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## A WORLD APART

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Shades Below

Book One

by

L.J.K. Oliva

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To K.N.R. and M.B.

_Write on, bitches._

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All houses wherein men have lived and died

_Are haunted houses. Through the open doors_

The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,

With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

_-_ "Haunted Houses," Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

#

#

# Before

#

It was cold in the concrete chamber.

A draft whistled through the tunnels, carrying with it the smell of liquid garbage and roast meat. Duck, if he wasn't mistaken. He drew a deep, cleansing breath. Minutes earlier, the only thing he'd been able to smell was fear. All he'd been able to hear were screams.

Not anymore.

Now, the slight, dirty figure on the table before him was still and silent. Now, if he listened closely, he could hear the sounds of traffic, the buzz of the street car lines embedded in the concrete overhead.

The young man's pleas still grated in his ears. Poor fellow. He'd tried to end it quickly, but there were certain things required for the ritual; things necessarily obtained while blood still pumped through his unwitting assistant's veins. He pressed a hand to the man's pale forehead and reminded himself \--not for the first time-- why he was doing this.

He glanced at the other table in the far corner of the chamber. The figure that lay on it was covered with a shroud, but he could picture the face as clearly as if it were his own. In a way, it almost was.

It would all be worth it in the end. For the sake of his soul, it had to be.

He moved quickly. The cold young man's chest was already laid open, the smooth, white ribs carefully cracked and pried apart. The entire cavity brimmed with blood. Its coppery stench hung heavy in the air, like some rare and forbidden perfume.

The rest of the ingredients waited in stinking repose on the cart beside the table: magical elixirs distilled under the full moon. Marrow. Stones. Various entrails of various profane animals. The ashes of a bird, so long extinct its very existence had passed into the realm of myth.

He'd poured his life's savings into obtaining it all, but after countless failed attempts, his supplies were dwindling. He glanced at the other table again, and his chest tightened.

He couldn't fail again. He _wouldn't_ fail again.

The incantation was so familiar now he could recite it by rote. The ancient words twisted and flowed over his tongue. As he spoke, he began to move. All great spells started with movement; he knew that now. He knew many things now, many more than when he'd begun. Movement was meditation, a journey into oblivion, a way to connect with the divine.

And so he moved. He flailed his arms and stomped his feet and whirled around in a circle, again and again and again. His rational brain started to recede. Foam flecked the corners of his mouth as he slipped further and further into the frenzied Zen he'd come to know so well.

He was still reciting the incantation, screaming it now. Just before he lost himself completely, he shrieked out the final, blasphemous word. The energy abruptly sapped from his muscles. He collapsed to the ground. Waited.

Nothing.

He curled his fingers into the cold floor. The sound that rose from his throat was hardly human. Of course, after everything he'd done, he was fairly sure he'd sacrificed his humanity long ago. What was he doing wrong? He'd followed the spell to the letter, every time. And every time, he had failed.

Sighing, he hauled himself to his feet, bones creaking. Fresh bruises marked his knees. He hissed. Failure wasn't enough; now he'd be reminded of it for days to come. He dusted off his trousers and cinched his tie closer to his throat.

At least he still had options. He reached under the table, retrieved the pocketknife and the blank strip of leather he already had waiting. Gritting his teeth, he drew the sharp edge of the blade across his palm. Blood sprang to the surface.

He smoothed the leather flat on the table, dipped one finger into the wound, and started to write.

# CHAPTER ONE

#

She knew better than to try and sleep on nights like this.

Lena Alan sat up with a sigh and swung her legs over the side of her bed. A telltale itch whispered over her skin. She rubbed her arms.

Someone was trying to reach her.

She'd experienced it too many times to try and fight it. Lena eased her feet to the floor, grabbed her robe off the chair on her way out of the bedroom. Light from the retro street lamp outside bathed the living room in an odd shade of orange. Across the narrow street, the neighborhood's park was quieter than usual.

She paused, listened. Come to think of it, everything was quieter than usual. Even once the sun went down and the fog rolled in, San Francisco always hummed with constant, mid-grade energy.

Not tonight. The neighbors' bipolar taco terrier wasn't even barking.

Lena sighed and made for the kitchen. Only one thing could make her feel better about being awake at the crack of insanity. She plucked the kettle off the stove and stood in front of the sink, willing herself into a kind of waking sleep while it filled with water. Her eye drifted to the glowing digital display on the microwave above the stove.

Two fifty-eight.

Lena groaned.

She flicked on the burner and set the kettle over the flame. Pleasure swelled briefly in her chest. All through her twenties, standing in front of one shitty electric stove after another, she'd promised herself someday she would do better.

Not that she'd settled on this place for the gas stove. The instant she realized the restaurant space downstairs came with its own apartment, that had been it. Never mind the leaky roof, the shitty insulation, the sometimes overly-raucous drunks who made the park their headquarters. The instant she'd turned the key in the lock, she'd known she was home.

Lena smiled to herself as she opened the cupboard next to the stove. A wall of small, cheerful boxes greeted her. Suddenly, being awake didn't seem so bad. She scanned the familiar names. What was a good sipping blend for the witching hour? Lapsang Suchong? Too exotic. English Breakfast Tea? Too early. Irish Breakfast Tea? Too late.

The kettle whistled, and she settled on Lady Grey. Even the box was soothing: a rich, royal blue.

The familiar motions felt meditative: turn off the flame, lift the kettle, fill the cup to the brim. The herbal, citrus-y scent of black tea and bergamot flooded the kitchen. Lena sighed, not with resignation this time. Gingerly, she carried the cup out to the living room, settled into her favorite chair, curled her legs up underneath her.

And waited.

The energy in the room built gradually. Lena checked the clock on the sideboard and furrowed her brow. A mature spirit wouldn't take this long to materialize. Either something was holding it back, or she was dealing with a juvenile.

She sighed and readied her shields. The recently dead were always difficult. So many emotions: anger, fear, bitterness, regret. She'd learned long ago to be careful, to keep at a safe distance, like someone preparing to witness a nuclear test.

It was an apt metaphor, the more she thought about it. If spirits were pure, concentrated energy, then a volatile spirit was the equivalent of a bomb blast.

The energy spiked abruptly.

Before she could fully prepare herself, a ball of white light exploded into the center of the room. Lena leaped to her feet, swore as tea sloshed onto her white camisole. In the building next door, the Johnsons' taco terrier started to howl.

The light careened around like an out-of-control pinball, bouncing off walls and rattling the light fixture on the ceiling. It zinged by her head, sending a crackle of electricity down her spine. She set her cup on the table beside the chair.

"Look, I realize this is all probably really confusing, but would you please calm down before you destroy my home?"

The light stopped, flickered, as if considering her request. Slowly, it floated back to the center of the room.

Lena brushed off a few lingering droplets of Lady Grey. "Thank you." She took a deep breath and strengthened her shields. "Okay, then. You're here. I'm here. Let's talk."

The light brightened a fraction, then dimmed again.

Lena crossed her arms. "You really are new at this, aren't you? Here's how it works. I'm your friendly neighborhood medium. I can hear you and I can talk to you, but not if you're going to keep up the whole 'one-with-the-universe' thing. So concentrate really hard, and give me something I can work with."

The light brightened, then as abruptly as it had arrived, flicked out.

Lena scowled at the empty space in her living room. "Oh sure, thanks, I had fun too." She'd stayed awake, spilled a cup of perfectly good tea, and for what? A spirit with the noncorporeal equivalent of erectile dysfunction. Mostly she was fine being permanently on-call in the Veil. On nights like this, however, it sucked.

She forced a deep breath, then another, and turned to retrieve her tea cup from the table. When she straightened again, she was nose-to-nose with a wild-eyed young man.

The cup slipped. At the last minute, she regained her grip. "Jesus Christ. Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to sneak up on a girl like that?"

The man took a step back, eyes sweeping the room. "Please. You gotta help me. I think I'm... I think I'm dead."

Lena sighed and set the cup back down. "Yeah. Hate to break it to you, but you've got that about right." She paused. Why did this spirit seem so familiar? She narrowed her eyes. A second later, it came to her. Her eyes shot wide. "Oh my god... _Jimmy_? What the—what happened?"

The man had been dancing from one foot to the other. He froze, peered closer at her face. "Lena? For real? I felt something pulling me here, but I didn't realize you were a—is this some kind of trick?"

Lena winced. She hadn't known Jimmy long—he'd only started working odd jobs at the shop about a month earlier—but already she'd come to like him. "Sorry. No trick."

The agitated look returned to his face. "Then I really am dead. Fuck, I was hoping all that shit was a dream. He cracked my fucking chest open, and I... I felt it. Hell, I _watched_."

Lena's stomach soured. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "That's not why I'm here. Look, my _mamío_ , she was always telling us about souls and good and evil and what happens when you die, and all that shit. I always thought she was just a crazy old bat who'd had too much plum brandy back in the old country, but she was _right_. About _all_ of it. Something's wrong. I don't know how I can tell, but I can. It's like... confused. Everything's all confused, and something bad's going down, and I—"

Lena held up both hands. "Hold up. You lost me. What's a _mamío_? What was she right about? What's wrong?"

Jimmy blew out a frustrated breath. "My grandmother. She's... I'm... Shit. I'm not really supposed to tell you any of this, you being a _raklí_ and all, but... you've heard of the Roma?"

Lena nodded slowly. "Yes."

Jimmy jerked his head in the affirmative. "Right, well, I'm Rom. Or I was. My _mamío's_ a fortune teller. The real deal. At least, she's good at palms and tea leaves and shit. The rest of it- _damn_. I should've fucking listened to her." He raked a hand through his hair, pulled it back and shot it a puzzled look.

Lena cleared her throat. "You don't have a physical body anymore. Everything probably feels... different."

Jimmy wheezed out a half-hearted laugh. "Yeah. Different." Shaking himself, he looked back up at her. "Anyway, _Mamío_ was always going on about the 'cosmic harmony, and all that. According to her, the universe needs a balance of both good and evil."

Lena furrowed her brow. "You don't sound convinced."

Jimmy shrugged. "I always was a pretty shitty Rom. The _kris_ —that's our, I dunno, internal court system, I guess—kicked me out of the community about a year ago. Been on my own ever since."

If that bothered him, he gave no sign of it. Lena swallowed the sympathetic murmur that sprang to her lips. "Okay, so what about this balance?"

Jimmy started to pace. "Well, apparently, when something throws it off, things get all kinds of crazy. So crazy, people say the ancestors will give you signs to warn you about it."

His ethereal form shimmered as he drew a deep breath. "I wasn't supposed to, but I stayed in touch with my family _._ Lately, _Mamío's_ been saying her sister keeps waking her up in the middle of the night, telling her something's wrong. Only her sister died during the _Porajmos_ , back in the forties."

Lena's head pounded. Three in the morning was too early to be dealing with ghosts, fortune tellers, and the Romani Holocaust. She pressed the pads of her fingers to her eyes. "Okay. I agree, that sounds bad."

Jimmy shook his head. "If I'd just listened... But I thought she was crazy. I mean, I never told her, but she knew. She's like that." He stared off into the fake ficus in the corner. "I should have listened."

Lena snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Hey. Earth to Jimmy. I don't host pity parties here. Maybe your grandma was on to something, maybe not. Regardless, I think we have a bigger problem."

He gave her a blank look.

She rolled her eyes. "Somebody killed you, you lug."

Jimmy grimaced. "Right."

"Any idea who it was?"

He thought for a moment. "No. Never saw their face. Don't even remember what happened, really. Not until... Well, you know." He winced down at his chest.

Lena fought back a shudder. "Yeah, I'd probably try to forget that, too. But think for a second. If you can tell me where your body is, maybe we can figure out who killed you. At the very least, I can get it back to your family. They'll probably want to give you a proper send-off, right?"

"Yeah." His eyes started to shimmer. "Yeah, they probably will." He paused, and his gaze sharpened. "Hey, you can give them a message for me, right?"

"Sure." Lena pulled her robe tighter. "I could do that."

"Just, I dunno, tell my folks I love them. And tell my brothers to quit giving our _dále_ such a hard time. And maybe you could tell my _mamío_ —" He stopped. A confused look flitted across his features.

Lena waited. "Yes?"

Jimmy's lips parted. "What the..."

Lena took a step forward. "Jimmy?"

But he wasn't looking at her anymore. He stared off into the Veil, mesmerized by something she couldn't see. Then his eyes went wide. Horror infused his face. He dropped into a crouch and covered his head with his hands. "No! Go away! I don't want—Just leave me alone!"

