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"Dude, I'm in trouble."

I hesitated contacting inspector Quinn, because I knew he would blow a fuse if I told him about Archie Phelps, and in particular about my involvement in his demise by demon. So I postponed the call until ten thirty, when I knew Quinn took his coffee break, feet up on the office desk, latte in one hand and skimming the headlines of the Oakfort Herald.

"Is that trouble as in women-trouble or money-trouble?" He asked.

"How about I accidentally popped an MI-16 agent last night - kind of trouble."

You could hear the old wooden office chair creaking as Quinn leaned over the desk "Who?" he asked.

"...and how?"

"I kinda shifted and clawed him up... The whole works."

"Daniel! This is where you tell me, you did it in self defense. Tell me that he tried to kill you, or he was a double agent for the Szohôd. Do it!"

"Actually, Agent Phelps bought me dinner... and he drank my bourbon."

There was this silence. This continuing silence. All I heard was an exasperated sigh from the other end of the line.

"Do you have any idea how much goodwill it takes to keep the MI-16 from shutting your ass down, every time you sink your claws into one of their agents?"

I didn't.

"There's this thing called diplomacy." Quinn's voice grew frosty and I was glad there was twelve hundred miles between us.

"we're on friendly terms with the Military Intelligence right now, but that does not grant you the freedom to go demon on their agents."

"I didn't mean to," I did my best to explain. "I blacked out, and I shifted without knowing."

"How long can you keep this under lids?" Asked Quinn.

"A day? Two, tops. Phelps reported to his HQ every morning, and they must be growing worried by now."

"Listen," said Quinn. "One of the top brass at the MI is one of my people."

"Coffee expert?"

"Werewolf!"

"Oh!"

"I'll buy him lunch - and that expense is coming out of your salary, buddy!" Quinn growled.

"I'll take him on a hunting trip to Idaho, and we'll have a friendly chat, lobo y lobo".

"You make it sound so unspectacular, like you were hanging out with your fishing buddies."

Quinn scratched his short beard. He always does that when he is confused by something. Very often he's confused by my absolute ignorance of his world.

"You didn't think I was the only werewolf in Oakfort?"

"Well...actually..."

"Unlike your kind, we weres know to keep a low profile. We don't shift in public and we don't go around clawing people up... Not any more."

"Honestly, I didn't mean to..."

"Okay," said Quinn, his anger subsiding. "I'll explain my contact, how someone like you can be a real asset to the MI. But you're still wet behind the horns. And they need to cut you some slack."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, you still fuck things up!"

"Thanks... I guess."

"And Daniel, one more thing..."

"I know what you are saying: Don'tinvestigate the case?"

"It's too late for that. When the MI learn about their agent, YOU will be the case. I was going to say: Don't shift. You are entangled with the abyss, with a foot in either world. This grants you immense powers, but they come at a price. The abyss is like a put-and-take fish pond. When you take something out, it's your responsibility to put something back. Only we're not talking fish here. When you drain it for energy, the abyss claims something back to settle the balance."

"Claims something? Like what?"

"Like you, Daniel... Like you."

I finally understood the implications of being one with the other side. Five months ago, I stood at the gateway separating our world from the abyss. I had taken something from the abyss, by shifting twice in one day. And I had siphoned energy into the wounded Irene to keep her alive[*]. In return, it was damn near impossible to change back into my human form. I was stuck in the endless void, where night is eternal, where the multiple dimensions drive you insane and snake-like denizens of the abyss look over your shoulder from every direction. That same creature broke through the barrier and attacked Catalina to siphon her mind. If Fernando hadn't startled the creature, it would probably have sucked all memories out of her skull, right back to her childhood. The abyss was crossing over, because someone had tapped into its energy and it was time to settle the score. Finally, the terrible nature of the situation dawned upon me:

I was not the only one in the hotel, who had ties to the abyss.

VI

I Won't be Calling Home, Mother - I'm Dead.

It was only a matter of hours before the MI-16 began to wonder why agent Archie Phelps didn't report back. Military Intelligence knew I was staying at Hotel Kisanti, but did they know about my demon side? I needed to find out before they caught up, so the moment Fernando rang the police to report the murder, I let myself into Phelps' room. He 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 sitting half empty on a desk cluttered with cigarette butts and international newspapers. Der Spiegel, Le Figaro, La Repubblica_and a box of _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. The one he stole from my room during his uninvited visit. He hadn't even removed the $10.98 price-tag. He also left a single half-smoked filter-cigarette next to a dog-eared $5.99 fantasy paperback. The kind you buy at an airport to pass the time and leave behind when you check out of the hotel. I guess even secret agents are allowed to have an imagination and a smoke. He'd sandwiched a ticket stub from a local museum in between two chapters for a bookmark; Nahuales excavation, read the ticket, Admission, two adults.

