. Only one floor remained, if they counted correctly. Crashes and shouts increased with every step.

The stairwell ended at another broken door, steady fluorescent light, and lifeless bodies. A man and woman slumped against the walls, both wearing only loose underwear and tattoos. Between them laid a younger, bearded man in a shredded and bloodied track suit.

“Aamir, Cooper, and Sally.” Sunday stepped over them for a quick, low glance around the doorway with her revolvers up. “One more in the hall. Can’t be many left.”

“You idiot!” someone shouted. The heavy crash of a body through furniture followed. “What does this gain you?”

“That’s Uthman. Shit.” Sunday glanced back for one more check-in. A low growl behind Evan compelled them onward.

The hallway outside the penthouse showed the fiercest fighting yet: cratered and burned drywall, blood on the tile, and more bodies. The clothing divide suggested the werewolves gave better than they got, but some of both had fallen. No remnant of the penthouse door remained on its splintered frame.

Sunday crossed the distance at a careful, quiet pace, hugging the wall. Evan followed, ready to shoot, heal, or jump. She knew what she was doing. He trusted her lead.

Then six and a half feet of muscle and torn leather staggered out of the doorway with his eyes flaring in new alarm. The pecs and biceps on display suggested it was Humaid, but he made no introduction besides a waving hand that trailed fire. Sunday flinched away with one arm up over her face in defense. She leveled and fired the revolver in her other hand, but by then the lower half of him turned to pure flame.

Burning hot wind enveloped Evan and Sunday. “Uthman! They’re here!” he boomed, sweeping both off their feet. Evan crashed into Sunday as the wind pulled them both into Humaid. Passing through the ifrit’s semi-transparent body scoured Evan with searing pain. Sunday got it worse, releasing a choked cry.

Evan caught himself from hitting face-first against marble tile, but his landing still hurt. Sunday ended on her side, her clothing charred and her hair singed. Hot, billowing winds filled the air with dust and debris. The winds had taken them from the hallway into the penthouse.

White walls, tile, and lights presented a more finished apartment than the rest of the building, but the living room was now a wreck of shattered furniture and broken plaster. Only the thick windows and kitchen counter seemed to have fared the fight well. At the center of the room, Evan saw an open, square-cut hole in the floor, oddly half-filled and surrounded by water.

The source of the windstorm stood at the center of the big room. Uthman—That has to be Uthman, thought Evan—hovered in place as a whirl of dust and flame from the waist down, while the rest of his body presented powerful, tanned muscle. Veins of glowing orange stood out across his skin. With one hand, Uthman generated a buffeting windstorm to hold a huge werewolf against a broken kitchen counter. In the other, close to his chest, Uthman held a large leather tome decorated in gold. The book glowed with the brightest magic Evan had yet seen.

It was not the way they wanted to enter this fight.

“Sergio, stop,” Uthman boomed. He nodded to the new arrivals. “Look! Are they with you?”

Rather than watch, Evan reached for Sunday. Her hiss of pain made him doubt his impulse, but the need to help her overrode any second-guessing. The pull of his magic felt like a pair of magnets between himself and Sunday. In a rush, she gasped with new life. Evan’s breath and pulse quickened, wiping out all the stamina he had recovered on the stairs. Sunday’s burns healed and vanished in the same breath.

“None of that!” A heavy boot thudded into Evan’s lower back. Humaid stepped over Sunday, snatching one wrist and fighting for the other to control her pistols.

“Half your pack is dead, maybe more,” Uthman continued with Sergio. “For what? Do you know them? Or is this some trick? Think!”

Sunday’s pistol fired as she struggled with Humaid. Evan lurched upward against the big ifrit, punching his leg with a flash of magical light. Humaid jerked and gasped; Sunday pulled one pistol free and fired again, this time with intent and aim.

Uthman flinched and hissed with the impact of the bullet against his upper back. Sparks and blood flew, but too little of both for the power of a weapon like Sunday’s. Still, the attack forced Uthman to split his attention. He used those winds to sweep an overturned table into Sergio before he turned them on the others. Evan and Sunday flew away from Humaid to slam into the wall. Sunday fought the winds to shoot again, but Uthman had his hand up first. Instead of a bullet, Sunday’s revolver let out only a click and a small trickle of magical sparks from behind the hammer. “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked. “Guns and a little mag⁠—?”

Barstow faded into view mid-leap. Uthman scrambled back, keeping his neck from her jaws by only an inch. He cried out in sudden terror with the black dog’s teeth clamped viciously between his neck and shoulder. Her claws dug deeply against his chest to find purchase. The ifrit fumbled backward, dropping the book—and the strength of his winds.

“Book. Wolf,” Sunday grunted, wrenching off the wall and sidestepping Humaid with serpentine grace. She dove for the book with her pistol up, attempting another shot at Sergio as the werewolf tossed the ruined table aside. Once again, the weapon only clicked as if empty. Whatever Uthman did to her guns persisted.

Humaid reached again for Sunday, leaving Evan with a clear shot from the left. Evan threw his best right cross into the side of Humaid’s head. Light flashed from his fist and staggered Humaid away from Sunday. This time, Evan didn’t lose his magical armor to the blow. Less light came with his next punch, and again for the one that followed. Humaid stumbled as every punch left a searing white glow where it landed.

Though Humaid bought a little space with an elbow across Evan’s cheek, he shifted to dust rather than follow up. Simple street-fighting principles brought Evan back immediately with another punch, this time against a dark, face-shaped cloud of sand.

Neither of them expected the blow to land solidly against dust. Humaid reeled.

Agonized screams filled the air as Uthman struggled against Barstow. Wood cracked with Sergio’s escape from the cratered kitchen counter. Wreckage stuck out of his upper arm and his back, but the werewolf rallied with each second. With every enemy beleaguered and preoccupied, Sunday snatched the book off the floor.

“No! Nooo!” Uthman battered and shoved at Barstow with burning hands until he finally wrenched and shoved her across the room. His freedom came at cost. Flames poured from the wound between Uthman’s neck and shoulder to land on the floor like blood.

Drywall burst with a crash on Evan’s right. The werewolf from the hall downstairs tore into the room, putting a monster on either side of Uthman. Barstow sprang to her feet and readied to pounce again. Sergio mirrored her stance. Evan and Sunday faced Uthman down from yet another angle. With the book in one hand, Sunday holstered her revolver and tugged the dagger from her belt.

“Not like this. Bastards, all of you,” Uthman seethed—and then noticed Humaid crumpled at Evan’s feet and Sunday holding the book. “No!”

Uthman’s fiery veins tensed and bulged. Evan didn’t know ifrit magic, but he’d played enough video games to see an area-effect attack coming. He abandoned the fight with Humaid to grab Sunday, pushing her toward Barstow and the battered kitchen counter. The gap left him with enough time to renew his armor, wishing—willing it into extension to Sunday and Barstow.

“Boss?” Humaid coughed.

Sergio leaped for Uthman. The other werewolf matched his effort.

The penthouse exploded in a thundering ball of fire.

“We are now vaguely eastward,” Amber told her passengers. “Alhambra-ish.”

“I can’t give you anything more than that now. Sorry.” Onyx watched the skyline as Amber drove, not the least bit shy about craning her head to track both buildings and stars. “It’s all the same urban sprawl to me. We’re closer. Practically right under the brighter stars. I’m sure of that.”

“How can you tell? They’re stars,” said Amber.

“It’s magic,” said Molly. “Magic is like this, especially in our Practice. We run on lots of gut feelings and intuition. You can’t usually quantify or measure much. Hermetic sorcerers try that approach. Formulas and bullshit. It works for them, so I can’t knock it too hard, but most hermetics we’ve met are insufferable dicks.”

“Uh. Bridger uses formulas and designs. Crystals and stuff,” said Amber.

“Bridger says he pieces together whatever works, and that fits what we’ve seen of him,” said Onyx. “He doesn’t really follow a specific Practice.”

“Kind of an amateur, but he’s upfront about it,” Molly agreed.

“He’s what we’ve got on the task force,” said Amber. “And he’s good enough to get side-eye from Sanderson for it. Speaking of the boss, I dunno how I call in with an update and directions when we’re running on intuition.”

“It’ll happen,” said Onyx. “Magic pulls back on itself. We’re here. Wait for it.”

“Also not good enough for the boss,” Amber muttered.

“Whoa!” Molly pointed to a tall building along the skyline, mostly dark except for the fire that burst from its top floor windows. “Is that enough?”

Everything hurt. Head to toe, skin to bones, all of Evan hurt. He burned. Couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t breathe, but the pain all came from a single event. The blast didn’t keep blasting. It left him on the floor, probably along with everyone else. If he had blacked out, it was only for a moment. He could move and think.

Sunday. Barstow. Oh fuck. He needed to help them. He needed to move.

Healing himself hurt. Already at his peak and staving off fatigue, Evan pulled deep for the magic he needed. A new pain wrenched at his chest and gut, separate and distinct from the all-over burn that suddenly eased. Another frightening hindrance passed along with that sensation: Evan inhaled, tasting smoke and dust, but at least his lungs found air again.

Evan didn’t know how badly he’d been hurt. The pain kept him in darkness until it passed. He opened his eyes to lingering dust and smoke, and Sunday curled under the charred remains of the kitchen counter’s side panel. Her position suggested she caught on to his intent, letting him protect her with his body and magic. Though hurt, she opened her eyes to find Evan’s. She still held the book—and that dagger.

He didn’t see Barstow at all.

“Boss,” someone coughed. Humaid picked himself up off the floor, ragged and wounded, but the flames didn’t seem to hurt him much. “Damn. Boss, what the hell?”

“No choice. Too many.” On his knees, Uthman clutched his mauled shoulder. His shirtless form looked smaller, as if he’d poured much of himself into the effort. The pain in Evan’s core made that seem entirely possible. Uthman straightened, his eyes now dim embers surrounded by ashen skin. The wound under his hand glowed rather than burning.

Charred human forms laid at Uthman’s sides. The werewolves had gotten close. Now they smoldered as ordinary bodies. Uthman waved toward Evan and Sunday’s position with a weary hand, not even looking at them. “Get the book. We have to go.”

“We’ll have help soon.” Humaid’s slow rise revealed pain and exhaustion. “It’s only been minutes. The others will get the call, or the text.”

“No. We are weak here. The djinn will sense it. They search for the book. If help isn’t here by now, it is not coming.”

“This is why you gotta take better care of your people, man.” Humaid turned to his task—and made eye contact. His mouth opened with new alarm.

Evan rolled over with both hands up in finger-guns. His core clenched with the demands of more magic, but he shot orbs of light the size of quarters straight through Humaid’s chest. That look of alarm turned to an instant of terror. Humaid collapsed into a shifting, crumbling mass of flesh, dust, and flickering flames.

Sunday kicked up in the same instant to fling her dagger into Uthman’s side. Injured and shocked, the ifrit could do nothing to escape the blade. He hissed and buckled at his new wound.

It was enough to distract from Barstow’s charge. She appeared in mid-pounce, coming from the charred kitchen on a line straight for Uthman’s neck. This time, Uthman fell under black fur and muscle with a shriek that ended abruptly. Barstow thrashed and snarled even after Uthman went quiet and limp.

“Gnnh!” With both enemies down, Evan could finally gasp and curl up on his side. Like the blast, the gut-wrenching effort of pushing too hard with his magic hurt worst in the moment. Unlike the blast, he didn’t think he could fix the pain of overtaxed magic with more magic.

“Evan?” Sunday crouched over him. “Babe, where are you hurt? Lemme see.”

“It’s inside,” he rasped. “Overdid the magic, I think. Nnh. Gimme a sec. It’s like… fuck, I dunno. Muscle strain, but bad. I don’t think anything’s broken.” Evan managed a full if shaking breath. “Only a sec. Gotta cope.”

“They’re wrong about the djinn coming, but maybe not their back-up,” said Sunday. “Windows are out, too. Probably half the block called 911 after that boom. We gotta bounce.”

“Sure. Yeah. Fuck, that hurts. Getting it together. Wow. Barstow?” Evan asked.

One last thrash from Barstow brought no new life from Uthman. She released his neck with ashes trailing from her mouth—turning to blood as they settled on the floor. With the fight ended, Evan and Sunday saw the burns along Barstow’s sides and her mouth. She looked to her companions with a bowed head and a whine that carried more than physical pain.

“Oh, pupper, c’mere,” Evan beckoned reflexively, and then winced again. “Nnf. This is… yeah. This is gonna take a couple minutes. What about you?”

“Hurting, but I’ve been worse,” said Sunday. “Can you heal yourself?”

“I did. That might’ve been the problem. Already felt my limits, and then I healed again. And shot him,” Evan added, waving at Humaid’s now settled and very dead body. “It hurt. Hey, you,” he said as Barstow came within reach. Evan carefully touched her neck beyond the smoldering fur and blackened skin around her mouth. “Wow. Poor thing.”

“She’s up and moving, and she’s part ghost,” said Sunday. “She might get better on her own. If you’re hurting, don’t make it worse.”

“I’m getting there. Okay. We’ve gotta go. Fuck, those stairs are gonna suck.”

“Better than the window,” said Sunday.

That turned his eyes to the empty panels and the night outside. The angle and the skyline allowed a few stars to shine through. The night breeze cleared smoke and dust and granted the barest relief from the lingering heat of the blasted living room.

Barstow nudged Evan with her snout but jerked back in pain. Another tiny whimper came from her throat. The burns he finally saw at her feet were the final straw. “Okay, no, I can’t.” He reached for Barstow’s unburnt fur again and braced himself for pain.

“Whoa, don’t⁠—”

“Fffffuck fuck fucking shit!” Evan gritted his teeth. This time, at least, he knew it was coming. He clenched his casting hand, wishing and willing the pain into his arm rather than his chest and gut. It worked, at least in a way. His arm and his core hurt like hell. Barstow’s suddenly heavy breath and the renewed nudge of her cold nose heralded a payoff. When he opened his watering eyes, he saw a healthier friend. Gaps in her fur remained, but the burns no longer showed. Her feet looked healthy. A wide, wet tongue lapped his face without flinching.

“Wow, fuck,” Evan repeated. His arm stiffened and throbbed. His chest didn’t feel much better, but it was easier to bear with the results for his patient. “Better. Good. Good girl.”

“Dammit, Evan, she’s a ghost dog. She’ll be okay.”

“Did you see her paws? Alright, let’s go.” He managed two steps before Sunday had her arm under his shoulders to help. “Yeah. Thank you,” he mumbled.

“I can’t fight with you on one arm and this book in the other,” she complained, though she shifted his weight and pulled one revolver from its holster. Her upper arm did all the work of supporting Evan, not her hand.

“It’ll fade. I’m getting it together.” Evan didn’t actually know that, but it fit the pattern—if a handful of minutes constituted a pattern.

They crossed into a still and quiet hallway, and then to the stairwell. Barstow nudged past them to take the lead, snorfing vigilantly for any trouble. By the time they descended the first floors, Evan’s pain no longer felt acute. “Okay,” he said, shifting from Sunday’s shoulder to lean on the railing. “I’m walking it off.”

“I could still help.”

“I’m not being macho. It’s better if you can shoot.”

“Good enough.”

“Sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“I’m not great, but I don’t need you to fuck yourself up more to fix it.” She didn’t say the rest, but he caught it in a shared glance. They were in no shape for another fight.

Eight floors of stairs beckoned them onward.

23

SINGULARITY

“Idon’t like the look of this place,” said Molly.

“I don’t like how we beat the fire department here,” said Amber.

“Right? And practically no neighbors out,” Onyx agreed. At this hour, the handful of businesses surrounding the apartment block were naturally dark. The houses and apartments farther on also appeared quiet. Despite lights to show habitation and cars parked along the curb, no one came out onto the sidewalk to investigate the burst of flame. The trio had advantages in getting here fast, but the absence of emergency response stood out. They didn’t even hear sirens yet.

“Clothes.” Molly pointed to the steps at the door. Articles of denim, flannel, and leather littered the steps, some of them torn, along with an odd assortment of boots and shoes. At the sight of it, Molly and Onyx drew their wands. Amber didn’t miss the hint, but first she had a more pressing responsibility than drawing her gun.

“Hey. Confirming Westview Tower, Fourteenth and Smith,” she reported with her phone at her ear. “I see damage, but no fire or smoke. No people in sight. No EMS yet, either. Extra vehicles out front, gate and door busted open.”

“Understood. We’re still twenty minutes out,” Sanderson answered. “Lanier, check on EMS response. See if something’s keeping them.”

Glass crunched under Onyx’s Doc Martens at the gate. The sound prompted Molly to fish something out of the inner pocket of her leather jacket. She passed it to Onyx and then gave an identical object to Amber: small green leaves, tied with twine around what felt like rocks. “Stealth magic,” Molly whispered. “Effort still counts. Try to be sneaky.”

Onyx continued forward without the extra noise. She and Molly took opposite sides of the path. The pair didn’t move with tactical training, but they showed care. “I’ve gotta hang up. I’ll call right back,” said Amber.

“Be careful. Back out if you hit trouble. Initiative is good, but don’t take big risks,” Sanderson replied. “We can’t help until we get there.”

“Got it. Out.” Amber returned the phone to her pocket. She more than half expected the boss to tell her no, but he understood how fast these incidents could move—or maybe his judgment wasn’t any better than hers. Thankfully, Molly and Onyx waited on her to join them before moving into the building.

The stench halted them at the smashed doorway, and then they saw the bodies all around the dark, unfinished lobby. Amber drew her pistol and her mini flashlight.

“Oof. Fuckin’ gross.” Onyx turned away. “I can’t breathe in that.”

“Hold on.” Molly held her wand high and twirled it in her fingers, murmuring something Amber didn’t catch. A subtle breeze picked up inside the lobby and then outward. In seconds, Molly channeled the breeze and most of the stench above and away, out into the night.

“What the hell is this?” Amber ran her light over shredded bodies in nice clothes, severed limbs, and one mostly naked and partly burned figure. “What happened? God, this smells weeks old but doesn’t look it. And…” She passed her light over it all again to double-check. “That’s not enough blood for all this.”

“Zombies,” Molly guessed. “Ghuls, maybe, or some other kind of dead. Naked guy looks normal, though. Werewolf, maybe? Nobody else loses their clothes.”

“It would explain the carnage,” said Onyx. “He didn’t do this alone. Whole bunch of clothes outside.”

“We do not want to fight werewolves,” Molly warned.

“No. No, we don’t,” Amber agreed—though she pulled a new magazine from her concealed carry rig to reload her pistol. At a curious glance from Onyx, Amber shook her head. “Silver tips. I’ve only got the one magazine.”

“At least you’re prepared,” Onyx murmured.

“One experience was enough.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Onyx said after another few seconds. “Nobody’s jumped us. Do we look more, or pull out?”

Molly shrugged.