Lena strengthened her shields, reaching out at the same time. Energy was all over the room: Jimmy's, hers, even energy from the last couple who'd lived there. She could feel it when she focused, crackling all around her like a broken net of superheated thread.

She gathered each individual strand, willed the energy to flow into her. Her hands tingled. "Jimmy? Just stay close to me. I can protect-"

Jimmy's eyes rolled back in his head. He let out a shriek that chilled her to her core.

Then he disappeared.

# CHAPTER TWO

#

The King was dead.

Jesper MacMillian stood over the ornate mahogany coffin, and stared down at the man inside. Seeing him like this, it was harder to hate him than it should have been. A slip of paper with Orthodox liturgy scrawled over it rested on his forehead. Beneath it, the man's white hair was combed painstakingly back from his leathered temples. His eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed. He almost looked gentle.

MacMillian peered closer. No, sure enough, there it was: the faint remnants of a predatory smirk. The tightness around the eyes, the hollowness in the cheeks. Hawk-like nose and rigid brow. This was the grandfather he remembered.

This was the man who'd ruined his life.

A strong, bony hand clasped his arm. MacMillian swallowed his feelings and smiled down at the tiny wrinkled woman beside him. The crowds of mourners had already filed out of the little chapel. Now, it was just the two of them. "How are you, Babko?"

His grandmother shrugged and gave him a watery smile. "Alive." She released MacMillian's arm and leaned down, placed a shaky kiss first on the Christ icon in the man's hand, then on his cheek. "Ah, _ves'tacha_." Her voice wavered. "You leave me too soon."

MacMillian shifted his weight against his cane and didn't speak.

The woman rested her forehead against the rim of the coffin, then straightened and turned, holding out her hand. MacMillian obediently took it and twined it around his arm. She nodded her approval. "It is good to see you, Pusomori. It isn't right, you staying away from us for so long."

MacMillian didn't answer.

His grandmother glanced down. "You don't limp at all. Your recovery is going well."

"Yes." Though whether someone ever fully recovered from losing a limb, he didn't know. He sure as hell hadn't. It had been five years, and still there were days when the pain in his nonexistent leg was enough to drive him out of his mind.

"And how is your work?"

His lips twitched. "Steady." He lowered his voice and leaned down conspiratorially. "I just finished a case involving a tech magnate's missing wife. Turns out she wasn't missing at all, just on an unannounced, week-long getaway in Aspen—with her personal trainer. Her husband was quite generous with my compensation, if not exactly pleased with my results."

His grandmother cackled, earning her a glare from the priest attending the altar. "I bet he wasn't. But it serves him right, shoving a handsome young man under his wife's nose."

MacMillian grinned. "The trainer was a woman."

His grandmother gaped up at him. A slow, answering grin spread across her face.

"What are you telling your grandmother now?" A harsh voice echoed behind him. "More stories about the degenerate _gaje_ you associate with? For shame, Jesper. She is in mourning, and this is a church."

MacMillian stiffened, and his grandmother tightened her hold on his arm. He grimaced. If she thought she could prevent him from running, she was mistaken. But it was just as well he deal with this here.

If he didn't, his mother would only follow him home.

He wiped his face clean of any telling expression and turned slowly. "Hello, _Mámo_."

Rose MacMillian adjusted the scarf covering her head. She had been beautiful once, with her pale caramel skin, her burnished copper hair, the exotic eyes that he'd inherited. She still was, but it was a harsher beauty, whatever softness she'd once possessed long since whittled away.

She looked him up and down. "You seem well."

He waited.

She fidgeted with the vibrant patchwork handbag under her arm. "Of course you will be moving back home now. Babko will take your old room. I've cleaned out the master suite, and your grandfather's office has all his files. You can take over immediately."

MacMillian took a deep breath. It was now or never. "No."

His mother stilled. "No?" The word seemed to bewilder her. She shook her head and tried again. "You can keep your current job as well, I suppose. You can move what you need to Papo's office. It can't have been pleasant for you, working in the _gaji-kanó_ all this time—"

"Pleasant enough." The thought of leaving his office in North Beach made his stomach curdle. MacMillian kept his expression blank. "Anyway, it was my choice."

"Yes." His mother tried and failed to keep the look of naked distaste off her face. "But it will be good for you to return home."

MacMillian crossed his arms. "No."

He rocked back on his heels and waited. Sure enough, Rose's face reddened. She opened her mouth, closed it. Finally, she found her voice. "But you must! It was your _papo's_ last act on this earth. You are _rom baro_ now. He appointed you."

MacMillian shrugged. "And I told him not to. I begged him to choose someone else." _To choose a better Rom._ "He may have refused, but that isn't my concern. The _kris_ will just have to name someone in my stead."

"That is not the role of the _kris_ , and you know it," Rose spat. "There are those in the community in need of your services. You cannot leave us without a big man. You will not abandon us. Not again."

MacMillian pressed his lips together, fury rising in his chest. Of course she would try to manipulate him with that. He dug deep for self-control. "I didn't abandon you. I moved on with my life."

"Is that what you call it? Where were you after the accident?" Her accusing eyes sliced at his restraint. "Wasn't it enough I lost one son?"

"You forget I also lost a brother." Not to mention a leg, and what little self-respect he'd ever had. "Don't talk to me about loss. Or family, or loyalty, for that matter. Where were _you_ after the accident? How is it I never saw _you_ when I was lying broken in that hospital bed?"

His mother looked away, and MacMillian leaned forward. "Where were you when they were peeling the flesh off my back and piecing my bones back together, _Mámo_? Did you only come when I was unconscious? Maybe you just weren't there at all." He firmed his hand over his grandmother's. "The only member of our family I ever saw was Babko. She's the only one of you who has the right to expect my loyalty."

Rose looked back at him, her dark eyes fierce, her lips thin and white around the corners. "How much longer do you think you can keep ignoring our laws? Sooner or later, your actions will have consequences. For all of us." She lifted her chin. "You have responsibilities now."

MacMillian growled low in his throat. Before he could answer, his grandmother laid her other hand over his. "Actually, Pusomori and I were just speaking about that. He's agreed to look into something for me."

MacMillian's eyebrows went up. Rose's eyes narrowed. "Has he, now?"

"Yes, he has." His grandmother shot him a pointed look. "Istvan and Sonya Vaspurkan. Their eldest boy has turned up missing."

"Right." He forced the word through clenched teeth. "The Vaspurkans."

Rose's gaze shifted back and forth between them. "How have I not heard of this?"

The older woman lifted her shoulder, and let it drop again. "Istvan's mother and I crossed over together from the old country. We speak quite often."

Rose hesitated. The obstinate expression on her face wavered. "If that's true, it is something the _baro_ should look into."

His grandmother let out a frustrated noise. "Of course it's true! As if Viona would lie about such a thing. Jesper will look into it." She firmed her hand over his. Her eyes grew hard. "As he said: I have the right to expect his loyalty."

MacMillian bit back a groan. She knew she had him. He could try to refuse her, but they both knew he wouldn't.

All he wanted—the only thing he'd wanted since the accident—was to live his life in peace. Come and go as he pleased. Leave his shoes on in his apartment. Drink when he felt like it, and fuck when the urge struck him. He'd almost managed it. He'd almost escaped.

But now his grandfather was dead, and he was _baro_.

The church bells began to toll, slow, steady intonations, and the small choir started the requiem. MacMillian pinched the sore spot between his eyes. "Fine. Yes. Have them stop by my office. I'll look into it."

←↑↓→

"You ever going to quit coming to work looking like shit?"

MacMillian raised his head off the desk, groaned, and dropped it back down. Morning sunshine flooded through his office window. The room was spinning, the inside of his mouth tasted like stale whiskey. The old man's wake had been a rousing success.

Not that he ever needed an excuse to drink.

"Maybe when you quit shouting. Jesus, Darius, you know I hate it when you shout first thing in the morning."

His partner snorted. "I'll do worse than that, you don't pull yourself together. We got clients, and I don't think they want to talk to me."

MacMillian groaned again, and sat up. "Clients?"

"Yeah. You know, people who'll give us money in exchange for work."

MacMillian scowled. "Asshole. Fine, let them in."

Darius was already at the door to his adjoining office. "I look like your fucking secretary? Let them in yourself." He disappeared inside. The door shut behind him with a decisive _bang_.

MacMillian sneered at it and dragged himself to his feet. Mornings like this, he almost wished he had a business partner who didn't scare the hell out of people. Almost. Darius deCompostela was as hard-nosed and brilliant as he was intimidating, and he'd never seen him back down from a fight.

Combined, those things were worth having to conduct an interview with a pounding hangover.

MacMillian took the walk across his office slower than was strictly necessary, pausing to fish a breath mint from his pocket. He popped it into his mouth, slapped what he hoped would pass for a friendly look on his face, and opened the door.

The couple seated on the sagging couch in the reception area looked up in unison. The woman shrank back a little, and MacMillian stifled a grimace. Apparently he needed to work on his "friendly" face.

He leaned against the door frame. "I'm Jesper MacMillian. How can I help you?"

The couple glanced at each other before both rose to their feet. The man cleared his throat. "You're Jesper MacMillian?"

"Last I checked."

"You're the new _rom baro_?"

MacMillian pressed his lips together. Thank god Darius hadn't heard that. "Just keeping the seat warm. You must be the Vaspurkans. My grandmother sent you, didn't she?"

The man nodded. "I'm Istvan, and this is my wife, Sonya. Vali Vasa and my mother are old friends. The two of them seem to think you can help us."

"Maybe." MacMillian retreated into his office, jerked his head for them to follow. He didn't turn back around until he reached his desk. The couple hovered in the doorway, eyes flicking around the room. They reminded him of a pair of nervous moths.

He sank into his swivel chair, leaning back until the ancient springs creaked, and motioned to the two seats across from him. "So, Babko mentioned a missing son?"

The couple sank obediently into the chairs. Istvan nodded, and Sonya's face twisted like she was going to cry. MacMillian braced himself, but she quickly recovered. "That's right. We haven't heard from him for nearly a week now."

MacMillian pursed his lips. "Is that unusual?"

"Yes!" Sonya took a deep breath. "Jimmy's a good boy. He's had his troubles, but he would never just... just..."

Istvan took over. "Jimmy was never what you would call devout. Always curious, always wanting to spend more time in the _gaji-kanó_ than at home. I saw what he was doing, but I thought he was just a young man, doing what young men do. I thought he'd grow out of it."

MacMillian didn't speak.

Istvan dropped his gaze. "But then he started spending more and more time away. When he was at home, he scarcely even acknowledged the taboos. About a year back, he was finally found _marime_ and expelled from the _kumpania_."

MacMillian rocked a little. His chair squeaked in protest. "So if he's been gone for a year, why are you coming to me now?"

Sonya shook her head. "It wasn't like that. He might have been expelled, but he still kept in contact. We would see him several times a week." Her lips twisted. "If anything, we saw him more after he left."

MacMillian leaned forward and fished a notepad and pen from the top drawer of his desk. "What can you tell me about his life outside the community? Friends, girlfriends, where he lived, his job..."

Sonya wrinkled her nose. "He invited us to where he was staying once, one of those filthy hotels in the Tenderloin." She shuddered. "I wanted to soak in holy water for a week after we left that place. I have the address somewhere." She snapped open her faded purse.

Istvan watched her for a moment, then looked up. "He didn't spend much time there. You see it, you'll understand why. But the last time he came around, he mentioned he was doing odd jobs at a tea shop in South Market."

Sonya paused. "Cross Your Teas. He was helping the owner repair some of the kitchen equipment. Jimmy's a good tinker." Her eyes misted. "His grandfather taught him."

Istvan took her hand, and turned to MacMillian. "Maybe he took a different path than we'd hoped. Maybe the _kris_ has decided he's not officially Romani anymore, but he's still our blood. Our firstborn. Find him." His dark eyes were suspiciously bright. "Please."

←↑↓→

"I should hex the IRS."

Lena set down the receipt she was scrutinizing, and stared at the woman across the table. "You're not serious."

The woman blew a wisp of dark brown hair out of her face, tugged off her plastic-frame reading glasses, and stretched. The movement made her deep violet lowlights shimmer. "Why not? It might distract them for a while, and we could take a break from sifting through all this bullshit."

Lena snorted. "Hey, I said you didn't have to help me. My business, my—"

"Responsibility. Whatever." The woman rolled her eyes. "We both know you're shit with numbers. Hand me that calculator."

Lena bit back a grin, and obediently passed it over. "Have I ever told you you're like some kind of occult superhero? Georgia Clare: bookkeeper by day, badass biker witch by night. Seriously, you should put that on your business cards."

