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"Daniel?!"

"Mmm!"

"Pass me a towel, would'ya?"

My sister Katryn balanced herself on a ladder and stretched to wipe away a stray cobweb that was moments away from being embedded into the criss-cross pattern of wet paint. For the better of a month, Kat, my girlfriend Irene and myself had poured all our time and effort into modernizing and redecorating the old Phantom Cat Nightclub. Irene took ownership of the place six months ago, after an MI-16 hit-man mistook the previous owner for me. Jesse Wright was alone in the office, balancing the books when the agent paid him a late night visit. Jesse may have ended his career in a hail of government standard bullets, but he left a solid economy behind.

If the reader is unfamiliar with my past exploits, you might wonder why the scientific branch of _Military Intelligence_would have a beef with a skinny, 26 year old jazz guitar player. My physique is unremarkable, and I chain smoke cigarettes to quiet the voices in my head. If I had finished high-school, my entry in the year-book would have read

Classmate least likely to be hunted down by secret agents.

But it's not my human form that gets me into trouble. It's my OTHER form that has created a tense situation between myself and the MI-16.

The Oakford officials didn't know what to make of the embarrassing case of mistaken identity, so after a dozen half-hearted interrogations, the court decided to favor Irene with the ownership of the club. It was an unexpected cadeauxthat terrified and delighted Irene in equal measure: terrifying because neither of us have experience in balancing budgets larger than a grocery bill; yet thrilling because she has worked as a singer in this club for years, and lives in an apartment right above it. After a life with a traveling circus, the _Phantom Cat_was the first place Irene had the luxury of calling her home.

Giving it up now was unthinkable.

Irene Sapere is a special girl. I'm not just saying this because she is my girlfriend, but she has a truly unique talent. She has a way of making people see things her way, and encourage them into doing her bidding. Some call it magic, others hypnosis. Herself, she simply refers to it as "pushing the right buttons." Irene is twenty five, one year younger than me. She is tan skinned like most Romani, with long raven hair and olive eyes. She is soft spoken and gentle with people. She has a cute heart-shaped face, and from her looks you would never suspect her of being a murderer. And that's how she prefers things to remain, though the truth is more complicated. Less than a year ago, she discovered how a local surgeon harvested organs from his patients, earning a nice side income by selling them as spare parts to the MI-16 [*In: Fallen Angels]. In response, Irene paid the doctor a house call, which convinced him into taking a dive off his balcony. He came to a full stop fifteen floors later, and Irene became a prime suspect. She swears she has not used her powers since that day, but Kat and I quietly credit her with talking the court lawyers into signing the nightclub over to her.

My sister Kat is 24. She has auburn hair and brown eyes, like me. We have many things in common, but unlike me, she's doesn't hear voices and she doesn't turn into a demon when somebody pisses her off. She has a degree in engineering, but prefers to spend her time, running the nightclub with us. Unlike my sister, I have no formal training. I tried to study sociology once, but it's difficult to concentrate when you have voices constantly reminding you how it's your duty to rid the world of monsters from another dimension.

My friend, Inspector Quinn of the Oakfort police insists I'm an "otherkin". That's someone who has the ability to shift into demon form. My psychiatrist disagrees with this sentiment, and writes out prescription drugs that shut the voices up. Personally, I tend to side with the shrink. It's easier to munch on a handful of _Trilafon_than facing the reality that our world is on collision course with a parallel world that burps up snake-like creatures every few months.

I wiped a dab of wet paint off the window pane and studied the passing traffic. Trucks and commuters rumbled by, children played in the park across the street and the radio played pop music. The ceiling fan made a faint whooshing noise as it revolved, washing waves of cool air across my arms. The tiny hairs tingled slightly as the breeze made them move and I felt alive and present, more so than I'd felt in months.

I listened closely to the sound of the passing cars. To my relief, I heard nothing but cars. Their engines did not conceal secret messages, the radio did not broadcast warnings about my food being poisoned, the humming of the refrigerator did not criticize my every move. Katryn sang along with the radio, and for the first time in years I felt good about myself and my life.

"Danny, your phone's ringing!" Irene shouted from the kitchen.

"Would ya' check it for me?" I shouted back, my hands still dripping red paint. Moments later, Irene returned with the phone, still ringing.

"It's Quinn," she said quietly.

"Don't answer it," I whispered. "He's on a case."

Inspector Amari Quinn is never the one to make casual calls. While other friends may call you up with a "Hey buddy, did you watch the game last night?" Quinn calls only when he is stuck on a case. He calls when we're working together, and he calls -but only one time - when we've solved the case. He's always straight to the point:

"I've got a case," he'll say. "there's money in it for you... oh, and this one could drive you insane - or get you killed."

Irene put the cell-phone down on a bar stool and I threw my shirt over it to drown out the ringing. I had a paranoid sensation that Quinn could somehow feel the three of us standing around the phone, waiting for him to hang up.