Amber led the way, gun up and angling around to sweep for targets. Her flashlight provided the only illumination, but white walls reflected a little more. The spread of bodies and scorches trended inward, past the unpowered elevator shaft and toward a stairway—with its door on the ground and punctured by four holes in an arc perfect for a claw. The stench renewed with another mangled body on the bottom stairs, this one in a tuxedo.

“Hsst,” Onyx warned. Her eyes tilted up to watch the stairs, but she gestured urgently for them all to pull back. Amber and Molly retreated with her around the corner, cutting off the flashlight. Thankfully, enough ambient light from windows down the hall let Amber catch the two fingers Onyx held up before pointing to the stairs, and then up. Onyx paused, grimaced, and added a downward, four-fingered motion to indicate an animal.

It was more than enough reason to pull out of the building altogether, but then Onyx tilted her head curiously. Molly slipped to the other corner of the hallway, showing some tactical sense. That left Onyx and Amber close together behind their own corner.

Amber thought she heard someone whisper, “Wait.” Then a big black shadow emerged from the stairway with baleful red eyes and an intimidating snorf. The beast tensed and lowered its head. Amber put her finger on the trigger.

“Puppy?” asked Molly. “You’re not a wolf. Hi.”

Amber froze in three different kinds of shock. The beast at the door lifted its head as if equally surprised and replied, “Hrrf?”

“Not normal, either,” said Onyx.

“Hey, no, we don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m Molly. Hi. What’s your name?”

“We really don’t want a fight,” Onyx emphasized loudly for whoever lurked in the stairwell.

“Prove it,” answered a woman’s voice.

“I don’t know how we’d do that,” said Amber.

The dog growled, but with more wariness than threat.

“Your name is Barstow? Okay. Hi.” Molly tilted her wand up and away.

“Is she talking to our dog?” asked someone else from the stairs.

“Yeah, she does that,” said Onyx.

Barstow hrrfed again, snorffed, and scratched at the floor.

“No, we’re not werewolves or fire people, or dead,” Molly assured Barstow. “We don’t like them, either. Mostly.”

“Then who the fuck are you and why are you here talkin’ to our dog?” asked the woman.

“Can we do this face to face?” asked Amber. “If you’re here in this mess with this dog, you know more than we do. And we are, y’know, talking to your dog.”

“Ghost dog,” said Onyx.

“What?” asked Amber.

“Are you—? Oh wow.” Molly blinked. “I hadn’t looked at her aura yet. Wow.”

“Woof,” countered Barstow. “Wrr-oof.”

“Oh, pupper,” said Molly. “She loves you. Both of you. And your cats. She’s never had family,” Molly went on as Barstow huffed and sniffed. “You saved her. She was lonely, and then used by… men, and a fire man, and then dead men…?”

“We are not djinn, or vampires, or animal-abusers, if that makes this any better,” ventured Onyx. She lowered her wand, but stayed by the corner for cover.

“Also, this place is bound to get busy with more people any minute.” Amber followed her friends’ lead, lowering her weapon. “It’s dark. I’m turning on a light. Don’t freak out, okay?”

“Fuck’s sake,” grumbled the man—who stepped out as Amber hit the flashlight, pointed to the ceiling. His companion came out with him, a revolver low in one hand and a big, fancy book clutched to her side with the other. Amber had only the one encounter and a few online photos to go by, but it was enough. Evan Murphy grimaced with similar recognition. “Aw, damn.”

“Oh wow. Stars. Your aura’s full of stars. Wild,” murmured Onyx.

“We only want to talk,” Amber reiterated.

He frowned, looking from one woman to the next, and then nodded to Onyx. “Magic?”

“Yeah,” she answered. “I’m Onyx. She’s Molly, this is Amber. You’re Evan?”

“Do you know your friend here is a fed?”

“Yeah. She’s cool.”

“Her friend shot me—when I helped her, and another one.”

“She’s cool,” Molly clarified, “which is why we’re here. Shit gets complicated. She knows that.”

“It was a high-speed car-fight gun-chase in Hollywood and everything was way out of hand,” said Amber. “I’m not saying anything was okay. I’m trying to make this right.”

“The fuck would you know about right?” asked the woman beside Evan.

“We know car-fight gun-chases happen when you’re dealing with magic and monsters,” said Molly, “and you can’t normally call the cops. We’ve been there. Amber knows. Shit happens.”

“It’s also something we can’t just ignore. You get that, right?” asked Amber. He said nothing, but Amber caught the right answer in his eyes. She nodded to the woman. “What should we call you?”

“Nothing. Don’t call me.” Beside her, Barstow grumbled and scratched the floor. She put a hand on Barstow’s shoulder. “Don’t talk to cops, baby.”

“I’m not a cop,” said Molly, “and animal dialogue isn’t admissible in court.”

“Yeah, none of us have a ton of faith in the court system,” said Evan.

“The fuck do the courts know about monsters and people like us, anyway?” asked his friend.

“Not a lot, so we don’t take those angles,” said Amber. “We focus on the crimes we have on the books. Murder’s murder, whether you’re human or vampire—and self-defense is self-defense. We get that, too. Bottom line: we’ve been trying to find you because real bad people want you dead. We don’t know why.”

“Anatole?” asked Evan.

“Don’t know that name.” She found only shrugs from her companions. “We saw a hit on you from someone named ‘A.’ The receivers were our red flag.” Amber nodded in concession. “People started freaking out about the stars at that same time. Also, a cop turned up dead and some people pointed at you. Know anything about all that?”

Again, his answer came in body language: a set jaw, a firm look, a deep breath. No words.

“Something she said is bullshit, isn’t it?” asked Onyx. “It’s not the stars. Your aura connects you to that, but something else is… wrong.”

“You’ve got the right enemies,” said Molly. “Haven’t hurt anyone but them, as far as we know. You’re kind to animals. You healed Amber and the other guy. Maybe those aren’t sure signs, but they point in a good direction.”

“Evan. We gotta go,” said his companion.

“I know you ran away from home,” Amber tried. “I met your dad, so I can guess what that was like. You don’t have a record, but I’m guessing you had some experiences with cops. And you, too, right?” she asked, nodding to the nameless woman. “Look, I know the system is fucked. It’s messier with all the magic stuff. I’m trying to straighten this out.”

“Agent Whoever-You-Are, are we being detained?” asked Evan.

Amber winced. That felt final. Then the phone in her pocket buzzed. She held up a hand to ask for one last moment, pulled it out to check, and frowned with new concern. The witches had to know—and she wanted to show transparency. “Boss says EMS calls were canceled,” she relayed. “Someone called the response back. Said the blast upstairs was a studio movie shoot.”

“No way,” said Evan’s companion. “Uthman didn’t have that pull. Sure wasn’t the wolves.”

“Anatole?” asked Evan.

“Maybe, but for sure that sounds like the fuckin’ vampires. We gotta go. Now.”

“Evan, I’m trying to make all this right,” said Amber. “Bad guys wouldn’t stop to save me like you did. We’re against the vampires, too. Can we⁠—?”

Barstow snapped to alert, ears up, sniffing and grunting. Molly looked back toward the lobby. “Shit, I’m still channeling the breeze.”

She dropped the spell only a heartbeat before a metallic pop and a hiss that flew close, clattering at their feet as a canister spewing a cloud. Another crashed through the window at the end of the hallway. Amber’s eyes watered immediately. “Tear gas!”

Molly cursed and twirled her wand, but another canister struck her hard across the head. She staggered and bumped against the wall, putting her face right into the billowing cloud. Amber’s vision blurred; she trained her weapon toward whoever threw the gas grenades, but dared not shoot without a clear target.

“Stairs! Back!” Evan rushed past Amber to pull Molly by the collar of her leather jacket. Amber made out the wave of his hand and a brilliant flash of light. Then she felt his arm around her, pulling her onward along with Molly. “Up, we’re going up,” he warned—and wheezed. Whatever magic he had didn’t make him immune to gas. “Sunday?”

“I’m on it! Go! Barstow, c’mon!” shouted the other woman. Her gun went off.

“Onyx?” Molly rasped.

More glass broke at the window with the sound of something heavy coming through, and then came a man’s shriek of pain. The black-on-shadow form of Onyx with her wand extended told Amber the rest. “I’m here. Go,” said Onyx, following.

Holding their breath and moving fast did only so much good. Amber still had a nose, throat, and eyes full of irritants, and Molly clearly had it worse. Evan managed to navigate them around a corner and warn, “Stairs,” but Amber still tripped and slammed her knee. He kept her going. Sunday fired her pistol again.

“Up! They’s goin’ up!” shouted a stranger in a weird, old-timey accent. “Get up there!”

“It’s fuckin’ vampires,” Sunday coughed. “Lots.”

Amber gagged on her next words. Molly could only hack and wretch.

“Alright, hold on,” Evan rasped, and then: “Gnnaaagh!”

Amber’s turmoil all but vanished. Her vision cleared, along with her throat. She could still smell tear gas, but it didn’t yet clog the air here. A glance to her side found Molly with the same sudden recovery—and Evan staggered to one knee, clutching his gut.

Rapid gunfire filled the air, blasting chipped concrete and dust from the stairway ceiling overhead. People shouted. The door at the landing flew open, surprising Amber with the sudden appearance of someone in black pajamas, twirling blades like a literal movie ninja.

She shot him twice in the chest, knowing it would only stagger a vampire. The hits threw his blade routine off for a single second, and then Barstow lunged. The vampire fell with a yelp.

“Alive, ya clown!” demanded another old-timey voice. “The boss wants them alive.”

“I’m only scarin’ ’em. Keepin’ they’s heads do—” The boom of Sunday’s revolver cut off the rest of the shooter’s protest.

“Evan?” she asked, holding off the enemies below.

“More coming up here.” Onyx took cover at the doorway with her wand ready. Amber joined her, weapon up, sweeping for targets. Someone crashed through a window down the dark hall as if climbing or swinging through from below.

“Book,” Evan grunted. “Gimme the book!”

Sunday passed it to him, swept around the stairway banister, and fired again. “Bennie, you shit, you’re fuckin’ dead,” she shouted.

“Molly,” said Evan. “Tell Barstow to take the book. Say, ‘Take it and go. Omar will find you.’”

“What—shit, you’re hurt,” said Molly.

“Doesn’t matter. She can get out. It’s important. Tell her!”

“Barstow!” Molly called. The black dog dropped her victim, passing back through Amber and Onyx as one fired and the other chanted and gestured. Evan held out the book. “Take the book and go,” Molly repeated. “Omar will find you.”

“What’s the book?” Amber asked between shots. Though threatened less than ordinary mortals, the vampires disliked bullets enough to duck into open doorways for cover.

“It’s more important than us,” said Evan. “Barstow, sweetie, you’ve gotta go.”

“You understand, right?” asked Molly.

“Go, puppy, go!” Sunday agreed. She fired again, catching a vampire sweeping around the bottom floor—but the can in his hand still threatened, even if dropped at his feet. “Shit! More gas!”

Molly whirled her wand overhead and then low toward the bottom floor. New wind blew through the stairwell to carry the tear gas away. It negated the threat until the next can flew from Amber and Onyx’s targets down the hallway.

“Barstow, go,” Evan pleaded.

She whined once, clamped her jaws around the book, and raced out of the stairwell. Amber saw her hit a hallway corner at full speed and heard someone shout in surprise. She fired off another shot at the next shadow from the hallway doors.

“It’s bullets,” demanded a voice down her firing lane. “They’re only bullets! Go!”

Bodies swept out of the doorways and over the windowsill. Amber shot. Onyx shouted. One charging vampire stumbled and clutched his head as if in agony, then the next as Onyx flicked her wand to point at one after another. “Molly?” she asked.

“Working.” Firelight rose from behind Amber.

Then came the rush of footsteps from downstairs. “Motherfuckers!” Sunday shouted, pushing into the charge with her hatchet and knife. One vampire in a black suit went down with a cut through his neck. Another lost his baseball bat when Sunday’s hatchet cleaved through his fingers. The third in the rushing mob carried an open canister of tear gas, making him an effective threat no matter how hard Sunday elbowed his head into the wall.

New light appeared as Molly conjured a fistful of flame. She hurled it as a ball down the stairs, prompting screams of pain and fear. Others in the hallway kept coming. Onyx couldn’t focus on any individual long enough to put them down. Amber’s bullets only staggered her targets.

Tiny streaks like stars shot across the hallway from below Amber’s sight. One vampire choked and fell; another crumbled to ash and loose clothing in mid-stride. Evan growled as he tried to surge up from his knees at Amber’s side, taking out one charging silhouette after another with flashes of light from his hands.

The fight behind them continued. “Oof! Get her!”

“Dames, they’re all dames!”

“It’s fuckin’ Sunday, watch the—gah! My leg!”

Tear gas closed in from two sides. Another vampire went down from a blast of light, and then a body swept in from behind with something stiff and brutal against the back of Evan’s head. Amber felt the Tommy Gun’s stock slam into her gut before tear gas blurred her vision.

Pain flashed against the back of her eyelids, and then nothing.

24

TERMINAL VELOCITY

“No drinking! Not even a taste. Between the magic and gas, you’ll mess yourself up.”

“Rinse the faces. Gotta keep ’em breathing. Don’t want ’em choking on their own snot.”

“Yeah. That’s something I don’t miss.”

“Breathing, or snot?”

Flat male voices preceded the slump, the touch of dirt against his shoulder and face, and then the splash of water. Their words caught up after the splash, along with the rest of Evan’s senses. Mostly, he felt pain: the awful burn through his nose and throat, the throb at the back of his head, and the impossible muscle-pull through his chest and gut. His body felt twisted and wrong. Water falling on his face competed with all that for what little attention his mind could give.

Evan coughed. Wretched. Gasped. Each motion pulled at all those other pains. He also couldn’t think straight, thanks to the throb in his head.

Two men stood over him as the bottle of water ran out, both in trench coats, suits and hats, one grey and one brown. Cigarette smoke wreathed both of them. White guys. Pale. Clouded thoughts held back meaning or connections beyond deep, wordless terror and the fight to breathe.

Stars. Blinking away the blur and the water in his eyes, past the brims of those hats, Evan saw and recognized stars.

“Hey, no, don’t gag them,” one of the smoking men told someone nearby. “Gotta leave the airway clear. We didn’t do all this to kill them now.”

“Nick, they’re wizards,” replied a nasally, chittery voice. “They just whacked a bunch of us. The redhead ashed Mickey and Fred.”

“You ever see a sorcerer do anything without their hands and their wands and trinkets?” asked the one in the brown hat—Nick, apparently. “They’re beat to hell anyway. They aren’t tough like us. Bind ’em and pat ’em down good. Rope, tape, everything. Then just keep an eye on ‘em. If they talk, smack ’em. We need ’em alive.”

“Nick’s got a point,” said someone else. “The redhead’s pockets are full of bullshit. Matches, vial of dirt, mint tin full of leaves, spool of thread.”

“Same with dress-and-boots here. Got hidden pockets in her clothes, but it’s all random shit.”

“I’ve got the wands,” said the grey suit next to Nick. “Bag the other stuff. No telling if it’s important, but take everything and bind ’em good, like Nick says.”

“The one with the badge only has the gun rig and a nail in her pocket. Weird,” said someone far away, heralding a tiny metal ping on the ground. “Ever see that?”

“Magic is always weird,” said another.

“Nick, can you believe the smell of that gas?” asked the one with the grey fedora and empty bottle. “Outside, smoking, and dousing this chump, I can still smell it.”

“Of course, they still smell. It’s all over their clothes. Don’t breathe,” said Nick.

“I gotta breathe to talk.”

“Yeah, I thought of that, Harry.” They exchanged annoyed gestures. Nick relented. “Fine. We’ll drive with the top down. Then we can smoke without choking them.”

“You sure that’s safe?” asked Harry.

Stars. Evan finally caught a half-decent breath. His vision cleared. He saw stars overhead. His hands were bound behind him, body hurting all over, on the ground between two vampires in suits and hats, and under the stars. Harry kicked him in the side—too hard for the casual way the guy did it.

Evan winced, gasped, and kept looking at the stars. They made him feel better. The burn in his throat and the strain through his core eased.

“Alright, put this one in the car,” said Harry. “He’s bound and beat to hell. Doesn’t know what day it is. He won’t go anywhere.”

The other vampire leaned in. Everything faded out.

Evan’s eyes opened again to stars and passing streetlights. A stiff, steady wind buffeted his face and filled his ears. He half-reclined against the backseat of a convertible, bound and newly punched in the gut with terror and despair.

Sunday. Lilly, Flip-Top, Barstow—no I can’t—where? Pain returned with awareness, along with brain fog to slow his reactions and his thoughts, but not his fright or his concerns. Fuck. Lay low, go slow. Keep quiet. Figure it out.

Despite a stiff neck and throbbing brain, he managed a head-turn to his side. The goth witch in the black skirt and boots sat cramped between himself and Amber. Both women slumped much as Evan did, seemingly unconscious. They were belted tightly to their seats and thoroughly restrained with rope and duct tape. Blood stained Amber’s forehead from a wound tended by a simple strip of tape. Concussions probably weren’t their only injuries.

Evan shared all the same predicaments. The fierce tingle from elbow to fingers warned of poor circulation and more. Shit. They wrapped my hands in duct tape.

The drivers apparently weren’t worried about others on the road seeing their passengers. Heads with dark, heavily-slicked hair sat in the front seats. Harry drove. The other one seemed like Nick. They spoke in that flat, old-time movie tone, but Evan couldn’t understand them with the wind in his face. He glanced to the rearview mirror for a sense of the driver’s eyes—and saw no one.

Vampires. Right. Fuck. Ow. Ow. Arms, gut, back, head, ow. God, my head. Side. Everything. Ow. Okay, Amber and Onyx, right? They seem alive. Where are Sunday and the other one?

Where are we? He wasn’t sure if Harry could see his eyes open from the mirror, but had to risk it. His first look to the right revealed only the Tesla in the next lane and the tan-colored sound barrier wall beyond it. Scattered trees reached above the wall. The other side of the car told much the same story. He saw no freeway signs yet.

Taking us somewhere. Figure it out. Where are we?

The wind made looking up uncomfortable, but his eyes turned to the stars… where he saw a faint, curving line of light tracing out from star to star directly above. Other soft lines emerged like a map of freeways and roads. A lighter point stood out on one curving line, and then his own knowledge did the rest: We’re on the 10, going east. Just by CSULA. Must’ve just gotten on the freeway.

Mitu had promised he would never be lost. She promised he would never be without a weapon or armor, too. All the power she’d given wasn’t enough to save him from this.

No, that’s not fair, he retorted against his despair. They jumped us when I was already tapped out. They had numbers. Stealth. Gas. It’s goddamn vampires. We couldn’t expect this.

We’re here now. Hurt. Spent. Figure it out.