Georgia scowled, but her sharp green eyes twinkled. "Well, as your bookkeeper, I'm hereby suggesting you set up a network for this place. Are you kidding me with all this paper? If I didn't know your family, I'd swear you were Amish."

Lena shrugged. "I'll get to it."

The bell above the door jingled, and a small posse of women trekked inside. Lena flashed them a smile. "Welcome! Take a seat anywhere. I'll have someone right with you." She set down the receipt she was holding and stood. "I need to go find Connie. Thanks again, Georgia."

Georgia was already tapping away at the calculator. She waved without looking up.

Lena wove around the tables and scooted behind the counter. She nodded to the women as they ogled the scones and tiny cakes in the pastry case. Pride warmed her chest. She pushed open the swinging doors and stuck her head into the kitchen. "Hey, Tiburcio! Have you seen Connie back here?"

Her head chef popped up from behind one of the stainless steel counters. "No, _señora_ , not yet. Do you know when Jimmy is coming in? He was supposed to take a look at the stand mixer."

Lena's good mood immediately deflated. "I'm afraid we won't be seeing Jimmy around anymore."

Tiburcio's eyebrows went up, and she prayed he wouldn't press her for answers. Mercifully, he merely gave a single, short nod. " _Qué pena_. Nice guy."

She swallowed hard. "Yeah. Yeah, he was."

With Connie nowhere in sight, Lena backed out of the kitchen again, and turned to the group at the counter. This time, her smile felt tight. "Sorry about the wait, guys. Just pastries today?"

She forced herself through the motions, and heaved a sigh of relief when they finally headed out the door, already picking bits of scone from their crisp white paper bags. Lena allowed her gaze to wander to the park across the street. Maybe she'd head over there for lunch. For some reason, the shop felt smaller than usual. Some fresh air would be nice.

Maybe it would help dislodge the painful knot from her throat.

She was still staring into the park when a dark green, classic-looking car rolled up to the curb. The throaty engine rattled the shop's windows, then shut off. A tall, dark-haired man climbed out. He paused, turned, and looked directly at her. The bottom plummeted out of her stomach. Lena shook herself. Of course he wasn't looking at her.

He was looking at the shop.

Sure enough, he squinted at the sign, slammed the car door and started across the street. He walked with a barely noticeable swagger, his well-built body encased in a dark gray suit. She looked closer. No, not quite a suit: instead of a blazer, he wore some sort of belted military jacket.

She braced herself. The bell above the door chafed her already strained nerves. The man filled the narrow doorway. Lena swallowed hard.

She knew a wolf when she saw one, and this man was definitely a wolf. He loomed in the doorway for a moment, then started towards the counter. His gait swayed, and she realized what she'd thought was a swagger was actually an injury. An old injury, judging by the practiced grace with which he wielded his curved black cane.

Lena relaxed slightly. A wolf was bad news, but a wounded wolf? That, maybe, she could deal with.

He leaned against the glass counter. Lena frowned. "Can I help you?"

His eyes flicked over her face, and he straightened. "Maybe. I'm looking for the owner of this place."

"You found her. I'm Powonia Alan." Lena crossed her arms. "If you're looking for a job, I'm afraid we're not hiring at the moment."

The man blinked. "I'm not here for a job. I'm looking for a friend of mine. His parents told me he'd been working here."

An ache formed in the pit of her stomach. "Is that so?"

The man arched an eyebrow. "Jimmy Vaspurkan. You know him?"

She didn't know what made her open her mouth. Maybe it was the man's eyes, too heavy on her face. Maybe it was the way his voice reached deep into her gut and made her insides quake. Maybe she just needed to talk to someone.

Whatever the reason, she was answering before she could stop herself. "You're a little late. He's dead."

# CHAPTER THREE

#

"I beg your pardon?"

Heat bloomed in Lena's cheeks and spread down her neck. She glanced around, not knowing where to look, but not wanting to see the man's expression. Her gaze drifted to the table in the corner. Georgia had set the calculator down. Their eyes met. Georgia started to shake her head.

Lena turned back to the man. "That's right. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you. Jimmy passed on."

The man leaned forward again, and even though the counter was between them, Lena could feel him invading her space. "And how exactly would you know that? His parents don't even know where he is."

Blood pounded in her forehead. "You're a cop."

He shook his head. "No. Not a cop. Answer the question."

Not a cop, but he'd been in contact with Jimmy's parents and knew where Jimmy worked. None of it sounded good, no matter how she sliced it.

She planted her feet and squared her jaw. "So you're not a cop. If you think you can just come in here and push me around, think again. I don't know you. I don't even know if you're a friend of Jimmy's. For all I know, you're the reason he's dead."

God, she hoped not. She could see the headlines now: _"Mass Murder Occurs In SOMA-Area Tea Shop. Witnesses Say Shop Owner Provoked Killer."_

Not the kind of publicity she needed.

The not-a-cop's face darkened. "Trust me, I haven't even begun to push." His eyes locked with hers. Lena held his gaze, and pressed her lips together.

Finally, he sighed and took a step back. "Fine. Consider this a show of good faith. Jimmy's parents came to me after they hadn't heard from him for a couple days. I agreed to look into the situation."

Lena narrowed her eyes. "You agreed to look into it, why? Just out of the goodness of your heart?"

The man started to scowl, visibly reigned himself back. "I'm a private investigator. They hired me."

A laugh escaped her before she could muffle it. "You're a PI?" The insulted look on his face almost made her dissolve completely. She fought to regain her composure. "Sorry. You just, that is, you don't really seem like the type."

He must have heard that a lot, because with a barely discernible flick of his wrist, a business card appeared in his hand. He passed it to her over the counter. "See for yourself."

"Anyone can print up fake business cards," she muttered, but took it anyway. The cardstock was smooth and basic. She studied the words printed on it.

MacMillian & deCompostela, LLC.

Missing Persons, Document Recovery, and Discreet Inquiries

The Procyon Building, San Francisco, Ste. 333

Her eyebrows went up. "You work at The Procyon?"

"I take it you've heard of it."

"You might say that." She didn't know anyone in the subversive community who hadn't heard of The Procyon Building. Peculiar, however, the PI's lack of a reaction to the name. Either he possessed a remarkable poker face—possible—or he had no idea the significance of where he was working.

She opted for the latter, which left her with a bigger problem.

"Maybe we should sit down." Lena forced herself to walk calmly out from behind the counter. The man's eyebrows went up, but he followed as she led the way to a table near the window. His presence behind her made the back of her neck prickle. Was this what a mouse felt like when it was being stalked by a cat?

She locked her shoulders against a shiver and sat, gestured to the chair opposite her. The man pulled it out, planted his cane, eased himself down. The movements were so smooth they almost looked natural. If she hadn't already been watching him, she wouldn't have noticed his face tense with concentration.

Several questions about his injury sprang to mind. She let them all slide, and folded her hands in front of her. "So, which one are you?"

The man's eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?"

"On your card, it says 'MacMillian and deCompostela.'" Lena forced herself not to fidget. "So are you MacMillian, or deCompostela?"

The man's lips twitched. "MacMillian."

"Right." Lena leaned back. "What's your plan then, Mr. MacMillian? You obviously don't have any leads. Just crossing your fingers, hoping to get lucky?"

MacMillian's lips thinned. "Who said I don't have any leads?"

"Oh, please." Lena rolled her eyes. "You're still here, aren't you? Clearly you don't have anything better to run down. So?"

MacMillian tapped a finger against the crooked head of his cane. "First, back to the question you've been avoiding. How do you know Vaspurkan is dead?"

Lena stared at him. He stared back. She was tempted to lean across the table, grab him by the lapels, and beg him to leave while he still could. Jimmy's tortured expression was still seared into her brain. Whoever had the power to do that to a spirit was more than capable of taking out a disabled private detective.

Especially when that detective was completely oblivious to the forces he was messing with.

That settled it. She couldn't let him leave without warning him somehow. A new set of problems presented themselves. She could hardly just come out and tell him everything. She'd tried that before, and while she doubted he'd want to see her again after what she had planned, she at least didn't need him thinking she was crazy.

She forced a too-bright smile to her face, and stood. "I'll tell you, but only if you'll join me for some tea. I haven't had my afternoon cup yet."

She retreated to the kitchen without waiting for his answer, his eyes burning into her back the entire way. She burst through the double doors, and heaved a sigh of relief. "Tiburcio! Pop a kettle on for me, would you?"

She skirted the gleaming metal prep counters, passed between the overflowing racks and stacks of boxes, and headed for the far corner where she kept her private blends. Her fingers danced over the various jars, traced the names scribbled on strips of masking tape: _Dream, Métier, Aphrodisia, Bombshell_...

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Lena jumped and whirled. She let out a breath. "Jesus. Don't do that, I mean it."

Georgia crossed her arms and cocked her hip. "Answer the question."

"I wish people would stop saying that." Lena resumed her task. "I'm giving him White Rabbit."

" _What?_ " Georgia grabbed her arm and spun her back around. "Are you out of your goddamn mind? He's mundane!"

"He's going to get himself killed." Lena found the jar she was looking for, and opened the lid. The bitter scent of mugwort wafted out, sweetened by afternotes of cinnamon, bay, and marigold.

"We are talking about the same big, strong he-man out there, right? Pretty sure he can take care of himself."

Lena cringed. Of course Georgia probably hadn't noticed the slightly off-kilter way MacMillian moved, and she hadn't told anyone about what happened with Jimmy. "Just trust me. He's up to his eyeballs in subversive batshit. He has no idea what he's dealing with."

"And you do." Georgia's eyes clouded. "You'd tell me if _you_ were in some kind of trouble, right?"

Lena leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. "Obviously. Now do me a favor and go distract him. This has to steep a while."

←↑↓→

MacMillian sighed and discreetly checked the clock above the cash register. The woman across from him had been chattering nonstop for the past ten minutes. He'd stopped paying attention after the first five, seizing the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings. Though not as frill-infested as he'd expected, he was clearly in a place dominated by women. Fresh flowers, white tablecloths, candles, artsy prints on the walls.

Thank god Darius wasn't here, or he'd never hear the end of it.

The woman was still talking. MacMillian glanced at the doors the owner had disappeared through. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was hiding.

She hadn't struck him as the type to hide, though. Not from him, not from anybody. The way she'd managed to stare down her nose at him despite the six inches he had on her was a feat even his mother had yet to accomplish.

So what the hell was she doing?

He was about to get up and investigate when the doors swung open and she reappeared, a tray balanced on one hand, a flowery china teapot in the other. She made her way back to their table, and set the tray down. "Sorry about the wait. You have to let it steep for a while to get the best flavor."

The second he left, he was going for a beer. MacMillian shrugged. "You're the professional."

Pink tinged her cheeks, but she only inclined her head and turned to the woman across from him. "Thanks, Georgia. I'll take it from here."

Just as he'd suspected: she'd sent her friend to distract him. Georgia stood with a badly disguised sigh of relief. "I'll just, uh, get back to those receipts, then." She cast a quick glance at him, and retreated to a paper-strewn table in the far corner.

The woman unloaded the tray. "Thank you for this. Tea helps me relax."

MacMillian eyed the antique-looking cup and saucer she placed in front of him. Lavish yellow roses emblazoned the otherwise plain white china. "I take it this means you're willing to talk to me?"

The color in her cheeks deepened. "I suppose so. I liked Jimmy. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do."

MacMillian studied her while she filled his cup. She looked younger up close, with her rosy cheeks and wide blue eyes. Her broad face tapered into a delicately pointed chin, and her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy bun. A retro apron with a sweetheart neckline and a whimsical teapot print covered her dress.

If she noticed him watching her, she didn't show it, her full concentration directed towards the task at hand. He had to admit, she was good. She didn't spill so much as a drop. Aromatic steam trailed up from the dark liquid in his cup. He peered into it. "What is this?"

She filled her own cup, and reclaimed her seat. "My own blend. I call it White Rabbit."

"What's in it?"

She grinned mischievously and took a sip. "You don't want to know."

It was the first he'd seen her smile. Something about it caught him square in the solar plexus. He picked up his own cup and gulped down a mouthful.

The woman's brows drew together. "Easy. It's not cheap tequila. You don't shoot it, you sip it."

MacMillian sipped it. The initial bitterness made his mouth go dry. The aftertaste, however, was surprisingly pleasant. He sipped again. "So, I believe you were about to answer my question."

The woman nestled her cup back in its saucer. She looked him dead in the eye. "I saw his ghost."

