FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

It was only a matter of hours before the MI-16 wondered why agent Phelps didn't report back. Military Intelligence knew I was staying at Hotel Kisanti, but did they also know about my demon side? I needed to find out before they found me, so the moment Fernando rang the police to report the discovery of the dead agent; I let myself into Phelps' room. Phelps had left the lights burning when he went out the previous night, not expecting to stay out for good. He had also poured himself a glass of bourbon, now waiting half empty on a desk cluttered with cigarette butts and international newspapers. Der Spiegel, Le Figaro, La Repubblica and Camels. The man had been a glutton for news, cigarettes and drink. I recognized the bottle in an instant; it was my own Farvale Bourbon he'd stolen from my room during his uninvited visit; he hadn't even removed the $10.98 price-tag from the 24-7 mart. He'd also left a single unsmoked cigarette next to a copy of Between Winters -a dog-eared $5.99 fantasy paperback of the kind you buy at an airport; I guess even secret agents are allowed to have an imagination and a smoke. He'd sandwiched a ticket stub from the local museum in between chapters 18 and 19 as a bookmark; Kisanti excavation, read the ticket, Admission, two adults.

TWO? I checked the date: June 6th; that was four days ago, and four minutes had passed since Fernando made the call. I'd better get moving before the fuzz arrived. Phelps suitcase was on the desk near the window, closed but with both clasps unlocked. Too easy, I thought and expected the suitcase to be booby trapped and blow up in my face when touched, so I untwisted a metal clothes hanger as a tool to pry open the lid. When the suitcase popped open to reveal only shaving gear, clean shirts and a short pile of light brown Manila dossiers, I honestly felt a little disappointed; for a secret service organization, their methods were sure down to earth, but maybe down to earth was the attitude that got Phelps killed.

The top dossier was labelled with a plain white sticker, reading: Wolf, Carter - and then a file number 16-282-081216-4.

08-12-16 corresponded to the date when I first made contact with the MI-16. I'd found a roll of microfilm and two of their agents kidnapped my sister to make sure I gave it back. All they had needed to do was ask politely, but they handled the situation their way, but so did I and they lost both agents in the process[*].

Wolf, Carter.

Age: 26.

Sex: male.

Hair: brown.

Eyes: green.

Height: 5'7 (approximate).

Place of residence: 17 Millmeadow lane, Oakenford.

Current occupation: None.

---

Hey, wait a minnit! I thought; that's downright insulting. I'm a musician, THAT's gotta count for something. The next entries in the dossier didn't lift my mood either;

Higher education: None.

Previous occupation: None.

Medical status: Low functioning schizophrenic.

Standing: 4 - critical, pending revision.

_ _

Gee, guys. You sure know how to make a man feel good about himself.

Closest living relative: Kamryn Wolf, 24, sister.

The dossier contained a snapshot of Kamryn outside her Oakenford apartment, checking her mailbox. It was taken from the road, probably from the side-window of a car.

Those sons of bitches! If they thought they could get to me through Kamryn, I'd go demon on them in a second.

Then I remembered what I'd come for, and the seconds were ticking against me. I browsed through the clips in my dossier, found photos of agents Burris, Bruckner and Samza. I didn't need a reminder of what I'd done to them in hi-resolution, so I flipped the photos over and slid them back in the envelope. I kill barehanded; this much was in the report, but there was no mentioning of me transforming into demon, and I let out a sigh of relief;

they had no idea, did they?

The three remaining dossiers in the suitcase were on Darleen Thomson, Paul Slater and someone named Ted Jones. I knew Darleen and Slater, but Ted Jones didn't ring any bell. It wasn't until I recognised the photo inside as a younger version of Mr. Tejon. I guess I wasn't the only one staying under alias.

---

Jones, Theodore (Ted).

Age: 66.

Eyes: Grey.

Height 6 ft. 0.

Occupation: self-employed.

Standing: 1, honorary.