The strain through his center had all but vanished. That was something. He could breathe. He could see the stars. That made him feel better than he expected—physically better. Evan couldn’t move his hands, couldn’t run his healing spell or much of any other magic while tied up and twisted like this, but his pain eased a little more with every breath.

The stars shined.

Evan awoke again in the same position, unaware he had blacked out until his eyes opened. Aches and strains hurt a little less. The car had slowed, but remained on the freeway. This time, Evan saw no walls, just a safety rail and brush beyond it and some taller buildings—and then the sign up ahead, in front of an overpass: 10 West, South 5, 101 North, and arrows to each lane. We’re getting on the 101. Damn, where are they taking us?

Nowhere good. He took that for granted. Maybe Hollywood, or the Hills, or the Valley. Possibly to Anatole, maybe somewhere worse. He remembered the basement and how they’d hurt him. He remembered Sunday’s story. Fear gathered in his throat and his gut.

Harry drove under the sign with nothing to stop him.

Tents filled the space under the overpass, with tarps and folding chairs and trash. People gathered around a grill. A camp like that wouldn’t last long before the police broke it up.

He thought of the day before all this, of panhandlers and shelters. He thought of gold coins, cash cards, and quick handoffs, and especially that smile Sunday kept trying to fight off. At least we got that done before this all went to shit, thought Evan. We did that much.

The car passed under concrete and graffiti, emerging under the stars.

They want us alive. Maybe they’ll hand us over to Anatole. Maybe they’ll interrogate us first. Or maybe their boss vampire wants a snack. Sunday says they’re dumb, but how dumb could they be if they’re running around like this?

He didn’t know where they had Sunday or the other one. Molly. He didn’t know much—but he was still alive, and not alone. The vampires wanted something more than their deaths.

Nobody’s coming to save you. We’re not dead yet. Figure it out.

Still driving. Got time to catch my breath and think. Prep while they aren’t looking. Somehow. Evan took a deep breath, pushing against whatever remained of the strain at his core, and felt for his magic. It couldn’t all rely on hand gestures. He needed to heal or renew his armor. Anything. Focus. Willpower. Make it happen. Fight.

“You do not surrender,” said a voice unbothered by the wind. He heard approval, maybe even affection. His eyes widened. The stars overhead shined brighter. “You do not surrender, because, ‘What the fuck good does surrendering do?’”

Evan wondered if he’d blacked out again, or hallucinated. He didn’t dare speak, lest he alert the vampires—and because his throat tightened with a new surge of emotions.

“Your peril is dire. Again,” said Mitu. “I am too distant to intervene, and still weak after sharing so much of my power… but I see you, Evan. I sensed you reaching out. I felt the use of my power.”

Oh god, tell me you can read my mind, too, he thought loudly.

“Hm. You cannot risk speech,” she observed.

Good eye, Evan grumbled inwardly.

“The mortals beside you are bright souls. They are strong. One works magic. The other does not. The two in front of you are vampires. They are much older than you, but not old for their kind. Two more follow in a car behind you, and others behind them.” Though she gave no sign of reading Evan’s mind, she answered his first question: “I sense traces of my power with another in the following car. You are close, I see. She is old, but no vampire. With her is another sorcerer, bound closely to the one beside you.

“Many vampires move across the city,” Mitu went on. “Their paths converge somewhere near our first meeting. I cannot be certain. Thirty, at least, with nine others following you.”

Evan listened. Mitu’s voice lifted his spirit despite the grim news. He breathed deeper—and felt better, too. The strain at his core vanished. The twisting ache at his shoulder and the tingle of poor circulation through his arms steadily eased. He felt his magic return.

“We never spoke of my purpose,” said Mitu. “We had no time. I could not risk an encounter with the angels. We escaped together and then parted, but I have watched for you when I am able. I see what you have done. I see you now. Evan, I could not have wished for better hands to hold my power.”

That made him blink. Beaten, tied up, and kidnapped by vampires didn’t feel all that worthy of much of anything.

“Long ago, tribes of nomads turned to me for protection. I taught them to embrace the night as a protector and a healer. I gave guidance and solace. And, as they asked, I gave my protection—until the angels demanded I surrender that role. I diminished, and then I was locked away for millennia. Now, mortals have technology and numbers. You fear the night less, but dangers remain. You learned that when we met, and you see it now.

“I passed my power to you without instruction or demand, and you turned to my ancient task. You fought monsters. You helped the lost and alone, be they mortal or beast or djinn. Instead of seeking safety and comfort, you made the night safer for others.

“I asked nothing of you, and yet you do all I could hope.”

Though the tear gas no longer troubled him, something new swelled in Evan’s throat. He stared at the stars. Absently, he felt the wind grow colder at his cheeks.

“Bide your time. Be wise. Your companions still live. You will heal and your strength will return as long as you are under the stars.”

Light flashed across the skyline, prompting the driver to tap the brakes. Every car around them did the same. “Fuck was that?” asked Nick.

“I dunno,” said Harry. “Stadium sign, maybe? Flashing ad? Hell, now everyone’s slowin’ down. God damn LA traffic, even in the middle of the night.”

“It’ll clear. At least we’re still moving,” said Nick, but the slowdown had already impacted their drive time.

“Vampires believe they own the night,” Mitu told Evan. “They are mistaken. Do not fear them.”

The emotions tightening his throat turned to something else. Something stronger, but better. His gut steadied with new resolve.

“Prisoners?” asked Nick.

“Knocked out and—oh, one’s awake,” said Harry, looking up in the mirror. “Aw, are those tears from the gas, or your feelings?”

Evan’s eyes turned back to the greasy-haired vampire in the outdated grey suit. The other one in the passenger seat turned to watch him. “Now he’s staring. You don’t look like a tough guy, kid,” said Nick.

“You look like your wife got everything in the divorce.” Onyx shifted off of Evan’s shoulder, eyes tight against the wind and her voice raw, but strong enough to show her disdain.

Nick shot her an angry glare. “You shut up about—what the fuck do you know?”

“Are you kidding? Look at you,” said Onyx. “Broken dreams and bad taste with zero reflection, and that’s before some other asshole bit you. Your ex didn’t ruin your life. You did. Don’t need magic to see that.”

“Hey. Shut the hell up.” Nick brought out his pistol to wave it from one prisoner to the other. “You try any magic or yell to anyone, we’ll shut you up permanent-like. You understand?”

“I understand this is embarrassing,” Onyx grumbled. She turned her eyes to Evan. “Hey. This never happened, okay? When this is over, make up whatever you want. Demons, Russian spies, I don’t care. Not this. We did not get kidnapped by fucking vampires.”

“Aw, not again,” groaned a slowly-rousing Amber on her other side.

“I said shut up,” repeated Nick.

“Yeah, and I said you’re three restraining orders in a cheap suit. I’m not talking to you. Amber, you okay?”

“Pretty terrible,” she answered.

“Yeah, same,” Onyx admitted. “And this is embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Nick fumed. “Girlie, this is a real gun. You’re tied up and beaten in the back of our car!”

“Won’t last,” said Onyx. “I know you guys. You’ll fuck this up faster than your marriage.”

“Stop harping on my⁠—!”

“Nick,” snapped Harry at the wheel. “Keep it together. Just watch ’em.”

“You know where we’re going?” Onyx asked Evan.

“No. The others are alive, though. Yours and mine. They’re following.” Evan caught Nick’s raised eyebrow and added, “Heard them talking when they loaded us up.”

“Okay,” said Onyx. “Be cool. We’ll get through this. Sorry we held things up. Bad time to talk.”

“I’m sorry you got caught up with us,” said Evan. “This isn’t your fight. I won’t let them hurt you.” The car jostled over a pothole. Onyx and Amber winced. “Again,” Evan corrected.

“No, this is totally how magic works,” Onyx grumbled. “When you use it to find someone, you’re bound to get caught up in their bullshit. We’ll get through. It’s only vampires.”

“You got a real lip for someone in your position, girlie,” said Harry.

“Don’t act like it’s the first disrespect you’ve heard,” said Onyx.

“The vampires aren’t the real problem,” said Evan.

“Oh, are you talking about our friend Anatole?” asked Nick. “We know about that price on your head, Mr. Evan Murphy of Hawthorne.”

Evan’s eyes narrowed. He glanced to Onyx and Amber, remembering what Sunday told him: no one likes the vampires. “Do you know why?”

“What do you want to tell us?” Nick replied.

“He’s screwing you guys, too,” said Evan. “He’s not your friend.”

“Is that so? Guy’s a real pillar of the community, as the night life goes. Keeps the peace. You’re the one running around causing trouble.”

“You don’t know,” said Evan. “You don’t suspect him at all.”

“For what?” asked Nick.

“Who are we talking about?” asked Amber. “Who’s Anatole?”

“Local supernatural boss type,” said Evan. “Not a vampire, not a werewolf. Uses some magic, but he’s not in any circle. He makes deals and plays nice between all the factions, but he’s got a knife lined up on everyone’s back. This whole mess is about him.”

“You got proof or details? Or are you just spewing hot air?” asked Nick.

“What do I get in exchange?” Evan countered.

“That’s not how this works. It’s only a question of how badly things go for you and your friends before you tell us everything.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work out how you think,” said Evan.

“Hey. Let ’em stew,” Harry counseled. “The boss will want a say.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. He turned forward in his seat, but pulled the visor down and flipped the mirror open to keep an eye on the prisoners.

Traffic didn’t last. The 101 took them northeast past downtown, and from there to the long round exit onto Sunset Boulevard. Traffic eased with the late hour and the vampire knew how to drive smoothly and minimize his stops. None of the spotlights Evan saw from the sky came close enough to matter. Maybe this guy knows where the cops will be, he thought, or maybe there’s just never one around when you need them.

Or maybe they wouldn’t do any good, anyway.

Mitu’s voice didn’t return. Rather than wait for her, Evan flexed and tested his bonds with whatever subtlety he could manage. The tape around his hands did its job. He felt Onyx try the same, and had to assume Amber made her own attempts. Both of them winced or gasped with each bump or sudden shift within the car. They’d all been beaten in their capture.

They needed more than guts to get through this.

Evan closed his eyes, focused, and curled his tape-mittened fingers together in the cramped space between his back and the seat. Nothing happened with his first try. On the second, Evan felt the rush of magic and the purge of aches and bruises throughout his body. He fought off a sigh of relief lest the vampires catch on.

It worked. Holy shit, that worked, thought Evan. Okay. Magic doesn’t hurt like hell. Guess that makes sense. I had time to recover, I’m under the stars, and not pushing. Huge improvements. Don’t want to let on, though. Need to get to Sunday before trying anything so I don’t lose her, or the other one. Molly.

Bright souls, Mitu had called them, and not just the two sorcerers. Amber had pleaded with him to talk. Onyx and Molly stepped up for her. They all talked a good game, said the right things. He hoped they were as decent as they seemed, FBI or no—and he couldn’t leave even the worst sort of cop to become a vampire snack.

The magic is working okay again, he mused. Why not try?

Evan closed his eyes, flexed his left foot and waited until he felt the power gather before tapping the booted foot beside him. Onyx inhaled sharply and deeply, glancing at him in surprise and then snapping her eyes forward to cover it. They both clamped down on reactions lest their captors notice, but neither vampire showed interest. Onyx and Evan shared another look. She tilted her head and her eyes to indicate Amber.

Minutes and several attempts later, with Nick and Harry none the wiser, Evan stretched his foot over Onyx’s feet to reach Amber’s. By then, Amber seemed to notice the subtle shift in her friend’s posture and interest. When the magic came, Amber took that same sharp, involuntary breath.

Healing marked progress. They needed more. Evan focused and rolled his shoulders, testing his body for strain. Only his bonds and awkward posture hurt. Another subtle spell eventually worked despite his predicament: with effort, three tries, and a shift of focus from his hands to the roll of his ankle, Evan regained his magical defenses.

Onyx seemed to notice. She raised a questioning eyebrow. Evan gave himself another moment to settle, tilted his head back against the seat, and murmured, “It’s armor. Can I try it on you?”

She nodded.

The next roll and tap of his foot delivered the same enchantment to her. His pulse and his breath picked up. Onyx looked at herself with new interest, presumably understanding—and gave him another nod. Evan pushed his luck to place the same protection over Amber, feeling out both his limits and his abilities along the way. Onyx relayed a quiet word of explanation to Amber before turning back to Evan. “We need Molly and your friend,” she whispered. “Wait for it.”

Nick turned around again with a new glare. The backseat riders stared back at him in wait until he lost interest. They rolled on past crowded buildings and thin late-night traffic.

His body settled back to normal by the time the car pulled off Sunset. They turned at a three-story corner building with the blackout paint job and covered windows of a studio or small theater. A framed, glowing sign read, “Fifteen Percent.”

Around the corner, smaller signs at the gate marked it as a members-only club. Valets at the gate waved the convertible into the lot. Most of the parked cars hinted at money and luxury, from the Mercedes and BMWs to the sports cars—and many were old. Evan noticed a classic Ferrari, something to fit an early Bond film, and several gleaming, decades-old Rolls Royces.

In contrast to the flat black facing Sunset Boulevard, this side of the building presented glittering lights and decorative shrubs. The driver stopped in front of an awning lined by more such lights. Pale men in dark suits hauled out Evan, Onyx, and Amber while other cars pulled into the lot. “You searched ’em all?” someone asked.

“Of course, we searched. We’re professionals,” Harry answered with another cigarette clamped between his lips. “Are they here?”

“Everyone who’s anyone,” answered another of the doormen.

Nick got in front of the group to address the captives, each held by men at either arm. “Keep quiet and show respect, if you know what’s good for you. That tower was nothing compared to the trouble you’ll find here.”

Doors opened with the sound of live jazz and conversation, along with the drift of yet more cigarette smoke. Harry and Nick paused only to hand off their hats and coats to more doormen. The group walked into a dim lounge filled by well-dressed men and women. Most were thin and pale regardless of ethnicity, though Evan noticed some selection bias on that score, too. He also saw cigarettes everywhere, yet less lingering smoke than they would cause. Someone had gone to great lengths to ventilate well.

Patrons wore suits of wool and tweed, flapper dresses, and cinched skirts. Evan also saw ‘80s shoulder pads and big hair, and in one corner a small handful of old-timey greasers. One man near the bar had a receding hairline, a big chin-strap mustache, and a half-open orange silk shirt to show off his gold chains.

Many of them worked a range of phones, too: old flip-phones, brick-sized mobile phones from the last century, and more than a few honest-to-God landline phones set at their tables. Chatter filled the room:

“Yes, it’s a speaking role. Two lines. You hand the lead his coffee. You’re okay with shaving your head, right?”

“Baby, we can’t back out of this. When it’s all over, you’ll brag about doing your own stunts. It’s only a little fire.”

“You can’t believe everything you read online. Up-front agent fees like mine are perfectly normal. I include a whole headshot package.”

“I know you can nail this audition. What if we meet for some private coaching? I have a whole side business in teaching.”

“Yes, the ‘terms and conditions’ are dense. That’s why you have me! Well, of course my contract is dense, too. But I’m your agent! I’m on your side. Don’t worry about it.”

Oh god, Evan groaned inwardly. Fifteen Percent. They’re all talent agents.

Not one of the patrons gave more than a curious glance to the sight of people coming in beaten and bound. Past the bar, they crossed an open space in front of a small stage with a pale jazz quartet. Harry and Nick brought the prisoners to an open door at the other side of the stage.

In a plain, undecorated store room, someone shoved Evan into a folding metal chair under a single light bulb dangling from a power cable. Half-open blinds covered the sole window across from his seat. Amber and Onyx landed in identical chairs through similarly rough treatment. Harry stood over them, his smoke-wreathed face silhouetted by the light bulb.

“We’re really keeping them all together here?” Harry asked someone behind Evan.

“Word from on high,” answered another vampire. “Not like we’ve got a ton of separate rooms. They don’t want this in the manager’s office or the VIP.”

“Oh no, because that would be inconvenient,” grumbled Nick.

The door opened again. The new arrivals lifted Evan’s spirit, though Sunday limped and Molly staggered with one eye shut. Glances passed with only the assurances of seeing one another alive before they were set into more folding chairs. They put Molly beside Evan and Sunday past her.

Harry nodded to someone out of Evan’s view, and then the door closed. The handful of other vampires in the room spread around the group while Harry and Nick watched from the front. “We know some of you can use magic, so we’ll assume it’s all of you,” said Harry. “Don’t speak unless someone asks you something. If we hear anything weird, if you try anything, we’ll drain you dry before you know it.”

A guard in faded denim from his mullet to his boots stood behind Amber. He reached in front of her face to flash his butterfly knife skills. “Four liters in thirty seconds. Try me.”

“Is that a flex when you don’t have to breathe?” Amber frowned.

“If you’re worried about ‘anything weird,’ you don’t want to bite us,” said Molly. “Blood’s poisoned. It won’t go well for you.”

“Poisoned—what the hell?” asked Harry.

“Exactly what she said. Poisoned,” echoed Onyx.

“We do it every day,” said Molly. “Witchcraft. Easy spell. Hemlock and garlic peels burned in a rolling paper.” She tilted her head to her fellow prisoners. “We took care of them as soon as we knew you were coming. It’s not hard.”

“Bullshit,” said Harry.

“Your funeral,” said Onyx.

“Uh… hey, I searched this one,” said the vampire behind Molly, another ‘80s relic with carefully feathered hair, baggy grey slacks, and a thin red tie. “She had papers and a lighter.”

Nick seemed appalled. “Why would you do that?”

“Because fuck you guys, obviously,” Molly snorted.

Sunday laughed.

“Fine, then. Does your magic blood poison work against bullets?” asked Nick.

Behind the captives, metal slid against metal as guards readied their weapons. The display ejected two perfectly good bullets from already locked and loaded guns. Harry and Nick frowned. Sunday and Amber rolled their eyes.

A somewhat rounder man than the rest entered the room, wearing an outdated black suit and thick, black-rimmed glasses. Beside him walked a tall, willowy blonde in a velvet red dress and matching over-the-elbow gloves. He took up a central spot, leaning casually on a jeweled cane. She drifted to the window, staring through the blinds as if purely to show off her profile.

“The immortal Sunday,” said the man in black. “A shame to see you in such circumstances.”

“Cut me loose and we’ll change the circumstances,” Sunday answered.

“Hm. I think not. I know what you can do.” His brow furrowed. “You’ve always been adventurous and strong, but you were less troublesome in recent years. Fewer attacks of conscience. You did all that work for Anatole, and even a few jobs for us. I thought perhaps you had finally come around to a more realistic view of immortality.”

“Almost like I was a different person, huh?” asked Sunday.

“In a way, yes. Someone more affable. Someone I liked better. We could work together.”

“Should’ve been everyone’s first clue something was wrong.”