MacMillian coughed. Searing hot liquid surged down the wrong pipe. He set his cup down, forced himself not to succumb to a hacking fit while he waited for his spasming throat to relax. Finally, he blinked away the water in his eyes and focused back on the woman's face. "I'm sorry. You _what_?"

She sighed. "I was afraid this would be your reaction. Look, you gave me a show of faith, it's only fair I do the same." Her fingertips traced the edge of the saucer. "I'm a medium. I see dead people. I talk to them. Sometimes they talk to me, too."

She must have read the disbelief in his expression, because she sighed again. "I know how this sounds, but I'm telling the truth. Last night, Jimmy's spirit found me. He said someone murdered him, only he didn't know who."

MacMillian couldn't think of a thing to say. He absently picked up his cup and took another swig of tea, eyes locked on her face. It was a face that, to look at, didn't appear to belong to a crazy person.

But she was crazy. Either that or she was a liar, and for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to think that of her. He knew plenty of women who claimed a connection with the spirit world. He'd always assumed they were faking it for money, reading love and prosperity in the palms of desperate _gaje_. The woman facing him didn't come across as a charlatan.

Of course, she didn't come across as crazy, either.

MacMillian rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, you must have a lot on your plate, running your own business. I'm sure all that takes a toll. Especially after a long day, it must be easy to see things that aren't really-"

"I wasn't hallucinating." Her voice turned icy. "Don't patronize me, Mr. Magnum, P.I."

"Fine." The word came out harsher than he'd intended. "Then I'll be blunt. Maybe you get some people with this whole Ghost Whisperer routine, but it's not going to work with me."

The woman didn't answer, merely watched him. MacMillian reeled himself back before he could get lost in her hypnotic eyes. "Whether or not Jimmy's dead, it's still my job to find him. Thank you for your time, but if you'll excuse me, I think we're done here."

He braced his hands against the seat of his chair, tightened the muscles in his stump and pushed to his feet. The crease near his groin throbbed where his leg had dug into it. He bit back a curse. He shouldn't have stayed seated so long. He planted his cane and straightened with a wince.

The woman was still watching him. She caught his eye. "Take your time."

MacMillian bristled. "I'm fine." He hesitated, then nodded down at his empty cup. "Thanks for the tea."

He thought he heard her murmur, "Don't thank me yet," but he was already on his way out the door.

←↑↓→

MacMillian tossed his cane into the passenger's side of his Plymouth Fury. He lowered himself to the driver's seat, maneuvered the hand controls out of the way and slid around to face front. He paused. Then he slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel.

Cross Your Teas had been a bust, and its crazy owner was right: he didn't have any other leads. Well, there was the address of the SRO the Vaspurkans had given him, but he doubted he'd find anything there, either. Just more crazy people, and he'd already had his fill of those for the day.

He folded his prosthesis out of the way, started the car and pulled out into the narrow street. His hand settled into its familiar dance between the hand controls and the stick. He rolled onto Third, and headed up towards Market. His head felt strange, simultaneously light and unbearably heavy.

His thoughts drifted back to the crazy teashop owner. There had been something weirdly compelling about... What was her name? He wracked his brain. It was something unusual: Pandemonium, Pandora—he'd forgotten almost as soon as she told him. If he was being honest, he'd been distracted.

It must have been her eyes. They were the bluest blue he'd ever seen.

Something flashed in the corner of his eye. He jerked his head to look. Nothing. MacMillian shook himself. Probably just a rare patch of sun glinting off someone's side mirror. He returned his attention to the street. The stoplight in front of him turned yellow, then red. He shuffled his hand between the stick and the brake adjustor. The Fury eased to a stop.

_Powonia_. That was it. He snorted. Who the hell named their daughter Powonia? Although it would explain a lot if her parents were crazy, too. Maybe it ran in the family.

Up ahead, the light turned green again. MacMillian started forward.

Without warning, a boy appeared in front of the car. MacMillian yanked on the brake, and the Fury jerked to a stop. A cacophony of horn blasts sounded behind him. He flipped his middle finger out the window. What the hell did they expect him to do? Didn't they see there was a kid in the middle of the road?

MacMillian tried to catch his eye, but the boy just stared at him, a blank expression on his face. He didn't move. MacMillian sighed as behind him, cars started to peal out into the next lane. "Come on, kid. You're gonna have to move sometime."

The light turned yellow again, then red. MacMillian groaned. Not that he had anywhere to be, but still...

The boy took a step back, then another, until he was standing in the middle of the intersection. MacMillian sat bolt upright. "Wait! Shit, you've got to be kidding me..." He reached for his door handle.

Before he could get out, a gray Toyota sailed through the light. MacMillian surged forward in his seat. "Look out! There's a kid in the—"

The Toyota plowed headlong into the boy. But there was no impact. No screams, no blood, no bending metal.

The boy simply dematerialized in a swirl of white light.

# CHAPTER FOUR

#

The stoplight turned green again.

MacMillian didn't move, his eyes frozen on the spot where the boy had... What? What the hell had he just witnessed? A new symphony of honks jolted him back to present. He fumbled with the controls, and started forward again.

A hallucination? Even as it crossed his mind, he dismissed the possibility. The boy had been as real as he was, as real as his car, as real as anything he'd ever seen.

And he'd vanished before his very eyes.

He almost missed the turn onto Market Street, almost missed the turn onto Kearny too. MacMillian forced himself to breathe normally. He just needed to get back to the office. Regroup. Hell, maybe he'd stop in at Babylon for a drink. There were perks to sharing a building with a nightclub.

He drove past The Procyon without seeing an available parking space. No great surprise there. He circled the surrounding side streets for another ten minutes before one finally opened up. Of course, it had to be on a hill. MacMillian gritted his teeth and steeled his nerves. Even after five years, parking on a hill using hand controls still gave him heartburn.

He managed it, though, set the parking brake and curbed his wheels. The tiny, apartment-lined street seemed busy for a weekday afternoon. And what the hell were people wearing? He stared as a man in a top hat and tails cruised up the sidewalk past the Fury. MacMillian shook his head. "Wrong part of town for the opera," he muttered, and snagged his cane from the passenger seat.

He pushed his door open, narrowly avoiding a man in a cone-shaped bamboo hat and Mandarin-collared tunic. MacMillian shook his head again. Some kind of cultural parade in Chinatown, maybe. He hefted himself out of the car, slammed the door, and went around to the meter, wallet in hand.

A woman was meandering up the hill towards him. MacMillian paused to watch her progress. She looked like she'd just stepped out of a Wild West saloon, with long hair piled atop her head, a tightly laced corset, dirty white petticoat, Victorian-looking boots. The upper edges of her nipples crested over the top of the corset with each step.

MacMillian cleared his throat and glanced around. "Pardon me, ma'am, but your—"

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice. Her eyes were wide. "You can see me?"

MacMillian shifted against his cane. "More than you realize." He kept his eyes resolutely above her neck. "Are you aware that your..." he trailed off.

She cocked her head. "What's wrong?" She winced. "And why does my head hurt?"

"I, ah..." MacMillian cleared his throat again. From the moment the woman started speaking to him, the side of her face had begun steadily flecking away. He stared at what was now a mess of bone, cartilage, blood. Ribbons of skin clung to the shattered remnants of her skull.

What little of her expression he could still make out turned quizzical. She reached for her cheek.

MacMillian stepped forward, hand outstretched. "No! Don't do—"

The woman's fingertips grazed her ruined face. They shimmered on contact. Something that looked like memory flickered in her eyes. She swore. "That bastard! He _shot_ me!"

MacMillian leaned hard against the hood of the Fury. His head felt light. "Who shot you? Maybe you should..." He stopped. Maybe she should what? See a doctor? What could a doctor do for a woman with half a face? He shook himself. First the boy, now this? What the hell was wrong with him?

The woman was losing it. "Damn you, Texas Jack! I knew I should have turned you over to the law when I had the chance. Bet you wasn't even decent enough to bury me proper..."

MacMillian opened his mouth, then shut it again. What was there to say? He yanked open his wallet and hastily fed the meter, grabbed his cane and headed up the hill as fast as he could, leaving her to rail behind him.

He reached the main street and looked both ways. It was definitely more crowded than usual, but his vision was growing clearer. Transposed over the tourists, shoppers, and restaurant patrons were what appeared to be layers of people. He couldn't quite put a finger on what made them different. For the most part, they were doing the same things as everyone else: crossing the street, hailing cabs that never came, sitting down at cafe tables that didn't exist.

Occasionally, one of them would start shouting, sometimes at the physical people walking by, sometimes at nothing in particular. No one ever seemed to see them, however, and after a few minutes of being ignored, they would lapse back into silence.

MacMillian took off towards The Procyon at as close to a run as he could manage. His leg wasn't built for the frantic pace, and his stump pistoned painfully in the socket. He ignored it.

Finally, the familiar brick building came into view. MacMillian waited anxiously to cross the street. The light turned, and he found himself walking next to a woman in a long white dress. She was carrying a silk parasol, and pushing a tram that looked at least a hundred years old. Inside it, a glassy-eyed baby blinked up at him.

MacMillian tightened his grip on his cane and jerked his gaze forward.

He parted ways with them at the door of The Procyon. Hesitantly, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside. The lobby was empty, both of people and... whatever the hell it was he was seeing.

He stepped in and released the breath he'd been holding. Briefly, he considered stepping out again, going around the side of the building to Babylon's entrance. If ever an occasion excused drinking in the middle of the day, this was it. He glanced out the glass doors.

A young man in World War II olive drab fatigues peered back at him. His helmet had a bullet hole in the front. A trickle of blood ran down the center of his face.

MacMillian turned to face the lobby again and took a deep breath. Then another. There had to be a logical explanation for all this, one that didn't involve him losing his mind. Unfortunately, he had no idea what it might be.

A door opened at the end of the marble foyer, and a man wearing slacks and a pale blue polo stepped out. He paused to smooth a hand over his disheveled brown hair, turned, and caught sight of MacMillian. He tossed his chin and started over. "Hey, man! Thought you were going to stop by the club last night. I told you I'd hook you up with a VIP booth."

MacMillian forced a smile, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders. Thank god for a familiar face. "I know, I know. I meant to, but I..." His smile froze.

The man drew closer. "Something wrong?"

Hell yes, something was wrong. MacMillian swallowed hard and stepped back. "Nothing. It's nothing. I just... Did you do something to your teeth?"

"My teeth? No, why?" The man reached up and fingered a canine.

MacMillian stared. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was a wolf's fang he was seeing. He shook himself. Ridiculous.

The man's brow furrowed. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

MacMillian blew out a breath. "You have no idea." He shook his head. "Probably just stayed up too late last night."

"I keep telling you, come around the club and let us spoil you a little. Seriously, you know what they say about all work and no play." The man winked and grinned, revealing a mouthful of enormous, razor-sharp teeth.

MacMillian leaped back. "Jesus!"

The man's grin morphed into a worried look. "Are you sure you're okay? Why don't you come into the office and let me fix you a drink."

"No! I mean, I'm fine." _Grandmother, what big teeth you have._ MacMillian edged backwards towards the elevator. "I still have some work to do. I'll just lie down in my office."

The elevator dinged. He turned, squeezed his eyes shut briefly against the headache raging in his temples. He heard the doors slide open, and opened his eyes again.

"Jesus _Christ!_ What the hell?"

MacMillian stumbled back a few steps before he had the presence of mind to plant his cane down. Standing in the elevator was a man. MacMillian knew him well; Aloysius Paul had been his landlord for nearly four years. He looked the same as he always did: longish dark hair smoothed back from his temples, impeccable suit, fashionably mismatched silk tie and pocket square, glossy black wingtips.

There was just one glaring difference.

Black flames leaped and swirled around him, filling the elevator car. MacMillian started to raise his arm over his face, paused, and lowered it again. There was no smoke, no heat to shield against. And Aloysius didn't even seem to realize he was on fire.

He glanced up from the paper he was reading like he hadn't noticed MacMillian's outburst, and inclined his head. "MacMillian." He stepped out into the lobby, still engulfed in flame. MacMillian turned with him. Aloysius nodded to the other man. "Daniel. I'm glad I caught you. Do you have a moment to go over some numbers?"

Daniel nodded, his eyes still glued to MacMillian. "Sure thing."

Aloysius started for the office. Daniel hesitated. The look he shot MacMillian was heavy with concern. "You know, you can still take me up on that drink."

"Ah..." MacMillian worked a finger between his shirt collar and his throat. "Thanks. I think I'll just, you know, go lie down."