Tejon's journal dated all the way back to 1986, but there was little information in the folder; only a few press-photos showing important-looking men shaking hands. Schzohod and Namairia back on speaking terms read one headline. Peace negotiations back on track; Hostage situation resolved. Years, crises and presidents signing contracts changed between newsflashes, but Tejon remained a constant presence, always standing in the background and smiling politely. A professional negotiator, a mercenary of diplomacy, Tejon was the go-to guy for lubing the gears when relations between world leaders grew rusty. He was honorably discharged in 1998 following a nervous breakdown on mission in Staldr. His journal went blank after that date -he was off the payroll. The most recent photo was a press release from 2014; the now aging Tejon was shaking hands with the Grand Duchess of Helies.

Duke and Duchess after marriage counselling: we're going to Disneyland! Tejon had risen from the ashes, but not like a Phoenix; the less spectacular ashen can also make a living.

The folders on Slater and Darleen contained only a single sheet each. For Darleen it was a printout of her medical history; one long listing of anti-depressants and visits to rehab. A few arrests too for possession of marijuana. According to the medical records she was thirty six; ten years older than Slater, I guess love knows no age. Slater's folder was just as brief, containing only a copy of his degree from the College of Ra'gasso; the self-proclaimed beach bum majored in history at twenty four, two years ago.

The last line in both their records read the same:

Standing: 2, civilian.

Where did it put me with a standing rating of four? I wondered. In that moment, Lt. Ramirez squad car screeched to a halt in the gravel in front of the hotel, and I quickly left Phelps' room, taking along my journal and the ticket stub. I stopped at the door, turned around and finished his drink for him; it was my bourbon anyway, and my case.

---

"You want me to do WHAT?"

Paul Slater shifted between looking at me and the murky waters of the trout farm while adjusting his scuba gear.

"There are answers in that water," I said. "I need someone to dive and dig'em out."

"Dude, it's a fish farm. Fish don't talk, trust me."

"Just keep an eye out for anything that looks out of place - and it ain't no fish."

Slater went bottom up and disappeared into the water while I watched from the brink. "There's something in that water," an anonymous caller had told me over the phone; someone who didn't leave a name and who muffled his voice. I never returned the call because Phelps took over the case. But things had changed overnight and with the death of Phelps, it was my case again.

You want me to find you, don't you?

"Dude!" Slater resurfaced from the pond, "I need size or something - there's nothing here. Nothing out of place, man." He dried himself with a towel and I noticed that, unlike myself he had no scars, wounds or even bruises. For a rough-and tumble kind of surfer, he sure took good care of himself. "It's gonna be another fine day," he said, squinting at the sun. "Let's go check if the surf's up."

"Actually, I was thinking of going to the museum." I handed Slater the ticket stub from Phelps' paperback. "What do you make of this?"

"The Kisanti excavation?" Slater looked at the ticket with mixed dismay and disinterest in his eyes. "It's a shallow tourist attraction, nothing more."

The Kisanti exhibition divided the Ra'gassans evenly into supporters and sceptics. Supporters argued the exhibition was a welcome tourist attraction, while the sceptics -mainly scholars, feared the Kisanti myth was sliding into a pseudo-scientific cash-grab. Like any other hotel, hotel Kisanti had a selection of folders and pamphlets on display in the lobby. Restaurants, museums and massage parlours; things to do when you took a break from the beach. Here I found the folder for the Kisanti excavation exhibit.

_In October 2013, the heavy rain season caused a rock slide in the Ragassan mountains. The crashing boulders uncovered the entrance to a three thousand year old construction, skilfully carved into the very mountainside. The stunned archaeologists were surrounded by detailed, ancient mural paintings, all featuring cat-like people, busy living their everyday life in 1000BC: trading, fishing and celebrating. Today, the cave is known as the Kisanti Temple. Was it built by hand or by paw? Now is your chance to experience the everyday life of the legendary civilization of man-beast. Open Mon-Fri 9PM - 16PM; Sat-Sun 9-13PM; Admission: Adults $15, Children and concessions $7. _

Slater cast a final glance at the ticket. "Four days ago, huh?"

"I found it in the dining room," I lied. "I figured you and Darleen might have gone together."

Slater shrugged and returned the stub. "Alumni get free admission; besides, it's not really worth it. The exhibition is all photostats and bad reproductions of the paintings. The colors are way off too."