He sighed, entirely for effect since he only breathed to talk. “I see the old you is back. Pity. The rest of you, I have not met. I am Mr. Solomon. My companion is Ms. Vivienne Ester. I am a leader of the community, you might say. My associates tell me you are a collection of sorcerers… and, according to your identification, one agent of the FBI.”

He watched his audience. Evan stared back. He caught no sign of response from the others.

“We’ll get to that,” Solomon continued, seemingly unbothered. “Sunday and I are already familiar. The rest of you are strangers, though one matches the description of a wanted man. Perhaps we should start with you, Mr. Evan Murphy?”

At a nod from Solomon, someone behind Evan put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed with dangerous strength. “Don’t get cute,” the guard warned.

“What do you want?” asked Evan.

“Answers, Mr. Murphy. Details. My friend, Anatole recently put a price on your head. Many have tried to collect, and as I understand it, most have died. In fact, we had heard Sunday died in pursuit of that bounty, yet we find her beside you. As I said, she and I are familiar. You’re a stranger. Tell me, how do you know Anatole?”

“Why you starting with him?” asked Sunday. “We’ve got all the history.”

“Exactly why, Sunday.” Solomon didn’t look to her. “Mr. Murphy?”

Evan didn’t want to say much in front of Amber, nor did he want to preempt any plan Sunday might have. A glance her way only earned him a strong hand spread over his skull, turning him back to face Solomon.

“Eyes front. Answer,” said the guard.

Evan grimaced. They knew Amber was FBI, which almost certainly meant they’d kill her before this was all over. Bargaining for their lives was probably pointless, perhaps even counterproductive. The vampires probably intended to kill them all, one way or another.

Mitu’s words hung in his ears. His fellow captives were brave. Molly seemed just as tough as Onyx and Amber. We’ve come this far. Handled the rest. I’m not afraid of these guys.

None of this ends until Anatole is gone… and he’s screwing them, too.

“One of Anatole’s goons missed payments on his Lamborghini. I snuck into that party in the hills to repossess—” Evan stopped as Harry and Nick both pulled flip-top notepads and pens from their pockets. He glanced to the distant, sultry blonde staring through the blinds and the single light bulb hanging over his head. “Are you fucking serious with all this?”

“I know, right?” Molly laughed. “Fuckin’ vampires.” Onyx snorted. So did Sunday.

Fuming, Solomon slapped Evan hard and waved at his men. Everyone caught a stiff hand across the face. It hurt less than it should have—Evan sensed their strength, but also the protection of his magical armor. That made him feel worse for Molly and Sunday.

“We are entirely serious, Mr. Murphy,” said Solomon. “The night has been turned upside down in these past weeks. We are in no mood for games or jokes, and least of all for disrespect. Now explain yourself. What was so special about this car?”

“Nothing. Just another rich douchebag sports car. The special part came when I got caught and Anatole stuffed me into a basement full of ancient treasure.”

Vivienne turned from the window. “What ancient treasure?”

“Carvings, art, swords, Roman shit, a Gutenberg Bible, lots of urns. He had a Van Gogh and modern stuff, too. It was all hidden behind a heavy door with a bunch of magical wards. They only put me in there because they planned to kill me after the party.”

Solomon shared a look with Vivienne. She, in turn, glanced to Harry and Nick.

“Go on,” Sunday taunted the vampires. “Connect the dots. You can do it.”

“Feedback and the others would’ve been on top of it the whole time,” said Nick.

“Only at night,” said Harry. “If it’s locked in a basement, what would they know?”

“Unless they were in on the secret,” said Vivienne. “Or fools.”

“Lots of that going around,” Evan muttered.

“What do you mean?” asked Vivienne.

“The loot came from exactly where you’re thinking,” said Sunday. “You don’t gotta ask. Instead, now’s the point where you ask if your friend is really your friend.”

“Someone raided that home a few nights ago,” said Solomon. “There was a chase in the Hills. Was that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“We tried to rob him, obviously,” said Sunday.

“Tried? You were unsuccessful?”

“We got the Beanie Babies and old Hollywood bullshit, at least,” Sunday grumbled.

Solomon’s brow knit. “What are Beanie⁠—?”

“What about tonight?” Vivienne strode from the window to face Sunday. “Sergio’s werewolves attacked the ifrit. I’m told they’re all dead, and you were there. Why?”

“We had to get something Anatole gave to Uthman,” Sunday answered. “That, and it turns out Anatole was helping Uthman build an army of ghuls. Right here in the city.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask Uthman, but he’s dead,” said Sunday.

“Or you could ask Anatole,” Evan suggested. “Seems like you’d have a lot of questions for him right now.”

“And what about you?” Harry asked, pointing to Amber. “Why’s the FBI involved?”

“Did you miss the stuff about the shootouts and car chases?” asked Amber.

Evan saw the gap. The vampires needed another push. He had to risk it. “She’s looking into a dead cop, tied to Anatole. They think it was me.”

“Yes. Frank. Anatole’s pet detective,” said Solomon. The words nearly made Evan’s heart leap, especially with the way Amber looked up and blinked. “Frank Crosby, yes? We have our sources. That is your investigation?”

“Yeah,” Amber answered. “Yeah, that’s the case. That’s how I came to Murphy.”

“With a couple’a sorcerers?” Nick waved his pen at Onyx and Molly.

“It’s not standard procedure, but I know a couple things about the nightlife,” said Amber. “How else do you find another sorcerer?”

“Anatole arranged Crosby’s body and planted Murphy’s name with the police,” Solomon began, turning to Vivienne. “He used our mutual friends in the department to⁠—”

“Never mind that,” said Vivienne. “He has Cornelius’s hoard. We know he kept the police out of that house after the raid. If their robbery failed, he still has it somewhere.”

Evan didn’t push. Lying wasn’t his strong suit, but Sunday apparently shared his talent for omission. He was still good at shutting up.

Vivienne tapped her chin in thought, examining one face after another. Finally, she turned to Solomon. “Call him. Tell him we have Murphy, but don’t mention Sunday or these others. Have him come here.”

“We don’t have all the facts yet,” Harry pointed out. “If the FBI is involved⁠—”

“Only over a dirty cop. Forget the FBI. Anatole’s been playing us,” said Vivienne. “It’s already late. We can’t give Anatole time to catch on to what we know, and we have everyone here right now. We’re on our own territory, while he’s taken a string of losses.” She turned to Solomon. “He thinks you’re his closest ally, or at least he should. We have what he wants. Call him over here.”

With that, Vivienne strode out of the room, leaving Solomon, Harry, and Nick behind with open mouths and objections that never found voice.

“Wow. She’s good,” said Sunday. “All this time, and I never knew.”

“Knew what?” asked Solomon.

“She’s the one in charge, isn’t she?” asked Evan. “You’re the front man, but she calls the shots.”

“And you’re the one who turned her, too,” said Sunday. “Little Nancy Nobody from Podunk, Kansas came out here to become a movie star. You dragged her into becoming a vampire, and then she ate your entire lunch and parades you around as a puppet. Wow. I never had a clue.”

“Aw, good for her,” said Molly. “Cunt.”

“I hope this evening finds you well, my friend. I call with good news. We have someone in our company whom you have recently sought, a Mr. Evan Murphy.”

Anatole looked up from his desk, ear to the phone and eyes now turned to the hilltop view of the city. Elizabeth stood close enough to hear. Now they knew why Solomon insisted she bring the call to Anatole rather than taking a message or requesting a callback. The news also sparked many more questions. “I did not know you were aware of my interest,” said Anatole.

“Your bounty message did not come to me directly, but it was not entirely private,” said Solomon. “People talk. The last few nights have given us all cause for increased vigilance.”

“I suppose that’s true. How is he? Where did you find him?”

“Oh, he’s settled down here, if somewhat worse for wear.” Like most vampires, Solomon picked up slowly on social and technological change, but he was old enough to understand the dangers of wiretaps and speaking too candidly. “He stole a car from one of my people, hence our interest. You know we have detectives among us. They ran down the car and one thing led to another. It was all rather abrupt.”

“I understand.” Anatole had his own reasons to be careful with how much he revealed. “Has your guest had much to say?”

“Not as yet. He hasn’t had the gentlest night. That said, my friends tell me he is surprisingly capable. You’re more familiar with him than I. Is there anything we should know?”

Anatole’s face hardened. He heard no taunt, but the question could be read in more than one way. The chance to resolve all this was too great to ignore. “He is highly Practiced, if you take my meaning. Much more than his youth would imply.”

“I had gathered as much from my friends. His arrival came at a cost. We are being careful with him.”

“Understood. Was he alone?”

“Yes. He appeared to be on some mundane errand. My people recognized the opportunity.”

“I am grateful for their initiative, and for your call. Could you bring him to me?”

“I think that might be somewhat complicated, given the circumstances. It would be better if you met us here. We’re at the club.”

“Then I will join you soon. Thank you, Mr. Solomon.” The call ended. Anatole turned to Elizabeth. “Solomon wouldn’t hand someone over before wringing out all he could for himself. Certainly not if he suffered losses in the capture.”

“The vampires are more society than organization,” said Elizabeth. “Solomon will surely invoke his losses in search of recompense, but I doubt he feels any personal sentiment. He knows more than he lets on. The question is what he knows.”

“Yes. Was Murphy truly alone, has he actually talked, and why were Solomon’s people after him in the first place?”

“We know Murphy has a penchant for car theft. He stole Killer Six’s car before the raid.”

“Hnh. That smells of plausible deniability, not explanation.” Anatole pondered. “They realized Murphy is a Practitioner and neutralized him. It’s possible they haven’t interrogated him for fear of a sorcerer’s mouth.” He shook his head. “For them to have Murphy and not know about Cornelius’s treasure is too much to hope.”

“Then is this a trap?” Elizabeth folded her arms. “Do you take the bait?”

“We have to resolve this one way or another. If he hasn’t revealed anything, leaving him in their hands makes it more likely. If they already know, we’ll have to confront it sooner or later. We are not without our own strength. We calculated these risks.”

“With greater strength and numbers than we have now,” Elizabeth reminded.

“Of course. Still, we can withstand the worst—and we have allies. Solomon shares the same interest in peace as Uthman or Sergio. He won’t want to make enemies of us all. That said, we should prepare for the worst. Get the others together. If it’s a trap, Solomon will regret it.”

“No movement. Like a bomb went off in here.” Colleen swept the wreckage again with the flashlight mounted on her carbine, holding to the doorway. She didn’t trust the visuals out of hand; the task force faced more than one suspect who could practically turn invisible. Yet if some bad guy planned an ambush, he didn’t have much to work with in this room.

Patrick and Marino had her back, after she reminded them of her seniority. She led the way, sweeping again, grateful for the extra light and extra guns behind her. They checked the corners and adjoining rooms for lurkers before examining anything. By then, the rest of the team had filed in. They had clearly missed the party, but neither Colleen nor Sanderson wanted to take chances on splitting the team after all they had found.

Scorches spread out from a man near the center of the blasted living room, but he looked more like the victim of a vicious animal than a bomb. Several other bodies laid across the room, two of them nude. They weren’t the only ones the team found without clothes.

Others had seemingly died without blood. Many others—and they looked long dead.

“They’re not here,” Bridger said with a tentative relief Colleen shared. “None of them are here.”

“I didn’t expect them, but we had to be sure.” Sanderson nodded to Colleen amid his survey of the room. “You’re probably right. They had to have been taken.”

“We can’t be sure without checking the whole tower, but…” Marino fumed. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“We’ve seen werewolves die like this,” Lanier said over one naked body. “Same as the ones downstairs. And it explains the torn clothes all over the front doorstep.”

“Doug?” Colleen prompted Bridger. She shined her light on the mauled body at the center of the blast. “What do you think?”

“I dunno. Practitioner, maybe good with fire? It would explain why he’s still mostly in one piece.”

“Yeah, this looks like more burn than boom,” Patrick spoke up. “Windows are blown out, but there’s not much more force to it. You could make a bomb for that, but why?”

“It all feels like magic,” said Bridger. “I don’t need the whole ritual. This is big and fresh. It’s magic and death. And those bodies downstairs mostly lacked blood, but nobody threw a bunch of random shredded cadavers in an abandoned building. Had to be zombies of some sort.”

“Okay, but what have we got on Amber and the girls?” asked Lanier. “Tear gas, a massacre, and I’m sure that’s vampire ash down on the first and second floors. Positive of it. These guys aren’t vampires, or they’d be more ash, right?”

“We’re looking at different fights,” said Colleen. “This in here fits the massacre down in the lobby. The stairs were something different. Amber and the witches know how to handle vampires. I’m sure those shell casings we found were from her weapon. If they’re gone and their phones are off the grid, they must’ve been taken.”

“And the whole task force is compromised,” muttered Sanderson.

“They’ve all been in bad spots before,” said Colleen. “If they took down a handful of vampires after a mess like this, someone’s gonna talk about it. We need to get on the wiretaps and⁠—”

“We need to secure the operation,” Sanderson interrupted. “If they’ve got Maddox, everything is compromised: us, our investigations, files, all of it. We need to secure what we’ve got. Lanier, I want new passwords on everything, right now. That’s for starters.”

“He can do that in the car,” Colleen pushed back. “We can’t stay here, anyway. We need to find them. If this was vampires, we have leads on a few. We know how to handle them.”

“For all we know, this was Murphy,” said Sanderson. “Maddox came here looking for him, thanks to the witches. He could’ve set this up. We don’t see any sign of him, either.”

“Boss, hold on,” Bridger counseled. “Nobody likes the vampires. We shouldn’t connect Murphy with them unless we’ve got evidence first.”

“My evidence is a missing agent and two outside consultants—emphasis on the outside,” said Sanderson. “Do you have any other occult expertise to share, Agent Bridger?”

Doug blinked. “No. Not without a longer examination of the crime scene.”

“We’re a small, secret task force,” said Sanderson. “One of our agents is missing, presumably abducted. We have to assume the worst. That means getting back to headquarters and securing our operations before we take another step. Then we focus on recovering the agent. Let’s move.”

25

FULL-CONTACT ASTRONOMY

Sunday waited only seconds after the store room door closed behind Vivienne, Solomon, and the detectives. “¿No te preocupas, pero tienes un plan, sí?” she asked Evan.

“Hey! Shut up,” snapped a vampire guard at the door.

She threw an irritated glance at the guard before looking past Molly, seated beside her. “Ev?”

Guards surrounded them: the Tommy Gun gangster at the door, the pair of ‘80s relics at either side, and the ‘20s pinstripe-and-shotgun combo behind them. Dozens more waited in the club outside. Uglier, nastier, much more personal trouble would be on the way.

Evan’s Spanish wasn’t great, but he understood “don’t worry about me.” He understood the rest of the words, too. She trusted him, just like he trusted her. It meant everything.

“Guess we wait for Anatole, right?” said Evan, looking at the guard.

“¿Y entonces?” asked Sunday.

“English, bitch,” said the one with the shotgun. “We’ve heard you speak English. You’ve been here long enough.”

Sunday’s concern turned to a death glare. “Tus juguetes van a pintar el piso antes que yo te mato. Hijo de puta.”

“Damn. None of you listen, do you?” The guard thrust the butt of his shotgun into her gut. Sunday doubled over in her chair and winced.

“Asshole, leave her—” Evan caught an elbow across the jaw for his objections. He’d felt worse. His armor held.

“No lip from you, either.” The one with the red necktie and Uzi tapped his weapon at Evan’s temple. “No foreign languages. None of that Gen Z slang. Shut the hell up, all of you.”

“At least Spanish is a language and slang is coherent,” said Onyx. “You guys are all babble and nonsense.”

“What?” asked the guy with the Tommy Gun at the door.

“Babble, babble, bilbul,” Onyx grumbled.

Shotgun threw Tommy a glance. Tommy only shrugged—and then frowned, pointing at Onyx. “Hey. She rolled her eyes. Why’s she rolling her eyes?”

“Have you dipshits listened to yourselves?” asked Molly. “Everything you say is an eyeroll.”

“Bilbul,” said Onyx.

“What?” asked Uzi.

“Babble. She said you’re babbling,” said Molly.

“Bilbul,” Onyx repeated.

“We’re not.”

“Bilbul, bilbul,” Onyx droned, rolling her eyes at him.

Evan heard magic in her voice. Whatever she said was language, but not English. The vampires went through facial tics and scowls, blinking and glancing with uncertainty.

“God, you don’t even understand what she’s saying, do you? Four dumbasses in a room together,” said Molly.

Uzi frowned. The other ‘80s relic held up his hands. Tommy blinked, looking to Shotgun. “Is that… do we really sound like that?”

“Sound like what?” asked Shotgun.

“Like dumbasses,” said Molly.

“Hey, we’re—” Tommy stammered, fumed, and made a face. “We’re not stupid.”

“No? What’s the capital of Chattanooga?” asked Molly.

“I don’t—” Uzi’s objection turned to a new frown. “Shit, I know this one.”

“Isn’t that in Tolkien?” asked the guy with the butterfly knife.

“Don’t be a nerd,” said Shotgun.

“Four dumbass goons,” Molly observed. “Can’t keep track of a conversation.”

Amber caught on. “Hey, did I hear a knock?”

Shotgun looked to Tommy, who turned to the door. “Who’s phone is buzzing?” asked Molly. Shotgun followed the prompt, patting himself down and turning away to look at his flip-phone.

“Bilbul, bilbul,” Onyx repeated, now in a soft chant.

“Don’t get crazy,” Molly said with a quiet nod to Onyx. “They’re wrong about the wands, but only a little. We can get free. Getting you out would take a second, though, and they’d snap out of it and grab us. You seem like you have a plan, right?”

“Yeah. Hold on. You’re hurt.” Evan took a breath, closed his eyes, and focused. He’d pulled this off twice now. Once more, he rolled his ankle and reached for Molly. Power shivered through him and into her; she inhaled with surprise and with new energy. This time, his subject’s sense of relief echoed back at him.

“Whoa, damn.” Molly sat straight. The injury that kept her eye shut quickly vanished, leaving dried blood and grime but no harm. “You heal way better than me.”

“He’s good,” said Sunday.

“Bilbul, bilbul,” Onyx continued.

“I’ve gotta help Sunday, too. Will they snap out of it if I get up?” asked Evan.

“Probably,” said Molly. “Talk is one thing. Moving’s another.”

“Plan first,” Sunday countered. “I’ll be okay. We gotta get out of here.”

“The club is packed with vampires,” said Amber. “I saw a side door in the hall, but I don’t think it’s an exit.”

“Yeah, we ain’t fighting our way out just yet,” said Sunday.

Evan listened, but already moved on to what he could do: another flex against his bonds, another roll of the ankle, another spell. He tapped Molly’s foot again and saw the faint star pattern of his protective magic spread over her.

“Okay, that felt different. What did you do?” she asked.