TWO? The ticket had been issued on June 6th; four days ago, and four minutes had passed since Fernando made the call. I had 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 spray gas or acid in my face when touched. 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 labeled with a plain white sticker, reading:

Kent, Daniel - and the file number 16-282-081220-4.

08-12-20 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 to do was ask politely, but they handled the situation their way, but so did I, and they lost both agents in the process[**].

Kent, Daniel.

Age: 26.

Sex: male.

Hair: brown.

Eyes: brown.

Height: 5'7 (approximate).

Place of residence: 17 Millmeadow lane, Oakfort.

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: Heavy smoker. History of psychotic episodes.

Standing: 4 - critical, pending revision to level 5.

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

Closest living next of kin:

Kent, Katryn, 24, sister.

Kent, Eugene, XX, father.

Kent, Mary 56, mother.

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

Those sons of bitches! If they thought they could get to me through Katryn, 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 hi-resolution reminder of what I'd done to them, so I flipped the photos over and slid them back into the envelope. I kill barehanded; this much was on report, but there was no mentioning of me transforming into demon.

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 already knew Darleen and Slater, but the name Ted Jones didn't ring any bell. It wasn't until I recognized 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.

Hair: Gray.

Eyes: Gray.

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 in expensive suits, all shaking hands.

"Gorbachev and Reagan back on speaking terms," read one headline.

"Russian-American peace negotiations back on track," read another.

"Jimmy Carter hostage situation resolved."

Years, crises and presidential names flashed by between news items, but Ted Jones remained a constant. Always standing in the background, and always 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 Odessa. 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 counseling: we're going to Disneyland!" Tejon had risen from the ashes, but not like a Phoenix; even the less spectacular ashen can still make you a living.

The folders on Slater and Darleen contained only a single sheet for each of them. For Darleen it was a printout of her medical history. It read like one long listing of anti-depressants and visits to rehab, and a few arrests too for possession. 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 college degree. The self-proclaimed beach bum majored in history, two years ago, at the age of twenty four.

The last line in both their records read the same:

Standing: 2, civilian.

Where did this put me with a standing rating of four, going on five? 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 dossier 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 again.

---

"You want me to do WHAT?"

Paul Slater shifted between looking at me and into 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," one anonymous caller had told me over the phone; someone who didn't leave a name and who muffled his voice. I never returned that 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." He dried himself with a towel and I noticed how, unlike myself he showed no signs of 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 Nahuales excavation?" Slater looked at the ticket with mixed dismay and disinterest in his eyes. "It's a shallow tourist attraction, nothing more."

The Nahuales excavation divided the locals evenly into supporters and stern skeptics. Supporters argued the exhibition was a welcome tourist magnet, while the skeptics -mainly scholars, feared the Nahuales myth was sliding into a pseudo-scientific cash-grab. The pamphlet handed out at the entrance read:

In October 2013, the heavy rain season caused a rock slide in the Bajadas mountain range outside San Blas. The crashing boulders uncovered an entrance into a three thousand year old construction, skillfully carved into the mountainside. The stunned archaeologists were surrounded by detailed, ancient mural paintings, all featuring cat-like humanoids, busy living their everyday life in 1000BC: trading, fishing and celebrating. Today, the cave is known as the Nahual Temple. Was it built by hand or by paw? Today 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?"

"Someone left 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 brought along to the exhibition, you're asking the wrong cat, Holmes."

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

Slater laughed. "It sure wasn't Darleen or me, and Tell was too damn cheap to buy his own ticket. The museum is not wheelchair friendly. And here you are, asking 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 Oakfort 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. To make things worse, the whole section MI-16 would scream bloody demon when they learned how Phelps wouldn't be punching in his card. I needed to take a breather and I needed someone to confide in, and Slater was easy to talk to.

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

Slater seemed alright but I couldn't rule him out as a potential suspect just yet. I had an unlisted number on my phone to call back. While Slater was in the pond, he couldn't get to 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. Mr. 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 on my phone 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 dialed 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 while the distant ringtone droned on. Coincidence? I hung up and waited fifteen seconds before calling again. Once again, that same ringtone sounded out, loud and crisp from the northern side of the hotel. Here I found a ringing 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 needed to know more about the phone and its owner, before Ramirez hauled it in as evidence. I took off my T-shirt and flipped the phone onto it. It was a rugged outdoors model 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 still bounce right back into your hand.

But whose hand?

The call log went back more than three months. The owner had called 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 make out the words 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 stopped. My blood pressure took off like a Tomahawk missile. If their receiver was as good as mine, they would hear my heartbeat kick into overdrive.