Daniel shrugged. "Suit yourself." He turned on his heel and headed the same direction Aloysius had gone.

MacMillian took a moment to collect himself, then edged towards the open elevator. He peered inside. No sign of any charring. The walls, the ceiling, the floor all looked normal. He exhaled heavily, held his cane across one of the doors before it could close, and stepped in.

He was hallucinating. That was all. Probably something he'd eaten. It might take a few hours—or a few days—but eventually, whatever it was would work its way out of his system. MacMillian jammed a knuckle to the "three" button. The doors dinged, and started to slide shut.

A small figure in a bright red coat slipped inside a split second before they closed. Her face was mostly hidden behind a pair of oversized red-frame sunglasses. She looked up at him expectantly.

MacMillian shifted closer to the wall. "Can I help you?"

She sighed loudly and pulled the glasses off. It was the woman from Cross Your Teas- what was her name again? MacMillian gaped. "You."

Something suddenly occurred to him. He took two large steps forward and corralled her in the corner of the elevator. Her eyes bugged. He leaned down until his face was millimeters from hers. "What the fuck did you put in that tea?"

She wriggled. "If you'll back off, I promise I can explain."

" _Explain_? You drugged me. That seems pretty straightforward."

She sighed again, even louder than before. "White Rabbit is not a drug. It's a clarifier."

"Isn't that what they used to call LSD?" The elevator came to a stop. The doors started to open. MacMillian backed away and shook his head. "Do me a favor. Leave now. Don't come here again."

He stepped into the hallway, then froze. Clustered outside the door to the office was a horde of people, the widest slice of humanity he'd ever seen crammed into one place. There were cowboys, businessmen, soldiers. Native Americans, what looked to be early Chinese, and more than a few women resembling the one from the side street.

The woman stepped out of the elevator behind him. She hissed. "Jesus. Is it always like this here?"

MacMillian stared down at her. "What are you... You can see them?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, obviously. I'm a medium, remember?" She started down the hallway, pausing to glance over her shoulder. "Are you coming?" When MacMillian hung back, she shrugged. "Suit yourself."

She walked up to the edge of the crowd and cleared her throat. "Okay, someone want to tell me what you're all doing here?"

Multiple heads swung towards her. An elderly man in a suit that would have been the height of fashion in the late 1800s stepped forward. MacMillian strained his ears, but he couldn't hear what the man said. The woman listened closely, made a curious sound in the back of her throat and turned back to him. "He says there's a medium here. Are you sure you're not sensitive?"

He was feeling rather sensitive, but he shook his head. "I don't even know what that means."

The woman humphed. "That's what I thought." She turned back to the man. "So you're all here to be moved on?"

The man nodded.

Her shoulders relaxed. She reached out and took the man's hand in hers. His eyes widened, then a peaceful look came over his face. His lips turned up. White light appeared in the center of his chest, expanded outward until his entire body glowed. With what looked like a sigh of relief, he evaporated.

MacMillian's jaw dropped.

The woman moved slowly through the crowd. Hand after hand reached out for her. She took each one, held on until its owner flashed white and disappeared. By the time she reached the office door, the hallway was empty. She leaned back hard against the wall and closed her eyes.

MacMillian didn't remember moving, but somehow he was standing in front of her. He closed his free hand around her arm and towed her inside, not stopping until they reached his office.

He slammed the door. "What the... What was..." He dragged a sleeve across his brow. It was drenched in sweat, but his skin felt freezing.

The woman watched him, her eyes sympathetic. "Rough day, Magnum?"

He glared.

"That, my dear detective, was the other San Francisco. You've probably seen it before, just out of the corner of your eye. You've probably dismissed it all your life. Maybe you always told yourself you'd just had too much to drink." She paused, her gaze heavy on his face. MacMillian squirmed. "But I'm guessing you always knew better."

His head was throbbing. He shook it once, twice, but it didn't clear. "I don't get it, Miss..."

"Alan," she supplied.

He nodded. "Ms. Alan. Why are you here?"

Her eyes darkened. "Because there are things that go bump in the night, Mr. MacMillian. It's my job to bump back."

He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. The woman started to pace. "I'm sorry I couldn't break this to you more gently, but you needed to understand what you're dealing with. The way you were going about things, you'd have ended up dead without ever knowing what killed you."

MacMillian massaged the sore spot between his eyes. "Don't you mean 'who'?"

She stopped pacing. "Pardon?"

"'Who' killed me?"

She shook her head. "'Who' implies it would be human."

Now he started to pace. He really was hallucinating. That was the only possible explanation. He'd never gone to Cross Your Teas. He'd never even walked outside that morning. He'd had too much to drink, passed out at the office, and the woman in front of him- "What did you say your name was?"

"Powonia Alan."

Right. Powonia Alan was nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

He looked her up and down. Not bad, as far as figments went. He must have imagined her and the tea shop both. Maybe his subconscious had a thing for small business owners with big blue eyes and a trench coat fetish. His lips twitched.

"Something wrong, Mr. MacMillian?"

MacMillian stopped pacing. Had it really been so long since he'd been with a woman? Clearly it had, if his brain was resorting to this. Maybe Daniel was right. Maybe his steady schedule of all work and no play had finally pushed him over the edge.

Powonia Alan was still watching him. MacMillian studied her back, closer this time. He'd already noted her impossibly blue eyes, but the rest of her wasn't bad either. Compact, well-proportioned figure. Thick, reddish-brown hair. And her bow-shaped lips looked more inviting than he remembered.

MacMillian took a step forward. She even smelled the same as his earlier hallucination: earth and spice, and something just a little bit sweet. He leaned in and sniffed.

She recoiled. "What the hell are you doing?"

He'd never had a hallucination back-sass him before. It was...stimulating. It occurred to him he shouldn't be enjoying what was likely the symptom of a serious medical condition, but after the way his day had gone—or hadn't gone—he didn't care anymore. He took another step forward and savored her reaction, the way her eyes widened and her nostrils flared.

The hell with it. As long as he was hallucinating, he might as well make the most of it. He reached out and touched one of the glossy curls framing her face.

# CHAPTER FIVE

#

Lena couldn't breathe.

This wounded wolf was far from the preppy, sweater-and-elbow-patch type she was accustomed to. She was used to being wooed. Flattered. MacMillian didn't flatter her. He planted himself squarely in her space.

A tiny, insolent part of her didn't mind.

She narrowed her eyes at him anyway. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, forget it."

He yanked his hand back with a hiss. His eyes landed on hers, sharp and accusing. "You're real, aren't you?"

Lena choked. "Are you serious?"

MacMillian muttered a curse and jerked his head like he was trying to clear it. "You really did drug me."

Lena ignored the indignation that swelled briefly in her chest, retreated a few steps and crossed her arms. "Let's get something straight. You're on my turf now."

MacMillian raised an eyebrow.

She pretended not to notice. "Jimmy came to me, which makes finding out what happened to him my responsibility. If you keep screwing around in matters you don't understand, you're going to get hurt. So either stick close and play by my rules, or stay the hell out of the way."

His already dark eyes grew darker still. Lena held her breath. Ultimatums weren't normally her style, and she didn't have a backup plan if he refused. Initial shock notwithstanding, he was taking things remarkably well. He wouldn't actually try to go it alone, would he?

He shook his head slowly. "I don't believe in monsters, Miss Alan."

Lena scowled. "Then you're stupider than I thought."

A cough sounded from the corner of the room. Lena turned, and gulped. In the far corner of the room was a door she hadn't noticed before. It had opened without a sound, and a man stood in front of it, arms crossed. Lena mentally backtracked. Not a man; a giant. And he wasn't standing in the doorway—he was filling it.

His hard black eyes skated over her, his face devoid of expression. Lena forced herself not to shrink, and studied him back.

Where MacMillian's look was ruggedly functional, this man clearly dressed to make an impression. There was the gray suit, polished and sophisticated against his deep brown complexion. There was the pale lilac dress shirt, the silk tie and pocket square in complementary shades of purple. Tiny diamond studs twinkled in his ears. Black tattoos peeked above his collar and below his cuffs.

He caught MacMillian's eye and started across the office, jerked his head for him to follow. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

The two of them retreated back into the reception room. The man flashed Lena one last indecipherable look, and pulled the door closed behind them. Lena rolled her eyes. Didn't he realize the office walls were the caliper of tissue paper? She edged closer to the door. Sure enough, she could hear their conversation clearly.

"Tell me you're not seriously considering bringing this woman onto a job."

A pause, then MacMillian's low voice. "You don't understand. Ever since I left that tea shop- Jesus, the things I've seen today..."

"What the hell kind of number has she done on your head? We've always done fine on our own. This is no different. I think we can handle one measly trace, don't you?"

"I don't know. Maybe." MacMillian blew out an audible breath. "You know what I saw? Dead people. I saw fucking _dead people_ today, Darius. Not to mention in the lobby, Zerubabbel and Paul... well. Let's just say I'm a little out of my element."

A lengthy pause. When the other man spoke again, his voice sounded strained. "Look, forget what you saw. Just for a moment. I don't know what she's told you, but we don't need her help. Please just trust me on that."

In a flash, she understood. Lena shoved the door open, ignored the crash as it hit the wall and the stunned expressions of MacMillian and his partner. " _You_." She jammed a finger at the man. "You're the reason all those noncorporeals were here. You're a medium, aren't you?"

MacMillian's jaw dropped. He turned to the other man. "Darius?"

Darius shifted, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

MacMillian threw up his free hand. "Well, this is just— Is there anything else you haven't told me?"

Darius rubbed a hand over the smooth dome of his head. "Look, I don't... it's not like I use it, okay? I don't mess around with any of that hokey bullshit. I'm just a normal guy."

MacMillian snorted. "Sure. A normal guy who sees dead people."

Lena stared. "What do you mean, you don't 'use' it? You mean you can see NCPs, you can hear them asking for your help, and you just ignore them?"

Darius wouldn't meet her gaze. "It's not that simple." Something flickered over his face—regret? Shame? It was gone again almost as soon as it appeared.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were hard. "But it doesn't matter. We don't need you on this. You're a civilian. You're untrained, and you're untested. Hell," he looked her up and down, "you don't look like you could take on a flea. What are you going to do when a grown-ass man comes at you?"

Lena ground her teeth. "You do need me. You just don't realize it yet." She strode past them to the office door, paused next to MacMillian. She plucked a business card from the front pocket of her purse, held it scissored between two fingers and waited. After a long moment, he took it.

She looked up and caught his eye. "Don't judge me by what you see in front of you. Appearances can be deceptive." She continued towards the door, speaking over her shoulder. "For the record, I'm not untrained. And I'm certainly not untested. Come to that address when you're ready to accept my offer."

She didn't look to see if he agreed. She opened the door, touched hands with a wraithlike old woman lingering outside, and strode down the empty hallway to the elevator.

←↑↓→

He still couldn't believe he'd actually shown up.

MacMillian eased the Fury up to a rare parch of open curb alongside the long strip of urban greenspace that made up The Panhandle, and yanked the stick into "park". He'd spent a sleepless night in his cramped apartment, drowning the last effects of the tea in whiskey and considering his options. Now he was here, and he still wasn't sure why.

A loop of the vanishing boy still played in his mind. MacMillian rubbed his face. Ghosts were real, along with god only knew what else. Darius wasn't the man he'd thought he was. Neither were Daniel Zerubabbel and Aloysius Paul.

How much of what he thought he knew about his life was a lie?

Powonia Alan's business card sat propped against the dash. He retrieved it and read it again, glanced skeptically out his window. The address was correct, but there had to be some kind of mistake. The address on the card was for a hotel, and the building across the street didn't look like any hotel he'd ever seen.

If anything, it looked more like a haunted house.

The supposed Wayfare Hotel took up an entire corner. At four stories, it loomed over its neighbors, and its gloomy colors stuck out from the other houses' like an ink blot. Asymmetrical wings and bays extended in what seemed like every direction. The steep, ominous roofline was a jumble of gables, rounded parapets, and tall brick chimneys.

MacMillian groaned, grabbed his cane and pushed open the car door. It was official. He really had lost his mind.

The building was even more imposing up close, wrapped in shadow, despite the relative light of mid-morning. MacMillian tugged his jacket tighter and took the steep front steps one at a time, alternating his weight between his good leg and his cane.

They led to a wide stone landing. To the left, a massive portico wrapped around the side of the house. Directly ahead, a small, aged brass plaque was mounted next to the front door. MacMillian drew closer and squinted at the raised letters.