“Armor. I’ve got everyone but Sunday now. Works like actual armor, which means it can break. Don’t push your luck, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Lots better,” Sunday agreed.

“Yeah, that’s more than we can do right now,” said Molly.

“Detective Dipshit in the brown trench has your wands and stuff,” said Evan. “Sunday, I don’t know about your guns. Might still be in his car.”

“Guns aren’t ideal against vampires anyway,” said Sunday. “You’re the better hitter here, if you can manage. You hit a wall earlier.”

“I’m over it, but I’m still finding my limits,” Evan admitted. “We can deal with the vampires. Anatole’s the problem. He’s a big bad on the LA scene,” he explained for Molly. “Not a vampire, not a sorcerer, but he can do some tricks of both. He won’t come alone.”

“You’re trying to pit them against each other, right?” asked Amber. “These guys and this Anatole dude?”

“Worked for us earlier tonight,” said Evan.

“Figured that’s where you were going,” said Sunday.

“Bilbul, bilbul,” Onyx continued. The vampires fumbled with the door, their phones, and trivia questions as if all struggling through brain fog.

“Solomon said you worked for him. Both of them,” said Amber. “But it sounded sketchy?”

Sunday shook her head. “Anatole got me possessed by a demon for years. I only just got free because of Evan. I know that sounds like bullshit, but…”

Her sentence trailed off amid head-snap looks between Amber, Molly, and Onyx. The latter kept up her chant, but all three women looked back at Sunday. “Okay. Let’s fuck him up,” said Molly.

“You believe me? We just met.”

“We’re pretty good bullshit detectors, and we’ve met some demons,” Molly said, nodding to Onyx. “You and Evan seem like good people. Everyone else in this mess is an asshole.”

“It’s not the craziest shit we’ve heard,” Amber agreed. “Look, I’ve gotta try to be FBI about all this, but we’re kidnapped and they’re all dangers to the public. Self-defense is self-defense.”

Despite all he’d already seen, the response left Evan wide-eyed. He saw much the same surprise from Sunday. “These guys are way scarier than the vampires. Strong, bulletproof, mind tricks, magic.”

“That’s how it usually goes,” said Molly. Onyx nodded, still chanting. Amber shrugged.

“Wild.” Sunday winced in pain, still hunched over. “You bitches are for real, for real, huh?”

“This is not our first shitshow,” said Amber. “What’s the plan? Will turning them against each other work? Baddie versus baddie?”

“Anatole will try to talk his way out,” Sunday reasoned. “He’d rather negotiate than fight, and he might have something good to offer. None of us are at our best, either. Might be better to bust out before he⁠—”

“Someone’s coming,” Onyx warned, breaking her chant. The guards blinked and frowned their distraction away.

“It’s in Pennsylvania, right?” wondered Butterfly. Shotgun flipped his phone shut. Tommy Gun opened the door for several arrivals, some familiar and others new.

Harry and Nick blinked at the unexpected welcome, but Nick merely nodded back to the hallway. “Boss wants a show. We’re setting everyone up in—hey!”

Another new arrival pushed through, flashing nice clothes, a perfectly-coifed head of tight blond curls, and angry red eyes. “You’re the thief,” he snarled through his posh accent. His follow-up came as a sharp punch at Evan’s cheek.

The blow sent Evan onto his back, chair and all. His magic absorbed the worst of it but vampire strength still rattled and still hurt. His new position didn’t help.

Objections caught up to Evan amid his fall and the swift kick to his hip that followed.

“Aaron, stop,” said Nick.

“Hey, we need him alive,” said Harry.

“Ay! Aaron!” Sunday snapped. “You gutless fuckin’—”

He slapped her hard enough to turn her head. She lacked the magical defenses of her companions. “Shut up! I’m sure you had something to do with it!” Aaron kicked Evan again and leaned in to pull him inches off the floor. “You embarrassed me, you mortal shit!”

Battered and manhandled, Evan lost track of action in the room. Bodies moved and something went on with the other captives, but Aaron’s assault blocked his view until he saw Molly dragged out, chair and all. Onyx and Amber were already gone, leaving only Sunday and himself. Then a hand found Aaron’s shoulder and the posh vampire let Evan drop.

“Enough,” repeated Harry. “We found your car. He’ll get his, one way or another.”

Without Aaron beating him, Evan found Sunday still in her chair, wincing from the latest blow but looking back at him with equal concern. She’d clearly been through hell, with blood matting her hair and staining her torn clothes. Her posture suggested worse injuries below the surface.

Rope, tape, and his new position kept him from reaching out, regardless of their guards. He wanted nothing more than the chance to heal her, but he couldn’t reach. Evan stretched, ready to settle for tapping his forehead against her foot.

“Ev, chill,” she hissed. “I’m good. Be cool.”

She wasn’t good. She was hurt, and only wanted to spare him more attention. It was as obvious as her wounds. If the vampires noticed, they didn’t care. Bickering and settling Aaron preoccupied them for the moment, if he could only reach—Wait. Mitu didn’t need to touch me, he thought.

Sunday and Evan fought together, ate together, shared confessions and critter cuddle time. He knew her smile, her laugh, her sigh, her scent. They’d been inseparable for a week. She’d gone from impossible crush to something entirely serious. They slept together. The first time felt too good to be true. They’d fucked and tasted one another and only wanted more.

Though his muscles tensed and twitched, he needed no sorcerous motions. Evan stared at his partner: that face, that body, the voice and scent he knew so well. Silently, Evan strained against his bonds, but only to project emotion… and intent.

Like the others, Sunday inhaled with new strength. Her jaw set. She rolled her head and shoulders, partly straightened—and threw a new look of defiance at her captors as they finished bickering. “Your shitty cologne hits harder than your punch, you poncy fuck,” she told Aaron.

“Enough,” Harry repeated. “Aaron, get out. You two, take him. You, help me with her.”

Someone effortlessly hauled Evan upright, and then someone else took up the legs of his chair. The two vampires carried him out of the room with Harry and another picking up Sunday to do the same.

Conversation and music flowed from the club’s main floor into the hallway—canned music this time, no longer the live ensemble. Evan didn’t see Amber, Onyx, or Molly as he and Sunday were hauled out, bringing him new concerns and new frustrations. Shit. Another minute and we could’ve made a break for it together. Where’d those assholes take them?

The guards dragged Evan to the foot of the stage, where the main curtain now hung closed. More guests had arrived since Evan’s first look. He saw the same pale complexions and outdated fashions, though a few vampires looked newer than the rest. The more modern among them seemed relegated to the corners and the far side of the bar in a show of hierarchy a stranger couldn’t miss.

From his new vantage point, Evan also saw into the bar. Ordinary liquor bottles lined the shelves, but along the bottom shelf he saw large crimson tanks—and a vampire holding up a limp, pale man in denim and flannel. Plastic tubes ran from the man’s wrists to the top of one tank, trailing the last drops of the dead man’s blood.

A bartender pulled the IVs from the other man’s arms. Another vampire hauled away the body with little effort. Evan lost sight of them amid the shuffle of guests around the bar and the guards around the prisoners.

“Don’t worry,” said Uzi, following Evan’s gaze. “We’ll put all of you in stock, too. Might pull a top shelf price, what with the magic and all.”

“Yeah, we gotta dole it out slow.” Shotgun dumped Sunday into the chair on Evan’s left. She didn’t resist, but he was rough about it, anyway. “Can’t wait for this one. She’s been around longer than I have. Must be something good in those veins. Tempted to call in all my markers for her.”

“They’ll make you pay up your tab here first.” Then Uzi paused, straightened, and reached for his coat pocket. “Hold on.” He brought an outdated phone with an antenna to his ear. “Joey? No, it’s not too late here. How’s Tunisia? Wait, hold on: we knew they might cut your lines…” Uzi wandered away, leaving the others to stand watch.

With arrangements finished and guards out of the way, most of the patrons took a casual interest in the prisoners at the foot of the stage. Evan saw cruel grins and crueler laughter. He saw amusement. Hunger. Smiles with fangs.

He also saw practiced poses, dated clothing he recognized from movies and television, overstated jewelry, and fake laughter showing off those fangs. Every powerful statement of body language and tone held a barely subtle preoccupation of am-I-being-watched.

Predators, he conceded, but: Tacky predators.

“You good?” Sunday asked quietly.

“Yeah. Looked worse than it was.” Evan gave her all the attention he could spare, from his sight to his thoughts. He reached for their trust and intimacy. He brought all that care and desire to the fore and then closed his eyes to imagine her body covered in tiny protective stars. The armor knit together over her body with only a tremor of effort in his gut. “Alright. You’re suited up.”

“Thanks.” She looked around. “I dunno where they took the others.”

“Well,” Evan grumbled, “I had a plan.”

“Go with what we’ve got. I trust you.” The faintest grin cracked when he looked back at her, and then she rolled her eyes. “Okay, yeah, it’s more than trust.”

That was far more empowering than any stars.

“Hey, who’s watching them?” Harry snapped from the corner of the bar. Nick turned, along with Shotgun, Uzi, and others. Instantly, vampires stood watch over Sunday and Evan with Harry scowling deeply at them. “They’re dangerous. Don’t take your eyes off ’em for a second.”

“You did, pendejo,” said Sunday.

“Shut up,” Harry grumbled, and then nodded to some signal across the room. “They’re here.”

“Already?” asked Nick. “What was that, ten minutes? Fifteen?”

“Everyone,” called Mr. Solomon, making his way to the front. He tapped his cane on the ground twice to demand attention, though the club had gone nearly silent. Like so many others, he looked around more to pose than to observe. “Our guests have arrived. You know your roles. Places, everyone.”

Most vampires stayed where they were. A few shuffled around, pulling weapons from inside their jackets or purses and then resettling them out of sight but in easy reach. Then they resumed their poses—turning toward the center of the room, some gently nudging past others, everyone eager to be visible.

Evan had no Hollywood aspirations, but he’d grown up in LA. He tried a drama class, had been a film extra as part of school fundraisers. He had actor friends. He knew this scene.

Oh god. The ones who aren’t agents are the wannabes who cared more about becoming famous than they cared about acting. And now they’re vampires.

We are not going out like this.

Solomon returned to Vivienne, and together then moved to the other end of the club. Evan couldn’t see much other than the opening door, but a strong, familiar voice sent new tension from his neck to his gut. “Solomon, thank you for your call,” Anatole declared. “Vivienne, always good to see you.”

For all their posing and need to be noticed, the crowd of vampires also wanted to listen. Bodies and furniture cut down on the acoustics, but Evan heard pleasantries and names: Jan, Elizabeth, Terrence. Then he heard a new name: “This is Mr. Butler. He’s consulting me on a related matter,” said Anatole.

“Of course. Welcome,” said Solomon. “Shall we cut to it, then?”

“Please,” said Anatole.

Breathe, Evan remembered. His dread took only one step backward, but it mattered. This isn’t the basement. You’ve got this. Breathe.

The group came forward, all of them confident, alert, and well-dressed. Context and comments from Sunday made most of the entourage easy enough to identify. Evan would never forget Anatole’s face, though now he saw a subtle, timeless, porcelain-like quality to his features and the small trail of dirt from his steps. Blood stained Anatole’s suit at the breast, right where the inner pocket would be. A soft light at Anatole’s hand drew Evan’s notice to a dark ring veined with an orange glow, reminding him of the ifrit in the tower. The oddities stood out like every other sign of magic Evan had seen in recent nights—suggesting few others saw them at all.

Anatole’s proud smile turned to concern and a comment to Solomon: “I thought you had him gagged. He may be a sorcerer.”

“We believe he is, given the trouble he caused my people,” said Solomon. “However, as you can see, he is restrained and under close watch.”

“It’s dangerous to let sorcerers speak.”

“I agree,” said Vivienne. “One never knows what terrible things might come out of their mouths. Magic. Secrets. Betrayal.”

The one person who fit neither his memories nor Sunday’s descriptions filled Evan with new dread. Mr. Butler stood tall, broad-shouldered, and fit in a nice suit like the rest. He bore shadowy features that seemingly no one else noticed: curling horns from his forehead, leathery wings that passed through the people around him, and a tail with a spade-like tip.

Oh shit, thought Evan. Oh fucking shit.

“So be it. We’re here now,” said Anatole. “Sunday, nice to see you. Mr. Murphy, I told you we would meet again.” He spread his hands wide. “As you can see, it helps to have friends.”

Butler stepped closer, breaking the line with the others to look Evan over with interest. “Curious. That’s so familiar.”

“Mr. Butler? You know our guest?” asked Solomon.

“Not personally, no. We’ve never met. It’s the spark in his eyes, a light from… long ago.” Butler folded his arms. “You’re no angel, so why do you bring them to mind?”

No one else came so close, and no one else had the same kind of alarming details in Evan’s vision. He was prepared to see Anatole again. The demon was on another level. Evan sensed power and resilience, along with something all too discerning in Butler’s expression. He held eye contact in part to keep Butler’s attention off Sunday, but whether the demon read his mind or merely had his own thoughts, Butler’s gaze shifted.

“Hello, Sunday. I was sent by a mutual acquaintance to check on you. Your abrupt parting leaves him indisposed for a while, but he doesn’t want to lose his investment.”

“Indisposed?” Sunday seemed to know what she faced. “So how long do I beat your ass before he shows up to get his?”

“Now, now, this is nothing personal. Only business. It’s a chaotic time for my kind. Someone with your abilities and longevity is extraordinarily valuable.” Butler gave Evan a frowning glance. “Your aspiring lover, on the other hand, is pure complication.”

“Way to spoil it, jackass,” Evan grumbled.

“Right? Now I really hate him,” said Sunday.

“Anatole, it’s interesting that you mention friendship,” said Solomon. “Our association with you has been valuable for decades. Few in the night show us the sort of respect and trust you have extended. We were glad to consider you a friend. Then we met Mr. Murphy tonight. Anatole, would you like to tell us about your dispute with him, or perhaps how you met?”

Anatole’s cheer faded. “Why do you ask, Mr. Solomon?”

“We would be foolish to engage in any dispute without first learning all we could. Mr. Murphy tells us a lively story about a basement filled with treasure. He says those treasures once belonged to Cornelius.”

The name pulled Evan’s attention from Butler. Vampires sat in booths and stood at the margins all around. Solomon, Vivienne, and Anatole’s entourage stood in a slight arc between the foot of the stage and the bar. Evan sensed magic from Jan and Elizabeth, marked by that same faint porcelain sheen he saw on Anatole. The pair also held impeccable poker faces. Terrence, too, had the glimmer and hum of magic, but he was easier to read. Though he mostly played it cool, Terrence watched the crowd as if he alone sensed a looming ambush.

“And you believe the word of a sorcerer?” asked Anatole. “A stranger, at that?”

“Certain details aid his credibility, and he has Sunday’s corroboration.”

“Ah. This is a confrontation,” said Butler. “That explains the audience and all the show business. I’m sorry,” he said, hands up at Solomon’s raised brow. “Please continue.”

“Mr. Butler, apart from your association with Anatole, we have no idea who you are,” said Solomon.

“Mr. Butler comes to us from the Pit, Mr. Solomon,” said Anatole. “I would encourage the highest possible hospitality.”

Though too pale to blanch, Solomon wasn’t the only vampire to show a crack in their confidence.

Mr. Butler smiled amiably. “He helps me get what I want, and I help him until that happens. Make of that all the threat you wish. I’m here for Sunday alone, although as I say, Evan here is a complication I need resolved, too. I’m glad to find him incapacitated. He’s not something I can leave running around.” His brow knit with a curious thought. “Are there any other complications you are waiting to reveal before we resolve your dispute?”

Solomon flicked a glance to Vivienne, who nodded in response. Then Solomon waved to Nick, looming at the edge of the stage.

The pit in Evan’s stomach deepened. He was ready to fight Anatole, and his entourage, and any vampires who got in the way. The demon presented an enemy he didn’t know—and one who seemed to know him all too well with only a good look.

Shotgun pulled the cord to open the stage curtain.

Butler smiled with the first squeaky pull and the parting of fabric—and dropped his smile with the next. “Oh… no,” he breathed.

Evan twisted in his seat. Amber sat at the center of the stage, still bound to the same chair. Onyx and Molly sat at either side, all likewise secured, and each with a vampire guard standing behind them. The sight of them unhurt brought Evan a pang of relief. All three stared back in a mixture of vigilance and grim resolve.

“We found these ladies with Murphy and Sunday,” said Solomon. “Like them, these three made a fuss about joining us tonight. Several of my people are no longer with us as a result. Two ladies are sorcerers. The one in the middle is with the FBI, which means Anatole’s fiascos have drawn an additional element that we cannot tolerate.”

Only Evan and Sunday were close enough to hear Butler mutter, “Shit.”

“Mr. Butler?” asked Vivienne. “Do you know these women?”

“By reputation… and connection to a great deal more chaos.” Butler grimaced, looking from the stage to Sunday, Evan, and back again as if doing math. “This is now too complicated.”

“What’s on your mind, Mr. Butler?” asked Anatole.

“A cost-benefit analysis, you might say,” Butler replied. “Any one element may have been worth the risk, but in total...” Butler stepped back and turned to the others. “Anatole, our business is concluded. Mr. Solomon, I appreciate hospitality, so in return I offer this advice: Release them all immediately, apologize, and go start a new life far, far away. Goodnight.” Butler slipped through Anatole’s entourage, heading for the exit.

“Mr. Butler, what—where are you going?” asked Anatole. “Sunday is right here!”

“And no longer worth the cost of investment. Don’t worry, we may meet again all too soon.” With that, Butler walked out the door.

Silence held as Anatole looked on. His entourage mindfully watched the vampires. In the gap, Evan twisted for another look at the stage. Amber seemed as confused as anyone. Onyx and Molly shared a glance that somehow shrugged.

“Aw, pobrecito.” Sunday’s voice turned Anatole’s head. “Did you lose another friend? Seems to happen to you a lot lately.”

“Agreed,” said Vivienne. “Anatole, I believe we were discussing friendship.”

Despite his surprise, Anatole gathered himself. “You leveled an accusation based on the word of an enemy.”

“Is he wrong? Answer carefully, darling,” said Vivienne.

“Murphy stole from me, repeatedly and dearly. He snuck into my party in the Hills, where I worked to keep the peace in the night. He stole and he killed.”

“Yes, we heard,” said Vivienne. “He killed Claude and your pet police detective after your party, correct? Claude was one of our people.”

“Then you believe a murderer?”

Vivienne laughed. “We’re all murderers here, darling.”

He turned to Solomon. “Did he offer any evidence? We’re talking about the word of a… Why are you looking to her?” Anatole wondered, and then turned back as he understood.

“Fair is fair, Anatole,” said Vivienne. “You’ve lost your façade, so we’ll drop ours—between friends.”