I put the ticket back into my wallet and when I looked up, Slater was standing there with his arms akimbo, flashing an amused smile. "Whoever Phelps took with him to the exhibition, you're asking the wrong cat, Holmes."

"What makes you think it's Phelps' ticket?"

Slater laughed. "Well, it sure wasn't Darleen or myself, and Tell was too damn cheap to buy his own ticket, the museum is not exactly wheelchair friendly and you're the one asking the questions. That leaves only Phelps and Tejon. You don't have to be Dr. Watson to figure that one out." Slater grinned, clearly enjoying beating me at my own game. I had been too blunt in my investigation and Slater saw right through my act. Annoyed, I bit my lip and looked at my shoes, not sure how to react. Then I noticed Slater's bare feet. They were about my own size and could easily fit into the footprints left outside Tell's window. But although he was in good shape, Slater was not a heavy guy; not heavy enough to leave such deep impressions.

"Listen," he whispered, unnecessarily so because we were the only ones around. "If you want to see the excavation, I can take you to see the REAL deal."

"I thought the cave was closed to the public?"

Slater held up two fingers as if he was dangling an invisible object.

"I... forgot to return my set of keys when I graduated. So whaddaya say?"

At this point, I was feeling alone; Quinn was on duty back in Oakenford and Irene took care of the nightclub. Fernando was turning paranoid and rambled about installing CCTVs in every corner of his hotel. I feared he might crack up any moment now, and in a few hours the entire MI-16 department would scream bloody demon when they learned how Phelps wouldn't be punching in his card any more. I needed a breather and someone to confide in, and Slater was easy to talk to.

"Sure," I said finally, "gotta make a couple of phone-calls first." Slater shrugged and prepared to dive into the pond again.

"Try diving for minerals," I said. "Where the water comes in from the stream." He waded across the pond to the pump and dived under again.

Slater seemed alright but I wouldn't rule him out as a potential suspect yet. I had an unlisted number on my phone to call back. While Slater was in the pond, he couldn't answer his phone, so if someone answered my call, Slater had to be in the clear. But with two dead already, who was left to be trusted? The way things looked, I couldn't even trust myself. Tejon was right when he warned me about this place; I should have gotten the hell out of here, days ago. I pressed the RETURN CALL button and waited for connection, but nobody answered. If you want me to find you, then pick up your goddamn phone, I cursed and hung up.

Last night, the anonymous caller had told me to "step outside, where I can see you." He'd been outside, waiting and watching; either that or he was watching from one of the windows. I walked around the hotel and dialled the number again. This time the default ring tone from a KONIA mobile phone sounded from somewhere close, but still nobody answered. I let it ring, trying to locate the device by ear and the distant ringtone droned on. Coincidence? I hung up and waited fifteen seconds before calling again. Once again, the ringtone sounded out, loud and crisp from the northern side of the hotel. Here I found the cell-phone in the rye-field, thirty feet from where we discovered Phelps' corpse. Pick it up and you'll smear any fingerprints. It was the voice of reason, but there was nothing reasonable about this case; I had to know more about this phone before it was hauled in as evidence. I took off my T-shirt and flipped the phone onto it. The phone was a rugged outdoors KONIA with limited features, Android OS and industrial strength speaker; easy to use but impossible to break, it was the kind of phone you could drop from eleventh floor and it would bounce right back into your hand. But whose hand?

The call log went back more than three months. It had been used to call the same number twice every day; nine in the morning and eleven at night. Not one minute earlier or later, the owner was as reliable as a Swiss movement, only last night he had called my number and missed his own eleven o'clock appointment. The routine was broken, The calendar blank, and so was the address book and the photo folder; this phone had less personality than a one dollar pizza. Using my T-shirt as a membrane between the touch screen and my finger, I dialed the number, and a woman's voice answered

"APEX curtains. How may I help you?"

The audio quality was stunning, painting the clickety-clacking of computer keyboards in the background with such detail I could almost hear what they were typing.

"Mother?"

The other end went quiet for a few seconds. She put her hand across the microphone, muting the phone. Seconds passed, and when she removed her hand again to speak, the sound of typing in the background had ceased. My blood pressure took off like a Tomahawk missile, and if their receiver was as good as mine, they would hear my heartbeat kick into overdrive.