THE WAYFARE HOTEL FOR RESTLESS SPIRITS

MacMillian groaned. He glanced down the portico and mustered his resolve. Then he faced the door again and knocked.

He wasn't prepared when it immediately flung inward. Powonia Alan's bright blue eyes sparkled up at him. "Excellent! You're just in time." She motioned him in, at the same time called over her shoulder, "See? I told you he'd be here."

MacMillian stepped cautiously over the threshold, and looked around. The inside of the house was just as intimidating as the outside. The front door opened into a massive reception hall. A multi-tiered chandelier hung from the soaring ceiling. Closed doors lined the walls, and at the far end, a formidable staircase wound upward.

A man was coming down it, a faded backpack in each hand. He gave MacMillian an appraising look. His eyebrows drew together. "This is him?"

MacMillian stiffened, and turned to the woman. "Look, Ms. Alan, I—"

"Call me Lena." All traces of the previous day's ill humor were gone. "'Ms. Alan' makes me sound like a substitute teacher, and 'Powonia' makes me sound like I belong in hospice."

Lena held up a hand. The man on the staircase tossed her a backpack, which she slung over one shoulder. "Right, introductions. Mr. MacMillian, this is my brother, Cyrus. Cyrus, this is—" she paused. "I don't know your first name."

"Jesper. Would you mind telling me just what—"

"I'm afraid we don't have a kit for you yet. Wasn't time to put one together on such short notice. But you can share mine." Lena motioned him back towards the door.

"Great. Thanks. But I still don't—"

"Where are we headed?"

It took MacMillian a moment to realize Cyrus was addressing the question to him. "What are you talking about? I just got here."

Cyrus spoke slowly. "I'm guessing you didn't come for a social call. Are you going to help us with Jimmy, or not?"

"Help you with..." That was another question answered. Insanity definitely ran in the Alan family. "I was already on this case. Seems like _you_ should be helping _me_."

Cyrus's jaw flexed. Lena raised both her hands. "Boys. Last I checked, we were all after the same thing here. We all want to find out what happened to Jimmy. Can we set aside semantics and just agree to help each other?"

Cyrus pursed his lips. MacMillian scowled. "Fine."

Lena beamed. "Good. Now, Mr. MacMillian, if you would be so kind...?"

MacMillian sighed. "So kind as to what, exactly? I still don't know what you're expecting me to—"

"The address, Philip Marlowe." Cyrus hefted his pack onto his shoulder. "You do have Jimmy's address, don't you?"

MacMillian blinked. "Yeah."

Cyrus rolled his eyes. "Then let's go. I'm driving. You can give me directions on the way." He rounded the base of the bannister and headed through one of the partially-hidden doors behind it.

Lena started to follow him. MacMillian reached out and caught her arm. "I must be a little slow. You two were saddled up and ready to go when I got here. How did you know I would even come? How did you know I'd have Jimmy's address?"

Lena flashed him her second real grin. "Please. Didn't I tell you I know what I'm doing?"

Soon they were all packed in Cyrus's fog gray '89 Caprice, rocketing towards downtown at speeds even MacMillian considered excessive. He held his cane across his knees and braced an arm against the door. When had this become his life? Jammed in the back seat of someone else's car, off to search for—what?

A ghost?

He sneaked a glance at Lena. She had her red trench coat on again, this time over a striped nautical shirt and dark jeans. MacMillian fought the urge to laugh. Of all the women who had crossed his path, Lena Alan was the last he'd have expected to partner with. She was too young. Too sweet. Too...

She was looking at him, her clear eyes narrowed, lips turned down at the corners. "You're still doubting me."

No point denying it. He jerked his head in a nod. "Yes."

She faced forward again. "Don't."

A few turns later, they were in the heart of the Tenderloin. Cyrus glanced at Lena in the rearview mirror. "You two okay heading in on your own? I'm going to circle."

Lena nodded. "Sure. Hand me the packs. Come on up if you find a parking space."

MacMillian snorted. "Better just keep circling. This part of town, any longer than twenty minutes and your car might not be there when we get back."

Cyrus nodded. "He's right. Just give me a call when you're done."

He put his flashers on and double-parked in front of Jimmy's SRO. Lena hopped out. Cyrus handed her the packs through the front passenger's window.

MacMillian shoved open his door, yanked it back shut as a delivery truck raced past, horn blaring. He could feel Cyrus watching him in the rearview mirror, gritted his teeth and opened the door again. This time he ignored the cars honking, and pushed himself to his feet in the middle of the street, slamming the door behind him.

Lena waited on the sidewalk, a backpack in each hand. She hesitated as Cyrus drove away. "Do you want me to carry your—"

MacMillian snatched the second pack and looped it over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

# CHAPTER SIX

#

The Damascus Hotel sat sandwiched between a smoke shop and a Turkish restaurant. Car exhaust and the rich aroma of cooked meat permeated the surrounding street. People of every race and stripe milled along the sidewalks, going nowhere in particular. All wore the same blank, hardened expressions.

Lena shifted closer to MacMillian as they approached the narrow doors. Art deco-style bars swirled over the glass. A rag-tag group of young men stood clustered out front. They took one look at MacMillian, and shuffled aside.

Lena glanced up at him. "Everyone's avoiding you," she murmured.

Grim satisfaction flashed over his face. "They should. I'm the big bad wolf."

"So what does that make me?"

MacMillian looked down at her. His lips twitched. "From where I'm standing, you look an awful lot like Little Red Riding Hood."

He hauled open one door and waved her inside. Lena pursed her lips against the sudden jump in her heart rate, and stepped into the lobby.

Inside, The Damascus looked more like a hospital ward than a hotel. The too-harsh scent of industrial cleaning fluid made her eyes water. The lobby was unnervingly bright, the florescent overhead lights accusatory and unflattering. The front desk sat up a bank of carpeted stairs, behind an enclosure of shatter-proof glass. A handwritten sign was fixed to it with tape:

BY ORDER OF MANAGEMENT, WE ARE UNABLE TO LEND MONEY.

Another sign was posted just below:

NO PETS. NO HOT PLATES. NO PERSONAL HEATERS.

Lena looked back at MacMillian. "Did Jimmy's parents give you a room number?"

"Yes." He motioned her towards the box elevator in the corner. She gripped the strap of her backpack a little tighter, and started forward.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Lena froze guiltily, then turned in the direction of the voice. A man she hadn't seen before peered out at them from behind the desk. She cleared her throat. "Sorry. We're, ah..."

"We're visiting a friend." MacMillian stepped around her. "He's been staying here the past few months. We have his room number." A slip of paper materialized from his pocket. He held it up for the desk clerk to see.

The man squinted at it, then gave a short, sharp nod. "Fine. So long as you're not dealing. Just don't disturb the other residents. Most of them need their quiet. They're... not well. And the elevator is broken." He jerked his chin towards a narrow staircase in the opposite corner of the lobby. "You'll have to take the stairs."

"That's fine. Thank you."

The clerk went back to the magazine he'd been reading. MacMillian started towards the staircase. Lena followed, forced herself not to look at his cane. "Which floor is Jimmy on?"

"Fifth."

She winced. "Look, if you want to wait here, I can just—"

He glanced over his shoulder, and the stony expression on his face cut her short. She swallowed hard. "Never mind."

He came full-stop, turned and looked her square in the eye. "If we're going to do this, let's get something straight. I'm not a cripple." His lips twisted around the word. "I don't need to be babied, or catered to, or have my hand held, and I sure as hell don't need someone feeling sorry for me. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself."

Lena's face burned. "I didn't mean—"

"No one ever does." MacMillian swept a hand towards the staircase. "Now, could we please...?"

"Of course." Every muscle in her neck had gone rigid, but somehow she managed a nod. She made her way stiffly to the foot of the stairs, and started up. Behind her, MacMillian's footsteps alternated with the clack of his cane in an undulating, three-step rhythm.

She refused to look back.

The climb to the fifth floor was steep and unnerving. Lena kept up a quick pace, ignoring MacMillian's labored ascent behind her. She'd never had a problem with enclosed spaces, but in the narrow staircase, she couldn't help but dwell on how they were easy prey for any tripped-out tenant with a bend towards violence.

She reached the fifth floor landing, dimly surprised to find MacMillian not far behind her. His breathing was slightly ragged, but besides that looked none the worse for the climb. He caught her eye and arched an eyebrow. "Need a minute?"

Ass. Lena scowled. "No. Thank you."

With a shrug, he reached around her for the door. A whiff of spice and leather tickled her nostrils. She resisted the urge to inhale and swept past him.

The hallway was an institutional shade of beige, except for the garish, argyle-patterned carpet. Unimpressive, uninviting doors lined the walls. Faded _Do Not Disturb_ signs dangled from a few knobs.

Lena let MacMillian take the lead. His limp was a little more pronounced and he was leaning on his cane a bit more heavily than before, but he made no mention of it, so she didn't either. He squinted at the numbers on the doors as he walked. At last, he came to a stop near the end of the hall.

"This is it."

Before she could ask how they were going to get inside, he had a key in his hand. He caught her curious look and shrugged. "The parents gave it to me."

It stuck in the lock. He jimmied it around, and a tumbler clicked. Lena laid a hand over his before he could open the door. "Give me a moment."

She closed her eyes and tried to retreat into herself, but it was harder than usual. Giving herself a little shake, she retreated further. Finally, she found it: the place inside her that was as calm as a placid lake. Her center, her refuge from the turbulence of the spectral world.

She breathed deeply and let peace suffuse her muscles, her mind. _I am present. I am grounded. I am in control._

She opened her eyes again. MacMillian was watching her. He closed his hand around the doorknob. "Ready now?"

Lena opted to ignore the faint sarcasm in his tone. "Yes."

MacMillian opened the door with a shake of his head and stepped inside. Lena followed.

An instant rush of cold made her pause in the doorway. MacMillian glanced back over his shoulder. "Problem?"

"I'm not sure." She wrapped her arms around herself. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. If anything, the opposite appeared true. The room was basic, small. The twin bed was neatly made. A stack of clean dishes sat next to the sink, and a row of cereal boxes lined the top of the minifridge.

She couldn't even say the place gave off bad vibes, because it didn't. Well, not exactly. It was definitely giving off something, but she couldn't nail down what it was, or why it bothered her so much.

MacMillian stiffened. "Do you feel that?"

The energy in the room was building steadily. She definitely felt it, but she hadn't expected him to. Could it be he was sensitive, after all? His jacket whipped to the side, and his hand settled over a holster she hadn't seen before. Lena shook her head as little prickles danced over her skin. "Bullets aren't much good against ghosts, Magnum."

As if on cue, the energy focused, and a small ball of white light appeared over the bed. "Do you see that?"

He paused from scanning the room. "See what?"

"Never mind." So he was sensitive, but not a medium. Too bad. "Whatever you see or hear, I have this under control."

"Great." His face darkened. "You sure know how to make a guy feel safe."

Lena rolled her eyes, then returned her attention to the spirit. "We're not here to hurt you. Would you like to speak with me?"

The white light shimmered and lengthened until it was the size and shape of a person. It flashed bright, and Lena ducked her head. When she looked up again, a familiar figure was standing next to the bed.

Her jaw dropped. "Jimmy?"

Jimmy blinked and looked around. His gaze settled on her, and his brow furrowed. "Lena? What are you doing in my room?" His eyes shot to MacMillian. "And who's he?"

Lena took a careful step forward. "We came here looking for you." Something in his tone disturbed her. "What do you remember?"

Jimmy started to shake his head. Then he froze. "Oh, _shit_ , I was supposed to take a look at your stand mixer! Fuck, Tiburcio's going to kill me."

"My stand..." It took her a moment to catch up. Lena pinched the spot between her eyes. "Damn it, I don't care about my stand mixer!" She ignored MacMillian's arched eyebrow. "Jimmy, you're dead."

Jimmy raised his hands. "Look, I'll be over first thing, I promise. Please just... don't fire me. I need this job, all right? I got a girl—"

"Jimmy." This was worse than she'd expected. What the hell had happened to him? "I need you to stop for a second and listen to me. You're dead. You've been dead for two days, maybe longer. Somebody killed you."

Jimmy stared at her, jaw slack. Slowly, his lips lifted into a smile. "I get it. You're fucking with me. Haha, okay, very funny. Now when do you want me to check out your—"

" _Jimmy_." For the first time in her career, she wished spirits were corporeal. She was itching to grab Jimmy by the shoulders and shake him. "Look at my face. I'm not kidding."

Jimmy's eyebrows went up, then down again. His expression turned black. "Get out of here."