Anatole’s eyes narrowed. He dropped any remaining pretense for a colder, cagier tone. “Did they tell you they stole it all? Or what they did with it? They killed even more of your people when they robbed me the second time.”

“We suspected as much. Who do you think covered the mess you all left with your chase through the Hills? We knew you were hit that night. The rest is clear now.”

“Then what did they do with it all?”

“We’ll ask them about that later, when we’re not so distracted.”

“You didn’t call me to hand them over,” said Anatole. “And you don’t think we’re walking out of here.”

“No. I don’t see why we’d allow any of that,” said Vivienne.

Motion rippled through the room as vampires produced weapons ranging from blades to submachine guns. Though Anatole’s entourage watched vigilantly, none of them flinched.

“Perhaps you haven’t thought matters through,” said Anatole. “Or maybe Solomon hasn’t told you everything from our meetings with the rest of the night life. Act rashly if you wish, but tonight won’t work out well for you, and then I won’t be your only problem. I’m the reason you’ve had so few clashes with the neighbors while you feud with Teng and Felicia. The werewolves, the ifrit, sorcerer circles—I’ve kept them off your back. They will not be indifferent to an attack upon me.”

“Your fake friends are all dead,” said Evan.

Anatole’s eyes snapped to him. Anyone not preoccupied with a weapon and a target followed. Sunday nodded. “Tell him.”

“Sergio’s dead,” said Evan. “His whole pack is gone. Uthman’s gone, and all his ifrit, and all his ghuls. That book you stole for him is back where it belongs. Aminah knows your scam. All those goons at Christian’s house are gone and so is he. The dog’s loose. Your pet cop is dead. The loot’s all gone and we dumped all those ashes off Santa Monica Pier. Sunday’s free from your demon deal. I dunno the deal with your other demon buddy, but he just fucked off out of here, too, and now the vampires know what a little shit you really are.”

Trembling rage built behind Anatole’s eyes with every hit. His jaw hardened. Veins stood out from his forehead to his neck.

“Friends gotta actually care about each other for friendship to be worth a damn,” Evan finished.

“Now imagine if you’d just let the rando at your party go,” said Sunday. “Makes you wonder how many other things you fucked up, don’t it?”

Anatole roared—and grew. In an instant, he gained a foot in height, equal growth in muscle, and sharp black claws at the end of his enlarged and hairy hands. A single powerful swipe caught Sunday across the face and neck, breaching magical armor and bone. Before Evan could react, Anatole rammed his foot into Evan’s chest to send him flying into the foot of the stage. The chair bent and collapsed with Evan still bound.

On stage, Amber’s heart leaped into her throat. Words caught up to her mind a second later, spoken under the shouts and the crash: “Dror, eleutheria, libertas,” Molly hissed, and then again as people shouted. Amber heard it from Onyx, too: “Dror, eleutheria, libertas.”

“Stop!” Vivienne snapped with a voice of authority, though she sensibly stepped back. Her eyes flared red with power. Vampires tensed and aimed weapons, waiting only for an order to attack. “Control yourself, Anatole!”

“Control? Is that a command?” Anatole snarled, suddenly bestial but unlike the full transformation of werewolves. He kept a human face and shape, now with hair near the thickness of fur to match the claws at his hands. His followers turned outward, facing Vivienne’s subordinates. “You think you rule me, little corpse? You think yourself better?”

“Dror, eleutheria, libertas,” the witches slipped in beneath his rage.

“Oh god, no.” Evan thrashed and fought to turn himself over in the chair. A desperate, wrenching lunge brought him to his side on the floor. He found Sunday in the same position—with her head limp and pool of blood spreading beneath it. “No!”

“Hey, quiet, you.” Harry crossed from the corner of the stage to pin Evan’s head to the floor with his foot—though like every other vampire, his eyes and his weapon stayed on their furious guest.

Evan almost didn’t notice. The sight of Sunday clutched at his heart harder than last time—Last time, he told himself. She’s immortal. She’ll get up from this. Later. It’s not over.

The sight terrified him regardless. It still hurt. And it still left him alone.

You’ve got this. You know how it works. Maybe you can fix it.

“You are a guest and an ally of questionable loyalty,” Vivienne shot back. “You are surrounded by predators. Brute displays will not help you here. Calm down.”

“You see only a display?” Anatole seethed.

The charcoal-colored ring around his finger broke loose. Anatole’s veins glowed with orange light before he roared again.

Vivienne dove away as Anatole’s fists swept up with broad arcs of flame like long, thick whips. Her path put Solomon between herself and danger, leaving him to ignite along with Shotgun and another guard beside him. Shouts and gunshots added to the cacophony as the arcing flames continued outward, burning down more vampires. Harry dropped behind Evan to avoid their fate.

On the stage, Amber matched Vivienne’s instincts with distance in her favor. She hooked her feet under the leg of Molly’s chair and tugged hard while wrenching herself toward Onyx on her other side. All three wound up on the floor of the stage when the flames hit.

Lowered angles and magical armor mitigated the burn for the prisoners, though all three shouted or growled in pain. Their guards suffered much worse. The vampires collapsed in shrieking flames, undead flesh catching fire even faster than their clothes.

Amber’s position also blocked part of her view. The lip of the stage covered up the floor and whatever happened to Evan while everyone else dove into battle. Gunfire erupted through the rest of the nightclub, centered on Anatole and his entourage. Anatole’s sudden growth made him an easier target for bullets that seemed to harm only his clothes. Embers burst from hit after hit, but nothing drew blood. He seemed unhurt as he swatted the next nearby guard away.

Terrence ducked for cover at the bar and pulled a wand from his sleeve. Jan and Elizabeth bit at something already in their teeth and turned to either side, growing fur and mass as they moved. Like Anatole, neither reached the bestial form of true werewolves, but hirsute brawn and claws developed in the space of a breath. Each attacked the nearest vampire with a gun.

“Damn,” Harry fumed, rising from behind Evan. His .45 added to the cacophony and made no more difference than the other guns.

“Dror, eleutheria, libertas,” Molly hissed behind Amber. “Dror, eleutheria, libertas. Dror, eleutheria, libertas—yeah!”

Rope and tape let go of Molly all at once. She kicked free of her bonds and the chair, turning for the vampires behind her. Burning flesh already crumbled to ash, letting her pat at their clothes without harm. The first search didn’t yield what she needed; the next sent Molly’s hand into ash-filled trousers. Keys jingled in her grip as she renewed her chant.

Beside Amber, Onyx rolled free. Amber knew they wouldn’t forget her. She didn’t ask for help, but that only left her to wince and pray against stray bullets and ricochets that flew all too close.

Denim and big hair flew over the bar as the vampire with the butterfly knives tackled Anatole, saving Vivienne from grasping claws. Strength and weight staggered Anatole by a few steps, but the knives plunging into his chest and down through his shoulder seemed irrelevant. Then the vampire bit his enemy’s neck—and screamed.

Anatole shoved him off, revealing a nasty gash and spilling embers. His hand glowed as he touched the wound. The vampire’s mouth glowed too, and his head, soon becoming another open flame on the floor. Others kept shooting to little effect.

Useless, Evan thought beneath Harry’s booming pistol. The vampires are useless. Barely a distraction. Not doing any good, and you’re like a flipped turtle on the freeway.

Sunday laid still. Bound. Bloodied. Dead.

A ring of keys dropped to the floor right in front of his face. His bonds went slack. So did Sunday’s, releasing her limp body from the chair.

“Hey, dipshit,” came a feminine voice above Evan, and then Harry shrieked in pain. Evan twisted to see Onyx reaching into Harry’s scalp, pulling him back by locks of hair. Some fierce effect of magic blurred her black-clad arm.

“Evan?” Amber shouted, looking over the edge of the stage.

“No.” Anatole turned from his pursuit of Vivienne, who huddled behind an overturned table inside a booth. He glowed and roared, “No, Murphy is mine!”

Bullets and blades meant nothing to him. Vampire fangs barely hurt. Onyx let Harry collapse to face Anatole, but Evan couldn’t leave her to handle him by herself.

Gotta try. All you’ve got. Now.

Evan dug deep and clenched his fists. He rolled up, power gathering, and met Anatole with a firm swing.

Anatole caught one fist, but winced at the impact. Evan’s other arm was also in motion already, though Anatole blocked it with his much thicker wrist—and gasped as Evan opened his handful of starlight. Evan strained heedlessly into the whole-body muscle pull and burning nerves of magical overload to reach the light of the nearest and brightest star.

Gunfire died out amid shrieks of terror.

“Stop,” Anatole demanded, twisting Evan’s arm hard enough to break it, but his strength ebbed as the vampires howled. A cloud of ash burst from Anatole’s skin, like dirt snapped from a loose towel, burning out some aspect of magic within him. Anatole lost leverage, too, as the light forced him to turn away and close his eyes.

Vampires across the club scrambled, tripped, and fell, smoking and crumbling to ash with every motion. Weapons clattered to the floor. Screams ended with a choke or a trailing cry. Some, like Vivienne, pulled a table or some other furniture over themselves for cover. The defense did little good. Reflections from glass and brass created too many angles of harm.

Sunlight blazed for only seconds. It was all Evan could manage.

Anatole flung him against the foot of the stage. His breath ran ragged, but his hairy bulk, claws, and the glow of heat in his veins persisted. He blinked away the glare in his eyes. “You think… you think that helped you? What did this accomplish?”

The glare left Onyx blinking, too. Amber recovered faster. Her position didn’t offer much; the guards were down and their weapons laid freely available, but she had seen how much good guns did in this fight. She had no magic or supernatural power. Instead, she knew how to improvise.

“All these ashes are a fortune to me,” Anatole continued. He landed an awkward, half-effective stomp on Evan’s leg before his vision fully recovered. “I’ll still profit after all your⁠—”

Amber filled her hands with loose fabric. She whipped ash-filled jeans directly into Anatole’s face, enveloping his head in a grey cloud. He soaked up bullets and blades, but he still had to breathe and see. His rant at Evan turned to a cough.

“Oh hey,” said Molly. “Good idea.”

“Anatole?” called a rough voice from across the club. Jan and Elizabeth had plunged into the fight against vampires on opposite sides of the bar, smashing and clawing with their bestial strength. With their enemies wiped out, they returned to aid their boss. “The witches,” Elizabeth warned. “They’re loose!”

“Yup.” Molly waved her hands, left over right in flat, counterclockwise circles with her lips pursed in a breathy whistle. Her third quick circle ended with her hands outstretched to Elizabeth. Sudden winds churned from all directions. Elizabeth crossed the bar into a small cyclone of broken glass and vampire ash. The vortex instantly blinded and turned her from her chosen path. She bumped into the nearby booth while Molly kept her enveloped.

Lacking a wand, Onyx had to rely on stiff arms and focus to channel her power at the other charging enemy. She had killed with this spell before, piercing an enemy’s mind and crushing them with her will. It hurt her every time. It was easier when close to home, too.

Jan stumbled and caught himself against the bar. He didn’t fall. He didn’t die.

One more enemy at the bar cleared his vision and took in the change of fortune. Terrence had to duck for cover between the stools to escape the earlier storm of bullets. Now he could stand freely, wand in hand. Both of the witches poured concentration and focus into their magic, giving him a clear shot. Quick, rote motions from his free hand joined rapid words: “Fulgur mortuuugh!”

The butterfly knife plunged deep into his neck, but broke off on exit. Terrence collapsed with his eyes wide, clutching his wound in a dire panic. “Basura,” his attacker grunted, leaving Terrence to bleed out alone.

Bad turns and a face full of ashes left Anatole open for a critical instant. Evan drove his free fist into Anatole’s side with another dim flash of white light and power. Anatole jerked stiffly and growled in pain. Lessons from street fights kept Evan going: he ducked Anatole’s natural counter-attack, kicked hard at the bigger man’s shin, planted another jab at the gut, then a third blow under Anatole’s arm. Each strike flashed with magic.

Though staggered and hurt, Anatole fought back. He swung at Evan with his veins bright, once again trailing an arc of fire from his fist. Evan dodged the punch, but the flames caught him with kinetic force all their own. He felt the remaining strength of his starry armor shatter with the blow as he wound up on the floor, hurting from head to toe.

He pushed himself up, ready to fight with nothing left—and then blinked.

“I’ll render your limbs while you watch.” Anatole’s veins dimmed, but his bulk and bestial aspects remained. “I’ll wring every last drop of stolen power from your bones!”

A booted foot swung up from between Anatole’s legs, slamming into his groin with the same white flash as Evan’s punches. Anatole buckled and gasped.

Evan lunged with a wild right hook in defiance of all his inner pain. The punch landed squarely between jaw and cheek to flash white with another discharge of magic. Anatole reeled and turned all the way around for escape—directly into Sunday.

Bullets from all across the nightclub had barely harmed Anatole. The shotgun Sunday jabbed under his chin was a different matter. Lead and embers exploded through the top of his skull and sent him into a listing, groaning stagger. Sunday pumped and fired the shotgun again, blasting through Anatole’s lower back with the same effect. Her third pump of the weapon preceded a dry click of the trigger.

Anatole fell to his knees. Though he lost little blood and his head glowed at top and bottom to fuse the gaps, Anatole seemed to deflate and dim before their eyes.

“Motherfucker, you ain’t djinn,” said Sunday, covered in her own blood but whole once again. “You ain’t a werewolf, either. What is this shit?”

“Think he’s—” Evan coughed and then winced at the pain it caused. “Nngh. I think it’s stolen power somehow. He used a bunch of trinkets and he smells like dead shit.”

“Anatole,” Jan hissed through blood pouring from his nose. He grabbed a bar stool and flung it hard at Onyx. “No!”

Sunday snatched the stool out of the air. Evan snapped one hand up in a finger-gun gesture, shooting a star through Jan’s chest. Both men flinched with pain, but Evan’s overtaxed body would recover. Jan fell dead on the floor.

Across the room, Elizabeth still struggled in the whirlwind of ashes and debris. Like Onyx, Molly lacked her usual strength. Amber had seen her wreak more havoc than this. Though hindered, Elizabeth got a handle on her predicament and a sense of direction. She tore the table from a booth to partly shield herself from the storm. “Molly, how can I help?” asked Amber.

“I dunno, shoot her, maybe,” Molly suggested, still gesturing and focused.

“That didn’t work before. We can’t capture and arrest—?” Amber dropped the question when Elizabeth charged the stage with the table as a shield. She didn’t have much faith in bullets, but the Tommy gun was right at her feet. Molly bought her just enough time.

Elizabeth dumped the table and leaped onto the stage straight into fully automatic gunfire. This time, bullets tore away clothing and flesh as designed. She fell to her knees in a bloody mess, her brawn suddenly limp and her eyes empty of rage. In a gasping breath, wrinkles spread across her face. “He said… he said we’d live forev…”

The words died along with her.

The racket of battle ended with Amber’s gunfire and Molly’s winds. Only wheezing breath and coughs from Anatole filled the gap. He stayed on his hands and knees, turned away from his foes, trying to recover.

Sunday pointed to Jan. “Why didn’t you start with that?” she asked Evan.

“What?” he rasped.

“The shooty star thing. Why didn’t you just shoot Anatole?”

“I didn’t have the juice.” Evan kept a hand around his stomach, breathing hard but holding together. At least this time he knew what to expect. “Wore myself out bringing you back.”

“You did?” Sunday looked around the shattered, ashen nightclub. “How long was I out?”

“Like a minute?” Evan guessed. She blinked in surprise. He shrugged. “I faked a sunrise.”

“God damn. No wonder I feel like shit.”

Anatole coughed hard, spitting a glob of blood onto the debris-covered floor.

“Hey there.” Amber slipped off the stage with another gun in hand, training it on Anatole. “Are you two okay?”

“Sort of,” said Sunday.

“I’ll manage.” Evan found Molly and Onyx watching from the stage, still wary and ready.

“Listen, I know it’s crazy, but I gotta try to do this the legal way,” said Amber. “He’s down. No more threat. Bucket of crimes.”

“Oh, come on,” Sunday objected. “You can’t hold this asshole.”

“We might,” said Amber.

“Yes,” Anatole coughed. “Agent… correct? You’re FBI? I can tell you… so much…”

“You mean snitch on every spooky in the city?” asked Sunday. “Or trade all this fucked-up magic you used here to the feds?”

“I don’t like that,” said Molly.

“At all,” echoed Onyx.

“Oh, I’ll cooperate fully.” Broken glass crunched beneath Anatole as he wiped his hand across his mouth, still turned away from everyone. “In fact, you’ll see I was… under duress. I did nothing wrong.”

“This motherfucker put a demon in me,” said Sunday.

“Exactly the duress I cite,” said Anatole. “You all saw the demon. He served Nahash, who in turn forced me to⁠—”

“Dude’s full of shit,” said Evan.

“Yeah. He is,” Onyx confirmed.

“Yup,” echoed Molly.

“He’s down and out,” said Amber. “We can’t just murder him.”

“I ain’t about murdering fools, either,” said Sunday. “Handing him over to the FBI is a whole different sort of stupid. Maybe you’re cool with us, but the system ain’t. Am I wrong?”

Amber grimaced. “No. You’re not.”

“What’s a third option?” asked Evan. “Seriously. I’m not cool with executions, but this asshole is nothing but pain. What fixes it?”

“We know other people,” said Sunday.

“Or… hear me out.” Anatole steadied on his hands and knees, no longer struggling to breathe. He shifted to his side and turned, hands up, until he could stand. Blood and ash stained his diplomatic smile—and, Evan noticed, his oddly large canines. “I came this far through trade and diplomacy. I have knowledge and power. We can make a deal for⁠—”

Evan blasted him with starlight from both hands. White orbs tore through Anatole’s chest, leaving him wide-eye and staggering backward. The crimson glow left his eyes.

Anatole fell on his back, trailing smoke. A broken glass vial of blood and ash fell from his hands, matching the stain on his mouth. He didn’t move again.

The magic left Evan wincing with pain, but he coped and turned to the others. “He did the creepy glowing vampire eye thing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I saw,” Amber sighed. Her shoulders dropped. “We tried. That’s enough.”

Sunday’s gaze fell toward the floor. Evan looked at her with concern, wondering about the weight of the moment and all she’d been through. Wordlessly, Sunday claimed a fallen pistol from amid the wreckage.

The weapon still held three bullets. She confirmed that by firing all of them into Anatole’s head and chest. The lifeless body jerked and shed blood as nature demanded, now devoid of magic and defenses. Then it was her turn to explain herself: “I fuckin’ hated that dude.”

Amber shrugged. Molly and Onyx said nothing.

Sunday looked to Evan and found only the same trust as always. She leaned her head into his shoulder and threw her arms around him. Evan forgot how much his body hurt.

26

RED SHIFT

“Nobody heard a thing? All that gunfire, and nothing?” asked Amber. They’d exited carefully after sweeping the interior, finding no more enemies or “blood donors.” Outside, the parking lot held only cars. The valets and security were nowhere to be seen. Ambient noise from the street seemed utterly normal.