"It's_mother_!" a male voice called out right behind me. I knew the voice well, and I didn't need to turn around to know there was no one there. He's in my head only, something that used to drive me crazy. I know it's mother, so shut the hell up, I hissed. The shadows cast from the poplar trees grew pitch black and shifted restlessly with no breeze to guide them. They left the confinement of their trees and danced freely across the sunlit lawn, drawing random patterns in the grass. Whispering quietly, two moving shadows danced around each other, grew attached and reassembled briefly to form images of grinning skulls and symbols that meant nothing to most people; but to me they meant one thing only: death.

"They know you're here." A female, standing just outside my field of view to the right had now joined my invisible companion.

"Big deal," I barked. "So did Phelps. Tell me something I don't know."

"They can hear you talking to yourself," agreed both voices.

Oh!

The moment was awkward; I'd been shouting at the voices in my head like some madman. It was surprising if Apex Curtains hadn't hung up on me.

"I... I would like to buy some new curtains," I stuttered.

"Of course, Sir. May I take your name, please?"

"Hell no!" I shouted and hung up, trying to drown out the thousand voices that were now whispering in my brain. Dammit! I was losing myself, which was something I didn't have the time for.

Losing it! Losing it! I repeated. I remembered how Quinn instructed me to shift into demon form, to keep myself together and the symptoms away. I'd been alone in my kitchen, shifting and digging claw marks into the linoleum floor. I could do this again - just a little without going full demon. I relaxed and let myself go, focusing on my right arm. Within moments, I sprouted a short fur from the shoulder and down to my fingertips, my nails extended into claws and the palm of my hand shifted into thick pads.

Stop here, I commanded. That's far enough. I stroked the fur with my left hand and it felt good and comforting; it was like being with an old friend, only this friend was myself. The voices subsided, and the shadows slid back into their natural place under the poplars. I'm a demon, I almost laughed and in a moment of clarity, I understood how Quinn was at ease with his werewolf self, his desire to shift and run and howl, how being therian was not a curse, but a blessing. My arm was still covered in fur and my claws like shards of steel. I could kill with these; already had. I needed air, needed to get away from the hotel -take a break from my break. I reached for a cigarette pack in my pants and my fingers closed around the now familiar shape of a teardrop ruby. How many of these were they? How much were they worth? Maybe they were only worth a few bucks to Agent Phelps, but to a junkie this could mean the difference between a fix or a long night of agonizing withdrawal. I left the hotel on foot and strolled the short shopping street downtown, figuring this would be the most likely place to find a jeweler. I soon found a small shop flying the flag of Slickstein and Son.

"Ever seen one of these?" Slickstein Sr. Was a man in his late sixties who wore a white labcoat that matched the color of his beard and gave him the appearance of a tame sasquatch. He studied the rock through a jeweler's loupe for the better of a minute, before looking up, still with the loupe wedged in his eye-socket.

"You mean, there's TWO of these rocks?" Slickstein put his loupe aside and lit a battery powered dark-field microscope.

"You seem surprised?"

"Look!" he said and invited me to take a peek through the microscope. All I saw was an attractive red color, transparent like a shot of pink gin.

"I don't see anything."

"That's the whole point," beamed Slickstein. "It's completely pure." He took an identical ruby from a small drawer and laid it next to mine on the desk.

"If you want to part with your ruby," he said. "I'll give you fifty."

"It's police evidence. Both rubies are."

"TWO hundred and fifty! I'll make them into a pair of earrings."

"You'd be wearing them in jail for withholding evidence; this is a double homicide case."

Slickstein dropped the rubies like his hand was on fire. "Murder?"

"Murr-DER!" Slickstein was so taken aback he didn't even ask for police badge or ID.

"We'll need to know, err... how the ruby came into your possession."

"Miguel!" He said, rivulets of sweat forming on his forehead. "Miguel from the hotel paid me to fit it into a ring." Slickstein leaned over and whispered "a WEDDING ring! And not a cheap one either."

"When did this happen?" I asked.