"It's mother!" the voice of the General called out right behind me. I knew his 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," I hissed. "So shut the hell up." The shadows cast from the poplar trees grew pitch black and shifted restlessly with no breeze to guide them. The shadows left the confinement of their trees and danced freely across the sunlit lawn, forming 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 other symbols that mean 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 now joined my invisible companion.

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

"Your phone is still connected." agreed both Karen and the General. "They can hear you talking to yourself."

Oh!

The moment was awkward; I'd been shouting at the voices in my head like a madman. To my surprise, Apex Curtains had not hung up on me.

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

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

"Hell no!" I shouted and hung up, trying to drown out the thousand diabolical 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 once instructed me to shift into demon form, to keep myself together and the disturbances at bay. I'd been alone in my kitchen, shifting and digging claw marks into the linoleum floor. I could do so again

• just a touch, without going full demon. Just a little something to take the edge off.

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.

OK! Stop here, I willed the transformation to stop.

That's far enough.

I stroked the fur on my shifted arm with my human hand. It felt good and comforting, like being with an old friend. Only this friend was myself. Gradually, the voices subsided, and the shadows slid back into their natural place under the poplars.

I'm a demon, I conceded in a moment of clarity, and I almost laughed. I was slowly beginning to understand why Quinn was so much at ease with his werewolf self. I understood his desire to shift, run and howl, and I realized how being an _other_was not a curse, but a blessing. My arm was still covered in fur and my claws were sharp and deadly, like retractable steel daggers. I could kill with these. I already had.

I needed air, needed to get away from the hotel. Needed to take a break away from my break. I reached for the cigarette pack in my pants and my fingers closed around the now familiar shape of a teardrop ruby.

How many of these were around? How much were they worth?

Maybe they were only worth a few bucks to Agent Phelps, but to a heroin addict 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 lab coat 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, with the loupe still 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 bucks."

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

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

"You'll 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 true 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 digs 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.

"I trust you're not from the IRS?"

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 quiet about the bag of rubies we found by the air pump. He remained quiet about his decision to go for a diamond ring, and he did not resist or argue when Officer Ramirez put him in handcuffs and 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. It had been a very strange case, but I'd never expected the 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 Gatos Locos. I arrested him myself for shoplifting, for smoking weed and for 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 in cash. When Tell caught him red handed with a fistful of rocks, 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 leading to Hotel Kisanti was bad, the trail to the Nahual excavation was a survivalist's wet dream. With no proper road, the rental Jeep jumped and wheezed until we stopped outside a fenced-off area deep in the Bajada mountain range. The site itself was closed to the public, and I guess I was the only non-academic to set foot in the area since its discovery in 2013.

Slater unlocked a heavy metal door that led into an elaborate hallway carved into the mountain side. We carried two battery powered torches that illuminated the walls, all decorated with three-thousand year old mural paintings. The colors had faded over time, but the paintings showed no sign of tampering or vandalism. This place had remained untouched and unvisited for millennia.

The paintings were all drawings of a Nahual tribe, Slater called the Balam. They were upright, humanoid being with the heads of mountain lions and paws where their hands should be. The Balam were depicted fishing with nets from a shallow boat, packing olives into amphorae, offering a length of cloth to two normal looking humans traders. In fact these traders were the only humans in the paintings. They stood half a head taller than the_Balam_, 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; we found none of the jackal-like Anubis, no Thoth, Horus nor Seth.

"Shouldn't we be carrying wooden torches in this place?" I asked. "Electrical ones feel strangely 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. "This is the one, they don't show you at the museum."

The painting was ten feet wide and five feet tall. It showed a line of Balam walking towards some kind of opening. Their movements were stiff like dolls, and the figures were drawn only in profile with a single eye facing outwards, with no sense of perspective.

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

The procession of Balam 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 Balam 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 an entrance to a different 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 known civilization has passed down legends of a parallel world."

Two years ago, I'd have shrugged this notion off as another fanciful tale of people falling through rabbit holes, walking into magic mirrors and stumbling out of Narnian wardrobes. All leading to strange worlds; I even wrote a story about riding a Pegasus to another world, back in high school. It was all make believe, but I couldn't ignore it anymore. I have seen the abyss first hand and it's a terrifying place.

"Magic doorway, huh?"

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

"?"

"They found darkness, Daniel. 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 visitations by beasts of wonder: Leviathan, Pazuzu, Behemoth, the great Wyrm of Midgard. You will find tales of fantastic creatures 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 behind is scattered memories and forgotten 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 grew 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 Balam knew the right way."

"They walked straight into the abyss?"

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

"They sacrificed themselves?"

"Every living Balam walked through that doorway and into the darkness beyond. That's why the tribe vanished 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. It was way 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 is 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? Miguel? Okay so he's a thief. But he doesn't strike me as dangerous."

"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, now."

---

[*] in "Fallen Angels"

[**] in "Havana or Hell."