“Apartments within sight, too,” Molly agreed. Past the parking lot wall and scattered trees, a three-story complex stood near enough to see through the windows.

“Concrete and soundproofing in the club,” said Onyx. “No windows, late night, most people passing by were in cars. The fight didn’t last long.”

“Neighbors probably know to shut up, too,” said Sunday. “If you hear something, no, you didn’t.”

Amber’s shoulders fell. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Sunday stayed wary and ready for skulking threats. They were in no shape for another fight. Her scan took in the whole parking lot, including her companions. “Evan?”

He felt better as soon as they got outside. Fresh air made an immediate difference, but that wasn’t all. The night felt comfortable. Normal. Countless stars shining over the city and all its light pollution felt normal now, too.

“Hey.” He didn’t raise his voice to the stars. “We did it. Guess you can probably tell, huh?”

The stars shined. She heard.

“Evan?” Sunday put a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. We’re not done.” Evan spotted Harry’s convertible nearby. “Our stuff might be in the trunk. We need to find Barstow.”

“About that,” said Amber, walking with him. Evan winced, remembering all the complications she brought into this.

“Woof,” interrupted a newcomer. The whole group turned, facing the inner corner of the parking lot and the huge, happy black dog trotting up to them. “Woof!”

“Hey!” Evan and Sunday crouched to greet her. “How are you here? Did you follow us?”

“Where’s the book?” Sunday scratched Barstow’s head, but her eyes were already alert.

“The book is safe.” Omar ventured out from behind a car, open hands mindfully where they could be seen. “Hello. We, ah…” He considered his response with a wary look at the other three women. “Sorry. We’ve only been here a few minutes, and I suspected some trick. Barstow seemed confident. Are you alright?”

“Mostly, thanks,” said Sunday.

“Friendly?” asked Molly.

“Djinn,” said Onyx, eyes narrow in scrutiny.

“Yeah,” said Evan. “Omar’s a friend. Omar, this is Onyx, Molly, and Agent Amber, FBI.”

Amber sighed and nodded in confirmation. “ID’s in the trunk. Hopefully.”

“She’s… in the loop on magical stuff,” Sunday explained once she found the words. “Got grabbed with us. Cool so far, but we haven’t really talked. Shit hit the fan too fast.”

“Hi, Barstow,” said Molly.

“Hey, don’t skip around us to talk to our—dog,” Sunday groaned as Barstow affectionately pushed past her with a wagging tail for her new friend.

“Yes, hi, you’re a good girl.” Molly greeted her with a hand out to allow sniffs and then ruffled Barstow’s furry head. “I’m not asking her to snitch. It’s fine.”

“Hold on,” said Omar. “I don’t want to assume too much from the way you’re all acting. Are we safe here? This isn’t exactly friendly territory.”

“Vampires are dead. Anatole and his buddies, too,” said Sunday. “And Sergio’s pack, and Uthman and his ghuls and at least some of his ifrit. It’s been a night.”

“Apparently.” Omar blinked in surprise.

“There were still a few vamps out here,” noted Onyx, watching him.

“Were,” Omar agreed. He glanced to Amber. “They were all alarmed at whatever went on inside just as I arrived. Barstow and I⁠—”

“You want to be careful what you say,” warned Evan, eyes rolling to Amber again.

Omar took the hint. “They aren’t here now.”

“Did you jump some mean vampires from the shadows?” Molly scratched behind Barstow’s ears. “Is that ash on your paw?”

“Woof,” Barstow confirmed happily.

“Barstow,” Evan groaned.

“Nah, it’s fine. They’re vampires,” said Molly.

“You know that’s not how it works,” grumbled Amber. “They still have rights. I have to give them the same chances I give everyone. Until they kidnap us, anyway.” She looked to Omar. “That’s why it’s fine. Mostly. If you came to help us, thanks.”

Omar gave the slightest, legally deniable nod and said nothing.

“Evan, we all went through this tonight,” said Amber. “I can see you’re a good guy, and you, too,” she added to Sunday. “We watch a few of these guys in a criminal investigation. That’s how we saw Anatole’s hit on you. That was about the same time everyone started seeing stars; we’ve got a Practitioner working with us who saw them, too.”

“Kind of a Practitioner,” Onyx mumbled. “Not us.”

“Criminal investigation?” Sunday asked skeptically.

“There’s no laws against magic or monsters, but you still can’t kill or eat people,” said Amber. “My team deals with the overlap. And yes, it’s a secret, and yes, it’s complicated.”

Sunday and Omar shared a wary look. Molly and Onyx nodded in sympathy.

“We didn’t know about Anatole,” said Amber. “We didn’t know you, but we knew monsters wanted you dead. We needed to figure out what was going on. I did my research. Your dad and your boss stonewalled us, but I can guess what they’re like. Then Crosby turned up dead, and then we had that chase and the shootout. You get why we had to look into this, right?”

“My dad beat me and threw me out,” said Evan. “Cops would bring me back home to go through it all again. They’d need to end their shift, or close a file, or they had bigger problems, so they didn’t hang around to stop the next ass-kicking. They didn’t even ask.”

“Yeah.” Amber sighed. “Yeah, I had a feeling it played out like that. I’m sorry.”

“You seem cool,” said Evan. “You probably are cool. It’s not about you. Anything I say to you doesn’t stop with you, does it?”

“No. No, it goes to someone else with a file to close.” Amber looked to her friends, finding only tactful silence—and a raised brow from Onyx. Then Amber nodded and turned back. “Okay. Nobody’s got a lawyer here. You don’t have to answer and I wouldn’t blame you, but I’ve gotta ask: Did Crosby work for Anatole?”

“Yes.” Evan’s jaw set. His eyes held off Amber’s next question. He debated in silence, and then: “Frank Crosby caught me when I tried to repo the car. I put my hands up, no resistance. He supervised while his guys beat me. He watched Anatole beat me worse. They explicitly planned to kill me. Crosby shot me when I escaped. If it wasn’t for the magic, I’d be dead. That’s the cop everyone’s crying about.”

“Who killed him?” asked Amber.

Evan didn’t answer. Amber nodded and asked, “All those guys in that chase—they worked for Anatole, too?”

“All of ’em,” said Sunday. “Fuckin’ trash, every single one.”

“You were at that apartment tower to recover some stolen belongings?” asked Amber. “It looked like the werewolves and ifrit and ghuls mostly fought each other.”

“They did,” said Evan.

“Is this all over?” asked Amber. “The chases and the fighting?”

“God, I hope so,” said Evan.

“Then it all sounds like an unfortunate case of self-defense to me.”

“Self-defense? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

It was the first time any of them heard Sanderson snap or shout. The team arrived fifteen minutes after Amber’s call, swept for bad guys, and then spread out to secure the scene while Sanderson got the first debrief. Marino ran crime scene tape across the open parking lot gate while Patrick watched the street for trouble. Nguyen and Bridger took the first spread of video and photos. Lanier had his laptop on a nearby car hood for an initial records check on the site.

They were all close enough to hear the boss. They all looked back.

“I mentioned the part where the vampires kidnapped us, right?” Amber had plenty of emotions leading to this conversation. By the time it arrived, she was too tired for half of them. The pair of friends watching only yards away helped. So did her general sense of resignation.

“That’s not where this started! The chase in the Hills wasn’t self-defense. They didn’t⁠—”

“We found them in flight from people trying to kill them,” Amber calmly interrupted.

“Which didn’t come out of nowhere, and neither did that thing at the apartment tower. You had suspects connected to multiple murders and a mass casualty event, and you let them go.”

“Most of those mass casualties have been dead a long time,” Molly put in, still leaning her butt on a car despite Nguyen’s admonishment. “Ghuls. Told you before.”

“I didn’t ask for your input,” said Sanderson.

“You literally pay for our input,” muttered Onyx.

“Murphy killed a cop, Maddox,” Sanderson pressed.

“No, LAPD has an anonymous tip saying he killed a cop,” said Amber. “We have zero physical evidence or witnesses to connect Murphy. By contrast, I heard multiple crime bosses allege that cop was dirty and that both the body and the allegation were planted. Murphy says Crosby tried to kill him over a car repo gone wrong. That lines up with everything I know and everything I heard from the others involved.”

“And the chase? The shootout? Murphy and this Sunday person robbed Christian Miller’s house!”

“We don’t have evidence to back that up. We know Murphy had a price on his head. Several of the people in that chase had mercenary and criminal backgrounds. As for any robbery, Christian Miller hasn’t reported or alleged anything. A criminal suspect, now dead, tacitly admitted to stealing the property in question from another criminal suspect, also dead. We have no sign of said property, nor legal ownership, nor anyone coming forward with details or a complaint. I’m not a lawyer, but that’s a pretty thin case against Murphy and Sunday.”

“You sound like you’ve appointed yourself their defense attorney,” said Sanderson.

Amber let out a breath and decided not to address any other questions about Murphy or Sunday unless Sanderson brought them up. “Investigations don’t always end in charges. Suspects turn out to be innocent all the time.”

“That’s not up to you to decide.”

“I was the agent on scene and I saw no justification for arrest. Mostly I saw and heard a lot of exculpatory evidence. A dirty cop tried to murder him and then everything turned into magic. What was he supposed to do? Turn himself in and hope for the best?”

“That’s not our fucking problem, Agent Maddox! Now we’ve got two people out there—three with this Omar person—who know about the task force, and all you saw was reason to let them go. No charges, no leverage over them. Nothing.”

“Leverage?” Onyx and Molly folded their arms and scowled.

“Is that what we do?” Amber nodded to the witches. “Is that why they work with us?”

“Look at the mess we’ve got,” Sanderson reiterated. “Along with that, I have a secret operation exposed to supernatural criminals and an agent not doing her job. You were supposed to arrest them, or at least delay them until back-up arrived and then we’d take them down.”

“You mean shoot them after they helped us? Again?” asked Amber.

“That’s—!” Sanderson bit back his first response. His eyes flared. “We’d find some way to charge and convict. That’s the task force. That’s the job.”

“I guess I care more about doing the right thing than whatever you think the job is,” said Amber.

“The right—? You’re fired,” said Sanderson. “Effective immediately. Badge, weapon, and ID. Now.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Amber handed over her ID wallet and gun without a fuss.

“Don’t access your email. Don’t return to the office. We’ll let you know when you can pick up your personal items. Your responsibilities and obligations to maintain secrecy and confidentiality are still in effect.”

“Had the script ready, huh?” She walked past him without a look back.

“We quit.” Molly pushed herself off the car. She walked backwards to make full eye contact with Sanderson as she flashed both middle fingers.

“The real bad guys are all dead and your suspects are better people than you,” said Onyx, walking with her. “That’s our final consultation. We expect full payment and expenses. After that, lose our numbers and email. Bye.”

The others watched in silence. Nguyen winced, but knew it was too late to fix anything.

Amber parted the crime scene tape for her friends at the gate. “Hey. You didn’t have to⁠—”

“We absolutely did,” said Onyx.

“This was always sketchy for us anyway,” said Molly.

“You said witchcraft usually doesn’t pay much.” Amber released the tape and turned from the gate to the residential street lined with parked cars.

“It doesn’t,” said Onyx. “We only signed up on the premise of doing the right thing. This isn’t that, so we’re out. We’ll be fine without the money.”

“Hey.” Molly stopped Amber and pulled her into a hug. “This sucks. We know you busted your ass for this job.”

“Even if it was always sketchy?” Amber asked into Molly’s shoulder.

“Life is sketchy,” said Onyx. “You did right and helped people. That’s what counts.”

A car door closed, drawing their attention to the street. Jason came around the hood to join them. He already knew what to expect—and, in fact, had beaten the task force to the site. “You okay?”

“I’m unemployed,” said Amber.

He nodded. “Quit, or fired?”

“Fired. Didn’t want to be the one who gave up.”

“Sorry I wasn’t there.”

“You were where I needed you. I had our friends,” said Amber.

He nodded in thanks to Molly and Onyx. “So,” said Jason. “Guess you’ve all got a couple days off, right?”

A black cat in the shadows watched them load into the car and drive away. In the parking lot of the club, the task force continued their work with video, photographs, phone calls, and notes. Sanderson finished one such call and brought the team together to venture into the nightclub.

The cat watched, and then slipped into the small driveway between the parking lot and the next business over. Omar resumed his human form with no one in view and pulled out his phone.

“Ommi, it’s me,” he told Aminah. “Sorry to keep you up. Everything is fine with our friends, but we have another problem.”

“I’ll tell you the problem.” Sunday leaned her head and shoulders on the wall. “I’m too sore and too wiped out to bang. Again.”

Numbers rose on the control panel as the elevator climbed. Evan’s magic had recovered enough on the way to the hotel to heal their injuries and clean them up, but he sympathized more than a little. Lingering tension kept him upright in contrast to Sunday’s steady unwinding. “For you, I’m sure I could manage.”

“Hah.” Sunday shook her head. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“If you’re sore, I could try healing you again.”

“Nah. Not sore like that, but… sore. Maybe it’s from resurrecting so early. Normally, it’s a complete bounce back. Never cheated the clock before. We’ll see how I feel in the morning.”

Fur and muscle bumped into their legs as Barstow turned in another curious circle. The ping at the end of their ride poked Evan’s worries again. He walked ahead of Sunday and Barstow, fist coiled and ready to cast if needed. One more door. One more threat to confront.

His worry fell away as they opened the hotel suite. No monsters or hitmen waited for them, nor had anyone tossed the place. Their suite was exactly as they had left it, with only the swing of the hanging lamp over the couch to draw their attention—and the furry black head that poked up from inside the lamp to meow at their arrival.

“Flip-Top, what the fuck?” Evan’s shoulders dropped and his tension drained. If nothing else, his friends came through all this unchanged.

Barstow let out a low woof and bounded onto the couch to stare up at Flip-Top, who in turn peered over the hanging lampshade and meowed again. A second, higher meow followed as Lily poked her head out from under the couch.

“Doesn’t take ’em long to adjust to new surroundings,” said Sunday.

“Nope. No, they—” Evan stopped as Flip-Top lodged a complaint. “They deal with change and get back to business pretty quick. Kiddos, we fed you before we left. It’s not breakfast time for hours yet.” He came to the lamp and watched Flip-Top swing from side to side. “That’s your priority, isn’t it? The door opens, suddenly your hanging basket glows, and you expect a bonus dinner.”

Lily brushed around his legs in a circle before putting her front legs against his calf to echo Flip-Top’s demands.

“Yes, we’re back, and we’re okay,” Evan replied. “Thank you for asking.”

“They can see we’re fine,” said Sunday. “You need to learn how to talk to animals like Molly and Omar. Then you can teach everyone not to talk to the cops,” she added, reaching out to scratch Barstow’s head.

“I dunno. Maybe Barstow knew the witches were cool.” Lily abandoned Evan’s leg to rub against Sunday’s. “Critters have helped us out a lot with their character judgment.”

“That’s true. You’re all pretty smart.” Sunday gave Lily a scritch of approval.

The meows continued. Not for the first time, Evan found comfort in their complaints. “Okay, okay. Cat chores first.” He looked to Sunday. “You good?”

“Yeah. This was the last worry, right? I’m gonna see if room service is 24 hours here, or maybe we can get delivery.”

She wandered into the bedroom. Evan pulled Flip-Top down from the hanging lamp and turned to his tasks. Barstow sniffed with interest while Evan tossed around some treats, but she didn’t claim any of it. With everyone eating, Evan moved on to sweep the litterboxes.

Two minutes later, he found Barstow flat on the floor, watching Lily and Flip-Top eat. He’d seen them play. Seen them cuddle. Not for the first time, the utter normalcy of it felt like a gift.

Ghost dog in a high-rise hotel suite with a room full of stolen ancient vampire loot, he thought. Yeah. Totally normal.

One more task awaited. Evan slumped into the couch, pulled his phone, and texted Sofia: “Hey. We’re all good. Found help, ended up talking to FBI. Bad guys got busted. I’m fine. Crisis over. I’ll call tomorrow.” He didn’t like the lies and omissions, but it was better than complicating her life further with magical nonsense. He hit send and watched the critters.

A moment later, his phone buzzed with a call.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Evan asked.

“Not really. Got up to use the bathroom a bit ago, wasn’t back to sleep yet,” said Sofia. “You’re okay? Everything’s fine? What’s the FBI thing?”

“Turns out they were watching my bad guys, so they knew I was in trouble. They weren’t happy that I got in the middle of their investigation, but they grabbed the bad guys so I’m clear there. Most of them were jerks, except one. She told me there’s no real evidence against me. No reason to charge me. We’re clear.”

“Jesus. So it’s over? Just like that?”

“I dunno about ‘just like that.’ You see what time it is?”

“What about the car?”

“What car?” Evan snorted.

“Hah. Okay. Hey, I need you to return the favor when we’ve both got time.”

“Yeah? What’s up?” asked Evan.

“Think I need a couple cats. You good with helping me pick some out?”

Evan’s shoulders relaxed. More weight came off his chest. “Oh god, I’d love that.”

“Cool. Get some sleep. Talk to me tomorrow. Night.”

The call dropped. Evan heard nothing but munching critters.

God, I want this kind of normal. This right here. This, and… He wasn’t sure how to say it. Not to her. Not in a way that might not blow everything.

She brought up sex, moron, Evan told himself. She’s not the passive-aggressive type. It wasn’t a shutdown. It’s fine if she’s not interested. You’re wiped out, too.

…except sex isn’t what’s really on your mind.

Chores and time with the critters gave Sunday a little space, but exhaustion weighed heavier every minute. They roomed together. Slept together. Through their whole ordeal, she never complained or told him to back off. Why are you worried now?

He found her on the bed in only her t-shirt and panties, eyes closed with the lights on and the hotel service guide open on her chest. Her breath slowly rose and fell. She didn’t seem fully settled into bed for the night, but that hadn’t been an obstacle.

Evan didn’t need lights anymore. He turned them out. In the darkness, he moved to the bathroom to get himself sorted for bed. Sunday didn’t move an inch before he returned. Quietly, Evan pulled the drapes shut, took the book from her hands, and turned over the blanket to cover her. A dreamy murmur drifted from her throat, but she neither stirred nor opened her eyes.

Sliding carefully into bed, Evan expected to rouse her and spark annoyance or awkwardness. Instead, she stayed out cold. She hadn’t been a cuddle-sleeper, so Evan minded his space.

Then he was alone in the dark.

It’s over now. Anatole and all the monsters and the feds are done. The cats and Barstow are safe. You’ve got literal magic and real money. No more bad guys. No more running.

It’s over, and that’s what scares you.

What if it’s over for her, too?