"Damn it—"

"You're fucking crazy." He pointed a shaky finger at the door. "Get the fuck out of here. And take your goon squad with you." He squinted at MacMillian. "Some good squad. Doesn't even have the balls to look at me."

Lena looked at MacMillian too. He stiffened. "What?"

"The fuck do you mean, 'what'? You got some kind of problem?" Jimmy took a step forward. Blotches of color marked his cheeks. "Look at this tough guy. Something wrong with your hearing, you son of a bitch?"

Lena stealthily turned her palms outward. Threads of energy littered the room. Slowly, carefully, she started gathering them to her. "He can't see you, Jimmy. He can't hear you, either. Only I can." She took a deep breath. "I'm a medium. I communicate with the dead."

"Stop saying that!" Jimmy dug his fingers into his hair. He jerked his hands back and stared at them, his face a mask of confused horror. "What the..."

Lena's palms began to tingle. She kept her arms at her sides and her voice calm. "Like I explained to you before, you don't have a physical body anymore. Things probably don't feel the same."

" _Shut up!_ " Jimmy's entire face went purple. The dishes next to the sink rattled.

MacMillian's hand firmed on his gun. "Lena."

Lena didn't answer. White fire streaked down her fingertips. Just a little more. She just needed a little more...

A plate crashed to the ground, the sound barely audible behind the roaring in her ears. "Jimmy, you need to calm down. You're going to hurt someone."

"Think so?" A second plate crashed after the first. "Seems to me there's no one in this room I'd mind hurting." Three more plates followed the first two. _Crash, crash, crash_.

" _Lena_." MacMillian had his gun in hand, the barrel aimed at the floor. "Tell me what's going on."

The roar in her ears grew louder. She struggled to talk above it. "He's unstable. It happens sometimes with new spirits who haven't had a chance to adjust." Damn it, she should have realized something about Jimmy was different this time, shouldn't have hit him with the reality of his death so soon. "His emotions are forming a poltergeist. You should get out of here."

"You should both get out of here!" Jimmy screeched.

"I'm not going anywhere." MacMillian's tone left no room for argument. "Not without you."

Lena fumbled for the backpack and yanked it open. Her hands were burning. She gritted her teeth and grabbed a small ceramic box and skein of ribbon from the main compartment. "Look, that's real nice and all, but—" A plate sailed past her head, shattered against the far wall. "Damn it, Magnum, just wait outside!"

The grim look on his face told her he would do no such thing. She didn't have time to argue. Her hands crackled with energy. She cradled the box in them and directed the energy towards it, envisioned it wrapping around the tiny container again and again. The heat peaked.

Then suddenly, it was gone. Liquid numbness took its place, spread up her wrists, her arms. Lena took a deep breath and turned to Jimmy.

He must have seen something new in her eyes, because his own bugged. "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking you somewhere safe until we figure out what happened to you." Lena raised the box. "Don't fight. I don't want this to hurt."

Jimmy started to shimmer.

Lena hissed. "Oh, no you don't." She focused on his fading form and visualized chains of energy streaming from the box. Jimmy resolidified. His mouth formed an exaggerated O.

"What the—"

"Jimmy Vaspurkan." Lena concentrated on him. "With faith and intent I bind you. With power and will I bind you."

The chains wrapped around Jimmy's arms and legs, then began to recede back into the box. Jimmy shrieked and dug in his heels, his face twisted with rage.

Lena ignored it. "Into this vessel you are bound. You may not go free."

Jimmy bucked hard as he slid towards the box. Lena poured all the energy she'd collected into the bands around him. Slowly but surely, they dragged him into the container.

The instant he was fully inside, she snapped the lid shut. She envisioned a few more bands wrapping around the outside for good measure. Finally, she allowed herself to relax. Dizziness washed over her. She swayed back a step.

MacMillian was in front of her before she even registered movement. One large hand braced her shoulder. "Easy. I don't know what that was, but it looked intense."

That was a cute word for it. Even with all the residual energy in the room, she'd still had to dig deeper, tap her own reserves at the end. Jimmy had been stronger than she'd expected. Later, she'd examine what the hell that meant.

For now, it just felt good to lean against someone.

Without thinking, she bent forward and rested her forehead against his solid chest. MacMillian didn't say anything, but his energy shifted. Lena straightened immediately. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine." He stepped back and raked a hand through his hair. "Are you, I mean, is everything...?"

"Yeah." Lena bent down and picked up the skein of ribbon. "I'm okay. Sometimes spirits get violent. We have protocols in place to deal with them."

"Protocols." His voice darkened. "I'm not sure I like that word."

"It's not as ominous as it sounds. Volatile spirits are dangerous, not just to the living, but to themselves and other spirits as well. Mostly, they're just adjusting. The Wayfare is set up to contain them until they've come to terms with being dead."

MacMillian's face went gray. He stared at her. "You mean to tell me you just let a bunch of angry ghosts have their run of the place?"

Lena snorted. "Not likely." She unwrapped the ribbon from its spool. "The Wayfare isn't a prison, but there are certain places inside it specifically built to confine hazardous spirits. If and when they no longer pose a threat, we move them to less limiting quarters. Until then..."

MacMillian shook his head. "This is insane."

Lena shrugged. "Maybe." She wound the ribbon around the box, careful to make several passes over the lid. "But it's the reason there isn't an epidemic of angry ghosts rampaging through the city. You're welcome." She finished and checked her handiwork, then tucked the box back inside the backpack.

MacMillian started to speak, stopped and shook his head again, then started over. "So, what now?"

Lena sighed and looped the backpack over her shoulder. "Honestly? I have no idea. I've never seen anything like this before. Jimmy clearly has no memory of the last time he came to me. It's like he's been wiped and rebooted."

The concept was more disturbing than she wanted to let on. Maybe Cyrus would have an idea. Or maybe she just needed to rest. Either way, she was more than ready to leave the dingy, depressing little room behind. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

MacMillian tucked her behind him and stepped into the hall first. She couldn't remember the last time someone's immediate instinct had been to protect her. Lena clamped down on the little thrill that thought elicited. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"Sure you can."

His tone instantly iced over whatever it was she'd been experiencing. She bristled and tightened her grip around the backpack strap. "I mean it."

He didn't answer. He peered one way, then the other, then motioned for her to follow. The only option was to do as ordered. Lena gritted her teeth and stepped out behind him. They headed back towards the stairs without a word.

They were halfway there when she felt the unmistakable tickle of eyes on the back of her neck. A quick scan of the hallway confirmed her suspicions. The last door on the end was ajar, revealing a sliver of a woman's face.

Lena touched MacMillian's arm. He paused and turned to her with one raised eyebrow. She tipped her chin towards the woman and murmured, "Think she knows something?"

MacMillian's eyes followed hers. His lips thinned. "One way to find out." He started down the hallway. "Ma'am? Mind if we have a word?"

The woman assessed them with walleyed intensity before cracking the door open wider. The faint odor of ammonia drifted from her room. Lena forced down a gag and schooled her face to what she hoped was a neutral expression.

"Are you here about the infestation?"

MacMillian stiffened. "We aren't—"

Lena cleared her throat. "I'm afraid bugs aren't really our specialty."

"Not _bugs_." The woman shook her head vigorously. " _Ghosts_. Whole place is crawling with 'em."

# CHAPTER SEVEN

#

Lena blinked. "What did you say?"

The woman finally opened her door all the way. Wide eyes and cherubic cheeks made her look younger than she probably was. Unkempt red pigtails framed her face. "Ghosts." She paused. "That _is_ why you're here, right?"

Lena traded glances with MacMillian. She knew what he was thinking. Raggedy Ann hair, purple sweat pants, faded I Love Lucy t-shirt; the woman was a postcard basket-case.

Oh, well. It wasn't like they had anything else to go on. Lena took a deep breath. "As a matter of fact, that is why we're here. What's your name?"

The woman nodded sagely. "Figured. 'Bout time someone started looking into it." She stuck out a hand. "Name's Val. Been here a year, nine months, three days. Born in Celina, Ohio. Very important town." She lowered her voice. "It has the main library for the whole of Mercer County."

Lena ignored the incredulous look MacMillian was giving her and clasped the woman's hand in a brief shake. "Sounds impressive. What can you tell me about the ghosts?"

Val's eyes bugged. "There's ghosts in Celina?"

Lena's forehead started to throb. "No. I don't know. I mean, what can you tell me about the ghosts here?"

"Oh. Should'a said so." Val's voice lowered again. "Started 'bout a month back. People would turn up missing, an' ghosts started showin' up." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I know most of 'em. Shorty, Seven Up, Jewel, Preacher Stan. Been bummin' with the Preacher for years. Just up an' vanished, one after 'nother."

Lena drew her brows together. "I'm sorry."

Val's wandering eyes jerked to her face. "You... believe me?"

Lena cringed. The last thing she needed was to get sucked into the delusions of an unstable woman. She chose her words carefully. "I don't _dis_ believe you."

That was apparently enough for Val. She stepped into the hallway, pulling her door shut behind her. "Come on. Wanna show you something."

Lena hesitated, and looked to MacMillian. He shrugged and raised the hand that wasn't clasping his cane. "This is your show, remember?"

She ground her teeth. Even now, he thought she was a joke. Well, if he wanted to waste time judging her, he could. She had a job to do. With as much pride as she could muster, she spun on her heel and started after Val.

The woman led them around a bend at the end of the hall. Lena stuck close to her heels. Weird energy buzzed around her, but she was fairly certain it had nothing to do with spirits. Static from multiple televisions buzzed through the thin walls, occasionally punctuated by strings of raucous babble or frenzied cursing. A rank blend of smells clung to the carpets: pot smoke, urine, body odor and unrefrigerated food.

Val finally stopped outside one of the corner units at the end of the hall. A strand of multi-colored Christmas lights lined the doorframe. She absently touched a green bulb and turned to them. "You were in Jimmy's room. Figured you'd want to check out Tree's place, too."

It was the most coherent thing Lena had heard her say, but it still didn't make any sense. "Tree?"

"Christmas Tree. Least, that was her name when I knew her on the streets. She an' Jimmy been going together a few months now." Val jiggled the doorknob, scowled. "Be right back."

She retreated down the hallway a few rooms and banged on one of the doors. "Luther? Get out here!"

A muffled curse sounded from inside. A few seconds later, the door jerked open. A tall black man with faded clothes and a grim expression blinked out. "Damn, Val, I was sleepin'. The fuck you want?"

Val tossed her head towards the corner apartment. "Got some folks here finally checking on the ghost problem. Need to get into Tree's room, but it's locked."

What exactly the man thought of Val's "ghost problem", Lena couldn't tell. He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "An' if I help?"

Val tipped a shoulder and cocked her hip. "I could maybe stop by later, you get us in there now. Could maybe even stay the night, you promise to keep all this a secret."

Lena stared at her.

Luther nodded sharply. "Fine." Without changing expression, he reached out and bussed her under the chin. "I'll get my tools."

A few minutes later, they all stood clustered outside the door at the end of the hall. Luther handed Val a pouch of what looked like professional lock picks. She held it open, and after a moment's musing, Luther plucked two slender instruments from the collection.

Lena stayed back while he worked. MacMillian's solid presence at her side was oddly comforting. He leaned down and muttered into her ear, "We're wasting our time."

She glanced up at him. "How can you be so sure?"

He tilted his head towards Val. "Has it crossed your mind that sometimes crazy people are just, well, crazy?" His voice didn't rise above a rumbled whisper. "That woman is obviously disturbed. We should leave. Now."

Before Lena could answer, Luther straightened. "It's open." He retrieved his tools from Val and put away the two he'd been using. He caught her eye. "Eight. Yeah?"

Val flashed him a girlish smile, leaned up and pecked him on one pockmarked cheek. "You got it."

He nodded, then shuffled back to his room without a backwards glance. Val swept a hand towards the door. "We goin' in?"

Lena tried to quash the nausea churning in the pit of her stomach. Couldn't. "You really didn't have to do that."

Val's forehead furrowed. "Do what?"

"Offer..." Lena waved an awkward hand. "You know...to that man. We could have found another way."

The other woman blinked. "You think Luther'll talk?"

"No." Lena rubbed the bridge of her nose. "No, that's not what I meant. I just..." She trailed off. Val had a blank expression on her face. Lena looked up at MacMillian. _Come on, help me here._

He shrugged.

Lena scowled and turned back to Val. "Nothing. It's nothing. Thank you. Should we go inside?"

Val's face lightened. "Sure!" She whirled and reached for the door.

MacMillian shook his head. "I'm telling you, this is a waste of time."