Inspector Quinn has been with the Oakfort police for more than twenty years. He's a top detective and in remarkably good shape for someone homing in on fifty. But he's got a trick up his sleeve: Quinn is a werewolf -

at least, that is what he tells me.

Let's put one thing straight: I've never seen him shift, so I have to take his word for it. But I can't blame him for keeping it private. Maybe he's just better at controlling his shifts than I am, because I change form every time I get into trouble.

And when it happens - that's when people start dying in messy ways.

Quinn is a man of excellent taste, the sharpest dresser I've met, and a sworn connoisseur of fine coffee. He claims it's because of his nose. When you have a sense of smell, five hundred times better than that of a human, a cup of shitty coffee tastes like five hundred times of shit in a mug. That's why he ranks every coffee house he visits. He'll grab one of those little paper matchbooks they give you with your carry-out coffee. He scores the place on a scale from one to ten and scribbles the verdict inside the matchbook for later reference.

He gets grumpy every full moon, after he's spent the night in the Farvale forests, running on all fours, howling and doing... whatever werewolves do - they never invite me to their parties. Quinn is also the closest thing to a friend I've ever had, which tells you something about my social life.

The day I first met Quinn, I killed two MI-16 agents with my bare hands. We didn't shake though, because I was not in my human form, I was seeing red and I was covered in fur and government blood. [*In: Havana or Hell]. Fortunately for me, Quinn recognized me for what I am, and reassured me that

"half-demons are much like werewolves, only less common and more deadly."

"God! He's persistent," groaned Kat by the time the ringtone had looped eight times. An eternity later, the phone stopped ringing and we went back to breathing freely.

"You're dripping!" Kat nodded at my paintbrush. I'd forgotten to put it down. Heck I'd forgotten it was even in my hand.

"Put your paint bucket on this," she said and spread out a newspaper to protect the floor.

"I hope it's not the sports section."

Kat shrugged. "It's something about mobsters going nuts on Sicily."

I felt queasy. The last time gang-members had a shoot-out, it involved rubies and snake-like monsters from a parallel world known as the abyss."[*In: "cry me a murder"].

"I hope it's not about rubies?" I yanked the paper out of Kat's hand, sweating profoundly.

"I hate rubies."

Irene nudged my shoulder, and I rested my head against her arm.

"I haven't seen you this edgy for months," she said. "So what if Quinn has a case for you? We needthe money."

"Last time Quinn offered me a case, I watched a man getting sucked into the abyss," I said. "He's still in there, alive and trapped in an endless nightmare." I shook the paintbrush with every word, leaving spatters of red paint on the floor planks. I've seen the maw of the abyss open and spew out gray tube-like creatures that wrap themselves around their human prey like boneless fingers, and suck them back in. A brief glance into this void was enough to mess up my mind for weeks, and I shuddered at the thought of my friend, Paul Slater whose curiosity got the better of him.

The field of my vision narrowed and blood thundered in my ears as I studied the paper. But to my relief, the news-flash made no mention of rubies, monsters or people getting ripped to pieces. It didn't mention shooting either.

The article only mentioned how some mob-related Barsini family had been clubbed to death in Palermo in "a sadistic orgy of brutality, by assailants still unconfirmed."

"Danny, are you OK?"

I nodded. "I'm staying clear of strange cases. And that goes for anything relating to Inspector Quinn and the MI-16. If they want to duke it out with each other, or fight creatures from another dimension, fine! But not on MY shift."

I wiped the last droplet of crimson paint off the floorboard with a rag and threw it the wastebasket. "From now on, I'll stick to two dimensions: paintbrush up, paintbrush down, left and right."

"Don't forget IN or OUT," said Irene. She looked concerned, holding an unfolded letter in her hand. "Fire inspection's due next week. If we don't pass it this time, they're gonna shut us down for good

• and we'll be OUT of here."

---

Bernie Clemens was drunk when he returned to his one-bedroom apartment. Drunk, angry and broke. He was still in shock;

how could a boat of two queens and three nines be a losing hand?

He had been on a winning streak all night, until he'd grown too confident and lost everything to Gilberto Lorenzo and his four deuces. Bernie Clemens pounded the wall with his fists until they bled.

It wasn't fair, not fair at all.

But tomorrow was another game.

Bernie checked his wallet. He knew it was coasting on fumes, but maybe - just maybe, a fiver had slipped in between the wad of racing stubs. He threw it away in disgust when he found nothing. He needed money bad; money for drink, money for gas... money for winning everything back.

Oh, and for food.

To Bernie Clemens, food had become a distant memory. He ate out of habit, rather than pleasure. A tin of peeled tomatoes, uncooked soup, corned beef or tinned dog food. All tasted the same when you were aching to play that next hand.