Slickstein cleared his throat and browsed through his journal, pointing a calloused finger at the date. "One week ago, Miguel came into my shop and put down the order to fix the ruby into a ring. It's a seven hundred dollar job."

"Seven hundred?" I whistled. "Now there's love for you."

"Strange thing is," said Slickstein, "Two days later, he came in all upset and told me to switch the ruby for a diamond."

"Well, maybe he decided he likes diamonds better?"

"But that's three hundred bucks extra - we're looking at a thousand dollar ring!"

"You must have a lot of faith in your customers. What if he doesn't have that kind of dough?"

Slickstein laughed. "For a job like this, people pay up front. One thousand dollars in cash."

"Wait," he said suddenly and put one hand on the book, ready to close it. "You're not from the IRS, are you?"

When I returned, Slater sat by the pond, sipping a drink decorated with a cocktail parasol poking out if a slice of pineapple. He had this great grin on his face and dangled a small plastic bag.

"I found this baby at the bottom, right next to the air-pump."

The bag contained nine of the now familiar rubies. A hole had been torn in the side of the bag, possibly spilling some of the contents.

"Unless nature has found a way to wrap gemstones, I'd say someone stashed this bag in there; someone who needs money and owns a key to the gate."

---

Miguel refused to provide an explanation for the thousand dollars in his possession, he kept silent about the bag of rubies by the air pump, he remained quiet about his decision to go for a diamond ring, and he did not resist or argue when Lt. Ramirez led him into the squad car. "I should have guessed," said the lieutenant. "Some people never change." He locked the rear door to the car. Miguel sat quiet, solemn and handcuffed. I shook my head; it had been a very strange case, but I'd never expected mild-mannered Miguel to be involved.

"He put on a good show," said Ramirez. "Five years ago, Miguel was in one of the gangs - the wildcats, Gatos Locos. I arrested him myself for shoplifting, for smoking weed and three accounts of DUI. Oh, he promised to reform back then... "Ramirez sighed. "It's a damn shame."

"So, you're closing the case?"

"Are you kidding? Miguel stole rubies and a thousand bucks. When Tell caught him, they fought and Tell had a heart attack. Miguel panicked and fled out the window - he ran... all the way down to the jeweler."

"Barefooted?"

Ramirez gave me an exasperated look. "From working in the pond, of course." He patted my shoulder before getting into the car and driving off. "Don't worry Sherlock; when you've been in the job for as long as I have, you get to know your criminals; they never change."

---

If the road to Hotel Kisanti was bad, the trail to the Kisanti excavation site was a survivalist's wet dream. With no proper road, the rental Jeep jumped and coughed until we stopped before a fenced-off area deep in the mountain range that separates Ra'gasso from the southern province of Staldr. The Kisanti cave wasn't open to the public and I guess I was the only non-academic to set foot in the area since its discovery.

Slater unlocked a heavy metal door to an elaborate hallway leading into the mountain and lit two battery powered torches. Left and right, the walls were decorated with three-thousand year old mural paintings. They were well preserved although the colors had faded over time, but they showed no sign of tampering or vandalism. This place had remained untouched for millenia.

The murals were all drawings of Kisanti: humanoid creatures with the heads of mountain lions. They were depicted fishing with nets from a shallow boat, packing olives into amphoras, offering a length of cloth to two human characters, in fact the only humans in the paintings. The humans stood half a head taller than the Kisanti, their skin dark brown, their hair long and black. They dragged camels behind them, loaded with baskets. It was like watching an Egyptian painting, but limited to descendants of Basted. No other species were represented; no jackal-like Anubis, no Thoth, Horus or Seth; only creatures that would have been human had it not been for the head, the tail and the clawed hands.

"Shouldn't we be carrying wooden torches in this place?" I asked. "Electrical ones feel out of place."

Slater laughed and pulled a tarpaulin off a powerful floor mounted lamp that cast the interior in a white light. "This is the piece I wanted to show you," he replied.

The centrepiece painting was ten feet wide and five feet tall. It showed a line of Kisanti. Their movements were stiff like dolls, figures seen only in profile with no sense of perspective and a single eye facing outwards.