He didn’t know what to do from here. His job was gone, but he had money to coast comfortably for years—hell, decades, if he kept it humble. Magic would cover a lot of things, too. Sooner or later, he’d need or want a job again, but now he could take his time and figure out what he wanted to do.

Despite all that, his thoughts and his eyes turned to his side.

She likes me. A lot.

Others have liked me, too. Still scared them off. Too lonely, too stressed, didn’t matter if I played it cool and I didn’t put any of that on them. They still saw it. Saw me. Who wants to be with that?

Money and magic and all we’ve been through, and I’m still here. Still afraid I’ll fuck this up.

What the hell do I say?

He laid beside her, all too alone with his thoughts until he wasn’t.

Tiny feet sank gracefully beside him, exploring and kneading until Lily found her spot at his hip. She curled up in a ball and softly purred at his touch. Flip-Top arrived with less grace, landing above his head on the pillow with a four-paw stomp that surely had to wake Sunday, except it didn’t. He, too, walked a bit to check out his options before settling right where he first landed.

A cold black nose appeared over the side of the bed, sniffing Evan’s hand, and Lily, and his face, and Flip-Top. Evan felt a pang of guilt for wishing against Barstow’s need for affection, but she merely took up the same spot as the nights before: on the blanket and pillows Sunday set on the floor, between the bed and the door.

Whatever tomorrow brought, he wouldn’t be alone.

New purrs pulled Evan from sleep, but they didn’t match the weight against his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find Lily looming over his face with a hand brushing her head. The pillow beside his held dark hair, dark eyes, and a quiet, beautiful smile. Evan blinked awake, prompting Lily to move away. “Stole your girl,” said Sunday.

“I don’t blame her.” Light at the edge of the drapes marked the sunrise. “How are you feeling?”

“All better. You?”

“Yeah.” It couldn’t be long past sunrise, meaning he’d only slept a few hours. It felt like enough.

“Good. Move, kitties,” Sunday coaxed before pushing the sheets away from Evan and herself. His heartbeat picked up at the sight of her. The rise continued with her nude body on top of his and her lips claiming a deep and shameless kiss.

He kissed back. Pulled her close. Ran his hands down her back, her ass, toward her thigh and up again. Hair threatened to tangle them both, but Sunday bent backward with that unnatural flexibility to sweep it away. The arc shamelessly brought her chest to Evan’s face. He slid his hands up to slow her return, cupping one breast and then another, kissing while he had the chance. Sunday let out a hum of approval and leaned into his treatment.

“Do that all you want,” she murmured.

“You say that now,” he joked.

Sunday drew her knees up high against his hips, straddling him and resting against his already stiff cock in a manner that was more contact than tease. The stance also brought her upper body into more comfortable access. She grinned down at him. “I don’t play reverse psychology games about sex.”

He kissed. Stroked. Watched her grin. “Tell me more.”

“More of what I like?”

“Everything.”

Her hips began a grind, favoring him with more skin against skin, some of it warm and growing wet by the moment. “I like you. I like you naked. Here with me. I like… I need this.” Flexibility brought him mostly into line, but Sunday wasn’t shy about guiding him with her hand. Slowly, she backed her hips down on him, eyes fluttering with slow satisfaction as she sank onto his dick. “Oh, that’s better. Way better.”

“No foreplay?” he asked, but his hands were already at her hips in full cooperation. He thrust gently upward. Her urgency fell on him as a relief.

“You’ve been foreplaying me since I got in your car.” She rocked slowly, drawing him in and out, breath heavy with pleasure. “Need you to… keep doing that, too. I like it.”

“Tried not to flirt much,” Evan confessed.

“Ha. Good line.” Sunday sank against him, stretching all along his body. She took his hands in hers to stretch him out with her. Their next kiss deepened.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Didn’t want to blow it.”

“I know. Sshh.” The grind continued. “We need this.”

Sensation clouded his mind, and hers along with him. Slow fucking grew from indulgent to intense as she released his hands, letting him grip her ass and control more of the pace. She chewed on his lip as they rocked together. The gentle bite threw a brief, welcome delay in their mutual climb.

Talk turned to heavy breath. Open eyes shared all the vulnerability they both felt. A soft note in her voice and a slight bend prompted Evan to bring her onto her side, and then her back. Sunday grinned and threw her head into the pillow with their new position and a new pace.

They needed this.

Sunday’s flexibility brought her hips up to meet his thrusts in an eager, self-indulgent angle. Evan hit deep over and over. Breath and moans guided their pace. Sunday tensed and let out a cry of release seconds ahead of Evan’s rising orgasm, giving each a chance to savor the other in climax.

Long, breathless eye contact followed. They shuddered. Held one another. Shared the silence.

“Needed that?” Evan asked.

“More of that,” Sunday nodded. “Lots more. I want you naked all day. And all night. I’m gonna stare and grab a lot. Tomorrow, too. We’re not goin’ anywhere.”

“How about after tomorrow?” he asked, and then wished he hadn’t. It just fell from his mouth.

“Obviously,” she laughed—and then stopped. “Hey. Feelings?”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Evan shrugged. “Don’t want to come on too strong. We haven’t been together long, and this has all been crazy magical bullshit, and… now it’s finished. Bullshit’s done. I don’t want you to go.”

“Evan.” She stroked his hair. “I been around a long time. You know that.”

“Yeah. I know. I don’t have your experience with all this.”

Sunday shook her head. “Tell you something about being around all that time? It’s something you probably already know. Doesn’t take long to learn.”

“Sure.”’

“There’s always more bullshit,” said Sunday. “Always. You already know that, but two centuries will tell you it never changes. Money and family makes for better bullshit than having neither, but there’s always more bullshit either way. Just different. I want you with me for mine.

“And it ain’t just that. I’ve been married, happily and otherwise. Been with more than a few guys. I still don’t know the right things to say. I don’t know what everyone else feels or what they need. It’s all new. Every person is a whole new trip. All that time and all those loves only taught me what I want. That’s what I know. I want you. I’ve wanted you since I got my head on straight.”

His body didn’t know whether to tense or relax. His feelings had the same problem. He didn’t know if he’d found confidence or relief, but he said it: “I’m so in love with you, Sunday.”

“I love you, too.” She pulled him close, demanding another kiss. Then she rolled against him, bringing them side by side, legs intertwined. “We don’t leave this room ‘til after tomorrow. Wherever we go after that, it’s together. This town deals with us together, too. Cool?”

“Cool.”

“I want one more thing.”

“What?”

“I wanna see what kinda dirty fun we can have with your magic besides the stamina boost.”

Evan grinned.

Barstow rose with a grumble. She led Lily and Flip-Top out of the room, leaving their people to do their weird people stuff on the bed.

EPILOGUE

“Ithink we could’ve hooked up.”

“Oh my god. Molly.”

“I’m serious! She’s, like, Insta-model hot, and he can get it, too. I know you noticed. Pretty sure they noticed us.”

“Stop. We have both flavors of hot side action at home.” Onyx rolled her eyes as Molly turned around in the line to throw a half-amused, half-appalled grin. “Okay, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Standing behind them in the queue, Amber kept her eyes and fingers on her phone. “Are they being weird about sex again?”

“Yes. Just like all of my friends, anytime you have to ask,” said Jason.

“Do you mind?” The woman ahead of Molly and Onyx turned around with a deep scowl. “This place is for children.”

Molly looked around the crowded queue and the flow of bodies on the path outside the guide chains. “Wouldn’t know it from the ticket price. What kids have this kind of money?”

“Your kids aren’t listening to us.” Onyx had a point; the pre-teen in front of the mother wore earbuds, while the younger one hopped up and down and tugged at his father’s shirt in a sustained demand for cotton candy. “We’re not even being explicit.”

“You said—” the mother’s voice dropped to a whisper: “sex!”

“Mom, what? Oh my god.” Her pre-teen daughter pushed past her brother and father.

“Christina—! Ugh!” She turned back with another scowl. “Just leave us alone!”

Molly shrugged. “We did.”

“Wow. This actually happens, huh?” asked Jason.

“You’re a guy,” Onyx pointed out. “Less likely to be challenged in public.”

Jason glanced at himself: thin, unintimidating, clad in a Goofy-Holding-Mjolnir t-shirt—and with no reason to doubt his friends’ experiences. “That sucks.”

“Sorry, what sucks?” asked Amber.

He caught on, glancing to her phone. “Are you looking for jobs again?”

“Conversation hit a lull and we’re standing in line for a ride.” Amber looked to her friends with mild apology. “Did I miss anything?”

“Literally nothing,” Molly laughed.

“It’s not that,” said Jason. “We’re at Disneyland. I don’t want you to stress.”

“I’m not too stressed,” said Amber. “I’ve got some savings, and I’m finding some lab prospects. Mostly I’m worried about listing a big F for Fired from the FBI.”

“You don’t have to list it on an application, and most places can’t ask,” said Molly. “Even if they find out, it’s a hit but not a death sentence. You had an ethical dispute with a bad boss. Anywhere that blacklists you for that is someplace you probably don’t want to be anyway.”

“And your job was all hush-hush. You can say more in your defense than they can in complaining about you,” said Onyx. “You’ve got references from before the task force, right?”

“All true, assuming I get that far in the process anywhere.” Amber swiped past another hit with a grumble. “And I am not substitute teaching. God, that sounds like misery for no pay.”

“Hey.” Jason’s hand on her wrist was as gentle as his voice. “We’re good for a little while and we’ve got safety nets. Happiest place on Earth. No stress today.”

“Jason, you just moved down here—for me. You’re only halfway through college.” Amber winced. “I may need grad school to really get anywhere.”

“Oh no. You’re gonna be a science nerd with normal people problems?” taunted Jason. The line moved, allowing him to draw her onward.

“We’re never gonna be normal,” she replied, but she couldn’t help smiling at him.

“It’s true. Look who you hang out with,” said Molly.

“That part’s fine. I like my abnormal friends.”

“Uuuugh, shade, finally,” Onyx sighed as they crossed out of sunlight. “God, I’m getting a tan through my sunscreen.”

They made it another ten meters before the line halted again. Somewhere up ahead, a child cried and screamed. A recorded safety message played over the PA, interrupting the theme music. Onyx and Molly bantered about skin care while Jason looked on.

Amber stopped herself from paging through her phone again. She wouldn’t resolve her job problems here. She was with her guy at a favorite place. Their friends were only in town for a few days. Everything else could wait, including her stress.

Then her phone buzzed with a call on its way into her pocket. She checked the screen, raised her eyebrows, and answered. “This is Amber.”

“Hey, it’s Colleen,” came the hushed, somewhat irritated reply. “Can you talk? Where are you?”

“One guess.” Amber tapped the speaker icon, and held up the phone to catch the sounds of the crowd and the music of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Then she cut the speaker and brought her phone back to her ear. “We’re twenty minutes deep into a line.”

“Fine. As long as no one’s listening, that’s fine,” Colleen decided. “What happened after you left? It’s important. Did you talk to anyone? Anything weird happen?”

“We hit Taco Bell, dropped Molly and Onyx at their hotel, and went home to bed. I haven’t done anything but sleep, job search, and play video games until we got up this morning.”

The line crawled forward. Jason, Onyx, and Molly didn’t eavesdrop until they heard names. Amber’s replies made at least some of the context obvious.

“Nothing else? Have you told anyone about leaving? Did you try to access anything here?”

“I was told not to, so no, and if by ‘leaving’ you mean ‘fired,’ no. Not yet.”

“What about Molly and Onyx? Do you know if they said anything to anyone?”

Amber sighed. “Colleen, what’s up?”

“The office got hit overnight. Nobody’s hurt, but we came in this morning and everything’s gone. Computers, files, evidence, notes. None of the adjacent offices got hit. Nobody saw anything. Nothing on cameras. I’m standing in front of an empty cubicle desk.”

“Huh.” Amber pulled the phone away briefly to check the time. The team would’ve come in to find the mess hours ago. “Wasn’t anyone on watch overnight?”

“Patrick was sound asleep when we got here. He had some weird sand on his face. Bridger had a blowup with Sanderson and quit yesterday. Marino, too. That car chase really shook him up. So, we’re down half our people, and now this.”

The line crawled forward. Jason, Onyx, and Molly watched, but didn’t interrupt. “Crazy,” said Amber. Mildly.

“What did you tell Murphy and Sunday about the task force? Anything?”

“Only that it existed and why I was looking for him, same as I explained to Sanderson before he fired me.”

“Amber, I have to ask: do you know anything about this?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t sound surprised or upset,” noted Colleen.

“Well, like you said, nobody’s hurt. What about the prison site?”

“All our special convicts are still there, but they’ve lost a lot of computer files. Same as us. Whoever did this didn’t just take the physical stuff. Somehow, they wiped offsite data backups, too.”

“Wild.”

“Amber, this is a massive security breach,” Colleen pressed. “Years of research and surveillance is just gone.”

“Sounds like. I’m sure Lanier blocked all my access and changed every password the minute I left the parking lot, right? I’ve been at home. Don’t know what to tell you.”

Colleen let out a frustrated breath. “We lost everything Molly and Onyx sent us, too. All their primers on magic and monsters are gone. Will you see them again before they leave? We need to replace that.”

“I’ll ask, but I think we know what they’re gonna say. Is Sanderson still in charge?”

“For now,” Colleen grumbled. “And assuming this doesn’t shut us down entirely.”

“Then this all sounds like Sanderson’s problem,” said Amber.

“You’re not interested in helping us, are you?”

“I did all I could to help, Colleen. Over and over. I had two bad bosses with super questionable ethics who wouldn’t listen to me. Starting to think that might be a systemic thing. I’m not really comfortable with it anymore.”

“Amber, we don’t know who did this. They could target anyone. You could be in danger.”

“Yeah. Guess I live with that now.”

“Fine. If anything happens, anything comes up, you call us. Talk to Molly and Onyx. Please.”

“Will do. Gotta go. Bye.” She hung up and found three interested, waiting faces. “Someone cleared out the office overnight. Nobody’s hurt, but everything’s gone, including the emails you sent us.”

“Nobody’s hurt?” asked Jason. “So… not vampires.”

“Doesn’t sound like, no,” said Amber. “Also, Bridger and Marino quit, but no way, y’know?”

Molly and Onyx shared a look and said together, “Djinn.”

“Djinn? Oh, that guy, Omar?” Amber considered.

“Yeah. Don’t fuck with the djinn,” said Molly.

“They didn’t. We didn’t, anyway,” said Amber.

“No, we didn’t,” said Onyx. “Sanderson and the task force are a different issue. He ranted like an asshole in front of anyone who might be listening. Maybe that was enough.”

“True,” said Molly. “We never told them anything secret, but after everything that happened, I feel better knowing they lost what we sent.”

“Can’t blame you there,” said Amber.

“How many in your group? Four?” asked the ride attendant as they came to the platform. “Line one please. You’re right in front.”

The others filed into their spots. Jason looked back to Amber. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she decided. “I tried. I did the right thing. Vigilantes are bad, but… so far, the vigilantes I’ve met have been better than my bosses. Out of my hands.”

Metal and plastic rattled along the platform with the arrival of their faux-1930s-jeep-on-rails. Passengers rose and filed out of the car. Amber felt another buzz at her phone. Against her better judgment, she gave it a glance on her way into her seat.

“Update re: Termination status,” read the subject. Her stomach took a hit, but she opened it anyway. Her spirits took another turn as she blinked at two lines:

“Cause for termination: Confidential.”

“Unemployment eligibility: Affirmative.”

It wasn’t what the initial email from HR said, nor could Sanderson be fussing about that now. Still, the sender information was legitimate. Everything matched the previous emails. And it was a secret task force; nobody would want to quibble about employment records. The line item would be all that mattered on a background check, and “confidential” rendered it harmless.

The task force had been raided. Cleared out and hacked by parties unknown.

HR wasn’t the task force… and she didn’t work there anymore.

Amber found Jason watching patiently. She put the phone away. “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

The passengers directly behind them took up no room. They needed no seats. Tourists passed through their broad white wings, ivory clothes, and their halos with no more awareness than Amber, her friends, or any other mortal present.

“Mitu? You’re sure?” asked Daniel.

“No, because I never encountered her myself,” Theresa grumbled. “I hadn’t heard her name in a thousand years. Maybe two thousand. The stars got everyone talking, and she was only one bit of conjecture among many. Then Amber went through that chase, and I got there in time to see Murphy heal her…”

She placed her hands on Amber’s shoulders as the text message appeared. The guardian’s comfort only prompted Amber to breathe deep and subconsciously push back on her gloom; the details from the text provided the real relief. “It seems I’m not the only one looking after her.”

Standing behind Jason, Daniel glanced from angel to mortal and quickly caught on. Amber’s romance with Jason made Daniel ever-more familiar with both women. “Ah. More djinn antics. I suppose we can’t complain about this one.”

“No,” said Theresa. “Though I don’t think the djinn will be forthcoming about Murphy or Mitu. Not after all this.”

“Who was Murphy’s guardian? He sounds like a decent soul. Presumably, he had someone.”

“Gone now. If he had a guardian, I saw no connection. Heaven’s light is gone.” Theresa folded her arms and grumbled, “Replaced by starlight.”

“It can’t be Mitu. She’s been gone for millennia, like you said. We thought she turned to the Pit like all the other…” Daniel frowned. “Well. Not all, I suppose. And if the Pit didn’t consume her entirely, we’d know what became of her.”

“The stars shine, and he channels them,” said Theresa. “He heals and protects, he purged all those vampires, he frightened off a demon—perhaps not alone, but still. Who does that sound like?”

“You must tell the angel in Dominion over Los Angeles. Maybe the others under the stars, too.”

“Of course. I had to look after Amber and my other charges first, but they’re all safe now.” Theresa shook her head. “The Dominion will need a lot of help with this.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elliott Kay is a survivor of adolescence in Los Angeles, service in the United States Coast Guard, teaching in high school, a motorcycle crash, chronic seasickness, summers in Phoenix, winter in Alaska (only one), serial monogamy, and reading comments on the Internet. He lives in Seattle with his wife and four cats.

His military sci-fi novels Poor Man’s Fight and Rich Man’s War are published through Skyscape, with the rest of the series also available on Amazon. The Good Intentions series and his other works are likewise available on Amazon.

Short stories and sneak-peeks appear on his Patreon page at www.patreon.com/elliottkay

His website is at www.elliottkay.com

To join the notification list for upcoming releases, please email him at elliottkaybooks@gmail.com

Blue Sky: @elliottkaybooks.bsky.social

Twitter: @elliottkaybooks

ALSO BY ELLIOTT KAY

The Poor Man’s Fight series:

Poor Man’s Fight

Rich Man’s War

Dead Man’s Debt

No Medals for Secrets

Last Man Out

No Man’s Land

The Wandering Monsters series:

Run Like Hell

Nowhere to Run

Hot Restart

Great Power and No Responsibilities

Days of High Adventure