He reached for a tin of tuna he had trash-dived from a dumpster on ninth, when it slipped out of his hand. The tin rolled across the floor where it came to a rest against an empty book case. His stomach was tight from frustration and hunger.

Tuna took care of the hunger; revenge would have to wait till morning.

Bernie scurried around in the dark on all fours, until his hand brushed against something hard; a mid nineteen-eighties twin lamp, made from brass and glass. He sat up and wiped the dust off the shades, his mind wandering back ten years.

The lamp was the only thing he took with him when he moved out of his parent's home. He had sold or hocked every other piece of furniture whenever he was broke, but this lamp was different. The brass lamp had seen him through good times and hard times. Lately, there had been more hard times than good times. It was a work of beauty, with minute ornamentations and artisan crafted details. Dad had been reluctant to letting him take it, but he softened when Bernie swore he would follow in his father's footsteps and become a psychiatrist, and how he would need the light to study by.

"I'll make you proud," he'd sworn back then. Now Bernie estimated he could pawn it for thirty, maybe forty bucks down at Hock-o-Bell.

"Time for us to part."

He plugged the lamp into the socket and turned the rotary switch. The bulb flickered and a faint smell of ozone reached Bernie's nostrils. _Crap!_He thought. _It needs to be rewired. Better not tell the pawnshop._Or maybe the bulb had come loose. Then he gave the bulb a slight twist.

The lamp exploded with a thunderous roar. The blast plowed through Bernie's midsection, severing the spine with the ease of a hacksaw to a pretzel.

Bernie Clemens was dead before his two halves hit the floor.

---

There is an average of five million car crashes across the USA every year. 30,000 of them are fatal, making up a total of 47,000 corpses, because people don't like dying alone. Tonight, Chad Scanlon added to that statistics by ramming his rented Pontiac, fender first into a Vaccu-Fix_on the corner of _Rose_and _Mason.

The rain had washed away most of the blood by the time chief inspector Quinn of the Oakford police arrived on the scene. But the interior of the Pontiac remained a shattered world of twisted steel and broken limbs.

Quinn pointed his flashlight into the car where Chad Scanlon sat upright in the driver's seat. His corpse was held in place by the seat belt, eyes half open and tongue lolling out as if he forgot to close his mouth after a yawn. A _Motorola_cell phone was in his lap, where he dropped it during his final call to emergency.

Quinn handed his paper cup of tepid coffee to jr. officer O'Hare and touched Scanlon's neck. The corpse was still warm with signs of_pallor mortis_setting in.

"We lost him by... dunno, five minutes," Quinn grunted and sniffed the air." I can't get a proper scent in this rain."

"Scent, Chief?"

"and the rain is diluting my coffee."

Quinn unfastened the seat belt, and Chad Scanlon slumped over the steering wheel like a dead drunk.

A high-speed impact can kill you in two ways:

Either the impact shakes your brain loose, plucking it off its stem like an overripe cherry, or the steering wheel crushes your chest, shattering the ribs and causes fatal bleeding.

In Scanlon's case, it was death by steering wheel.

Must have been one hell of an impact. Quinn held up a finger at arms length to judge the skid-marks on the asphalt. The vehicle sped down Mason and turned south on Rose, doing at least one-fifty. Scanlon had slammed the brakes too late and came to a full stop in the downtown appliance outlet, narrowly missing a $1899 Rainbow E2 Electric hoover. Scanlon kept a driving licensein the left pocket of his sports jacket, registered to Thomas J Watts. His wallet contained two thousand dollars in cash and a receipt from a local _Red Roof Inn,_also paid for in cash.

No Credit cards, huh? This guy was flying under the radar.

Quinn took off his coat and handed it to O'Hare.

"Don't want to get blood all over me," he grunted and reached for the cellphone in the corpse's lap. It was smeared in gore that leaked into the speaker and made the keys stick. Quinn pressed the call button a few times, before dropping the phone into a zip-lock bag.

"Dead, like its owner."

Officer O'Hare shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. He was soaked and uncomfortable, and the chief replied only with grunts. "What are we looking for, chief? Drugs?"

"Anything worth killing for."

The trunk contained a cabin-sized leather suitcase, a loaded Kahr Desert Eagle and forty boxes of cal. 357 rounds. Quinn bowed down and put his nose to the pistol. He made a rapid series of sniffs, sampling the odor of the gun, like any scent-reliant animal.

Officer O'Hare squeezed the water from his cap with his free hand. "This is no usual speed freak," he observed. "With two thousand rounds in his trunk, you'd think he was starting a war."

Quinn slammed the trunk shut and reached for his coffee. It was cold and watered down by the rain, but at two thirty in the morning, cold coffee was the best you could ask for. He swirled the cup around and studied the black liquid where two drowning gnats with flailing legs and wings, fought to stay afloat.

"This gun hasn't been fired," he said. "If Mr. Watts was preparing a war, he lost it before he fired the opening shot."

---