"It's standard painting technique for the time," said Slater. "You'll see the same in murals painted by humans, especially in Egypt."

The procession marched from left to right and into an open doorway, flanked by two massive doors with rich engravings. A figure of authority stood on the right side of the door, shepherding the Kisanti through the opening. The inside of the doorway was unpainted and only showed the blank wall.

"It's... a door?"

"Not only a door, it's the doorway to another place."

"That's what doors are for, aren't they?"

Slater looked as if he was slightly annoyed with me. "I thought you of all people would understand. From the Greeks' Hades_to the Babylonians' _Arallu, the Sumeric Ganzer, Inferno, Pandemonium, the void, the abyss. Every civilization has legends of parallel worlds."

Two years ago, I'd have shrugged at this information as another fanciful tale of people falling through rabbit holes, magic mirrors and wardrobes leading to strange worlds; I even wrote a story about riding a Pegasus to another world in high school. Back then it was all make believe, but I couldn't ignore it anymore; I had seen the abyss first hand and it wasn't a pleasant place.

"Magic doorway, huh?"

"Do you know what they found behind that door?"

"?"

"They found darkness, Carter. Nothing but darkness, for three thousand years."

"That would date the cave around 1000BC? But the mural is so well preserved."

"Read the legends of any civilization," said Slater. "Right up until the Babylonian exile, you have beasts of wonder: Leviathan, Pazuzu, Behemoth, the great Wyrm of Midgard, all over the world."

Slater snapped his fingers. "Then, Pop! the miracles stop. Beasts vanish, gods lose their tempers and their powers. All that is left is memories and legends."

"So what happened?"

"Gods happened," said Slater. "Miracles and wizards. We tapped into the abyss thousands of years ago and drained its energy. But we were too greedy, and the abyss wanted something in return. It spat out creatures from beyond, like Pazuzu and Beelzebub. We tried to stop it; the Babylonians sacrificed their children to Moloch to plug the rift, the Jews sacrificed to Yahweh - but they all did it wrong. The sacrifices were in vain because they didn't send anything into the void. Only the Kisanti knew the right way."

"They walked into the abyss?"

Slater nodded enthusiastically. "The kisanti made the ultimate sacrifice to stop the world from destroying itself."

"They sacrificed themselves?"

"Every living Kisanti walked through that doorway and into the darkness beyond. That's why the tribe disappeared off the face of the planet. They did this out of love, look!"

He pointed to a series of marks above the doorway that looked like ancient writing.

"MARIAH!" he said. "The ancient word for LOVE."

"Imagine being stuck in darkness for thousands of years; it's not fair... Not FAIR!" Slater was agitated like I had never seen him before. He hammered his closed fist into the painted doorway, again and again until the paint started flaking off.

"Oh!" he said, looking at the smear on his finger. "I just chipped off a bit of the doorway."

---

When Slater and I returned, Fernando was in the lobby installing another CCTV, with Mr. Tejon holding the ladder. Suddenly he let out a pained howl and dropped his screwdriver. "I swear! This old wiring's gonna kill someone one day," cursed Fernando and massaged his right hand. "I just got the mother of a shock." He flicked the light switch a few times but the ceiling lights remained unresponsive.

"The UPS should kick in any moment now." We waited for a few moments, everyone looking to the bulb as if it were an oracle deep in thought.

I tugged at Tejon's long sleeved cotton shirt, a hand-sewn Francois Perraux model. Out of my league and not my color either. "About the box of tea?" I asked.

"You should have left!" Whispered Tejon.

"I sorta get that now, but how did you know?"

"It's dangerous for you to be here... HE's dangerous." Tejon, still holding on to the ladder with both hands, made a movement with his head as if he was pointing at someone, or something.

"Who? Fernando?"

"I don't get it," said Fernando. "I had Miguel fit a UPS a month ago. Expensive model too."

"Tonight after dinner, my room." Tejon looked around, his eyes flickering. This was no longer a professional negotiator; this was a man who was losing his cool real fast. "We have to stop this madness," he rasped, "-or this whole thing will blow up."

"Any moment, now..." Said Fernando and flicked the light switch. "Aaany moment."

---

[*] in "My Guardian Demons."