But this time, Lena wasn't listening. She stared through the open door into the cramped, cluttered room. In the center, surrounded by clothes, dishes, half-drained liter bottles of Orange Crush, sat a bed.

In the center of the bed sat a woman.

At least, she would have been sitting on it, had she still possessed a physical body. Her noncorporeal form didn't leave as much as a dent in the sheets. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, her wasted arms wrapped around them. She stared into the space in front of her, seemingly oblivious to their presence.

Lena shot MacMillian a meaningful look. His eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

She started forward. "So much for crazy people just being crazy."

"Wait." He dropped a heavy hand on her arm. "Are you sure this is safe?"

She snorted. "Are you kidding? What part of any of this has struck you as safe?"

His lips thinned, but he removed his hand. Lena returned her focus to the woman on the bed.

Val was already inside. She turned when Lena came up beside her. A stricken expression marked her face. "Tree," she breathed.

Lena reached out and gave her arm a quick squeeze, then slowly approached the bed. "Tree?"

The woman looked at her, blinked, as if just noticing she wasn't alone. "You can see me?"

Lena nodded, and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

Tree faced forward again, stared out the room's curved bay window. "I'm dead, aren't I."

Not a question.

Lena cringed. "I'm afraid so."

"Shit." Tree stared down at her hands. "Always knew this neighborhood was dangerous. Just never figured on becoming a goddamn statistic, you know?"

MacMillian cleared his throat from his position in the doorway. Lena glanced at him, then turned back to Tree. "Listen, my associate and I are trying to figure out what's been going on around here. Can you tell us anything about what happened to you?"

Tree's eyes shot to her face, hardened. Lena bit back a groan. She knew that look: suspicion. What else had she expected? She'd known Jimmy, but to Tree, she was just an outsider asking personal questions.

She was still trying to figure out a way to break the ice when Val sat down on the bed beside her. "Tree, honey," she locked eyes with the spirit, "you can talk to this lady. She's here to help. You want help, don't you?"

Tree's eyes widened. "You can see me, too?"

Val nodded.

Tree blew out a breath. "Shit. And here I always thought you were just..." She stopped. Her eyes slid back to Lena. "You're really here to help?"

Lena inclined her head. "I'm really here to help."

"Shit." Tree let out a heavy sigh. "Thing is, I don't remember much. Jimmy an' me was supposed to get breakfast together that morning, but he never showed. Didn't answer his door, neither. So I left, hit the corner on Market, racked up about fifteen bucks in spare change. I was heading back here to rest a bit, then... I dunno. Nothing."

Lena leaned forward. "Were you attacked?"

"Don't remember." Tree tightened her arms around her knees. "But when I woke up, it was cold. Dark." She shivered. "There was this table with all sorts of different knives on it, like in the serial killer movies, you know? An' a bunch of other shit."

MacMillian shifted in the doorway. Lena ignored him. "What kind of shit?"

"Dunno. Weird shit. Like bones and rocks and fucking nasty-looking bottles of," she swallowed hard, " _stuff_." She shivered again. "I was tied down. Couldn't really move to get a good look around, you know?"

Lena winced. "Of course not."

Tree's eyes started to shimmer. "Saw Jimmy, though. Fuck, I wish I hadn't. He was already dead and... and..." She shook her head and swiped at her eyes. " _Fuck_. Not how I wanted to remember him, you know?"

Lena didn't answer.

Tree shrugged. "Then it was done. Over. Like I just blacked out, an' when I woke up, I was here. Half convinced myself it was all just a bad dream, only nobody seemed to see me. Tried talking to Luther, an' he walked right through me. Right fuckin' _through_ me."

Lena's brow furrowed. "Can you remember anything else about where you were? Smells? Sounds?"

Tree gnawed on her lip. "Not really, I just, I thought it must be underground."

Lena raised her eyebrows. "Why do you say that?"

"Dunno. The ceiling." Val shifted, lowered her knees until she was sitting cross-legged. "Could've sworn I heard traffic above the ceiling. And buzzing, kinda like street car lines." She thought some more. "Chinese food. It smelled like Chinese food. Good Chinese food, you know? Reminded me I hadn't eaten yet."

Street car lines? Chinese food? Lena exchanged glances with MacMillian. His face was predictably blank. It only drove home what she was finally coming to accept.

They were wasting their time.

She got to her feet and turned to face Tree. "Well, thanks for talking to me. If there's nothing else-"

"I was pregnant, you know."

Lena stopped in her tracks. Tree was staring out the bay window again. "Six weeks. That's what Jimmy an' I were supposed to talk about that morning. I was gonna tell him." She looked back at them. The raw anguish in her eyes made Lena's throat close. "What do you think happens to a baby when it...you know..."

Lena sat back down. For once, she was at a loss. Beside her, Val's eyes were suspiciously bright. She took a deep breath, then another, finally said the only thing she could think of. "Would you like me to help you move on?"

Tree sucked down a shaky breath. A streak of light trickled down her cheek. "Would I get to be with my baby?"

How was she supposed to answer that? Lena found herself nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, I think you would."

Tree's face softened. Some of the tension left her shoulders. "Then let's do it."

Lena reached out and laid her hand over the other woman's nonphysical one. Tree closed her eyes.

Nothing.

Tree opened her eyes again.

Val's forehead creased. "Was something supposed to happen?"

MacMillian straightened from his position against the door frame. Lena pulled her hand back, looked from him to Val. "I don't understand. This has never..."

She laid her hand over Tree's again, this time poured all her focus and intent into her task. A dull ache formed behind her temples. White specks flashed across her vision.

She held her position for as long as she could, finally jerked her hand back again. Nausea rolled in her stomach. She put her head between her knees.

MacMillian's boots swam into her field of vision. "Easy. Just take it easy."

The concern in his voice warmed an unfamiliar place inside her. Lena took one deep, fortifying breath after another. Finally, the world stopped spinning. She started to sit up. The outer edges of her vision darkened again.

"Jesus. I said take it easy." MacMillian caught her shoulder and slowly guided her to a sitting position. Lena blinked up at his face. Concern made his eyes look almost black.

She started to speak. He beat her to it. "What the hell happened?"

Her head was still throbbing. She reached up and massaged the area between her eyes. "I tried to move her on. It didn't work."

"Didn't work?" MacMillian took his hand back, rubbed it absently. "How is that possible?"

"I don't know." Yet another question she didn't have an answer for. She turned to Tree. "I'd like you to come with me, just for now. Just until we figure out what's going on around here."

Tree stiffened. "Where?"

"Someplace safe." Lena glanced at Val. She'd never expected to find herself hoping for the other woman's vote of confidence.

Val nodded. "It's okay, Tree baby. They're cool. Ananushka'ta told me so."

Lena floundered. "Ana-who?"

Val drew her shoulders back and looked at her like it was obvious. "My spirit-guide."

# CHAPTER EIGHT

#

"You're kidding, right?"

The Caprice soared over yet another dip in the road. MacMillian tried not to twitch as Lena's leg bumped his prosthesis yet again. Cyrus's backseat definitely wasn't big enough for the two of them.

Ever so subtly, she shifted her knee away from his. "I'm sure it's not as bad as it sounds."

Cyrus snorted. "Really? How do you figure?" He held up the hand that wasn't on the wheel and started counting on his fingers. "Someone's turned Jimmy into the fucking Manchurian Candidate. His girlfriend's been murdered—"

"With others."

"If you believe the crackpot bag lady in 4C." Cyrus glowered into the rearview mirror. "Which, by the way, is another thing. Did I miss the memo that said we're listening to the nutcases now?" He didn't give her a chance to respond. "From what this girlfriend described of her murder site, it sounds like we're dealing with some kind of black magic. Awesome. And then there's this whole not-moving-on business." He blew out a breath. "Seriously, do you two have _any_ news that doesn't suck?"

Lena winced.

Cyrus caught it in the mirror. "Fucking perfect." He stomped on the accelerator. The Caprice shot forward.

MacMillian stared out the window and tried to ignore the little pinch each time his socket dug into his groin. It was a minor discomfort compared to the burn in his chest each time he thought about everything he'd just witnessed. He'd never felt so useless on one of his own cases before. Criminals, he could deal with. Street people, addicts, tranny hookers; he had a plan and a backup plan for each and every one.

But ghosts? When it came to ghosts, he was out of his league.

He hated it.

None of them spoke the rest of the drive. Cyrus eased the Caprice up the narrow driveway, to a garage that didn't look remotely Victorian. He opened the glove box and clicked an invisible remote. The door slid open with a mechanical groan, and Cyrus drove inside.

The next few minutes were a blur of activity. Backpacks were removed from the trunk, coats hung up, shoes dredged clean on the mud mat in front of the house door.

MacMillian soon found himself shepherded into what he guessed was the family's private parlor. The room was small, a jumble of damask and velvet, of busts, trinkets, and old family photos. The combined effect somehow managed to be both stately and exceedingly comfortable.

Lena and Cyrus flopped onto an ancient-looking couch with twin sighs. MacMillian hesitated, then perched on the edge of an equally ancient-looking armchair. "So, where does this leave us?"

Cyrus raised a hand, let it fall back down to his knee. "If you're having any brilliant thoughts, now would be the time to share."

MacMillian rubbed his chin. "Maybe we should go back to what Tree told us. That is, about where she was killed."

Lena groaned. "Right. Traffic and street car lines. That was helpful."

"Don't forget Chinese food."

Cyrus shook his head. "That still doesn't tell us anything. Every neighborhood in the city has a Chinese restaurant. Hell, even Bayview has five."

MacMillian and Lena both stared at him. He shrugged. "I like Chinese food."

"Okay." MacMillian steepled his fingers on the head of his cane. Anticipation rose in his chest. Lena and Cyrus Alan might have an advantage over him when it came to hunting ghosts, but this was where he excelled. This part of the game was all about patterns. He saw patterns. Always had.

He leaned forward. "You're looking at this all wrong."

Lena and Cyrus gave him matching blank looks.

"Traffic. Street car lines. Chinese food. You're thinking of each thing as separate, isolated." He shrugged. "When you do it that way, you're right. By themselves, none of them have any significance."

Lena leaned forward too. "So you're suggesting..."

MacMillian nodded. "Exactly. Start with one, then build on it. The traffic, for instance." He pursed his lips. "Could be anywhere in the city. So let's toss in the Chinese food."

Cyrus sat up a little straighter. "Still could be anywhere in the city."

MacMillian tapped his lip. "Then we add street car lines. Street cars don't run everywhere."

Lena's foot danced against the dark carpet. "He's right. There are only three lines in the entire city. Powell-Mason starts on Market Street at the turntable, runs over Nob Hill, and stops at Fisherman's Wharf. Powell-Hyde starts at the turntable too, and also goes over Nob Hill, but it ends near Ghirardelli Square."

MacMillian and Cyrus stared at her. She looked from one of them to the other. "What?"

MacMillian blew out a breath. "Okay, then. What's the last one?"

"The California Line. Goes from the Financial District to Van Ness. Over Nob Hill, right through..." She trailed off. Her eyes widened. "Right through Chinatown."

Cyrus sat bolt upright. "But that's too... I mean, there's still plenty of... Could that really...?"

MacMillian spread his hands. "Occam's Razor. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one."

The three of them sat silent for a few minutes.

Lena was the first to speak again. "So, what now?"

Cyrus rubbed his chin. "Good question."

MacMillian shifted. His leg was starting to dig into his groin. "We go to Chinatown, obviously. We get under the streets. And we look for this room."

Cyrus snorted. "Well, of course. Let's just do that."

"It's possible." MacMillian stood, couldn't quite stifle a small breath of relief. "I'll bet it's not even that difficult, if our man is able to get down there dragging a likely-unconscious person."

He paced back and forth, silently rejoicing as the pressure from his socket melted away. Only Lena seemed to notice. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't mention it.

He spun on his cane and paced the other way. "Chinatown covers a few blocks, but there can't be that many entrances to the underground, especially ones that fit that criteria."

Cyrus nodded slowly. "All right then. Tomorrow, Lena and I will go to Chinatown and check things-"

"Hold on just a second." MacMillian turned and fixed the other man in his sights. "You and Lena? What am I supposed to do?"

Cyrus raised his hands. "Look, man, I wasn't going to mention it, but you don't seem to be firing on both pistons, you know what I mean? Now, it's none of my business, but—"

"But, what? You're curious?" MacMillian tapped his cane against the metal pylon of his prosthesis. A dull clang resonated through his pants leg. "About this? Wondering how functional I am?"

Lena's eyes were glued to the floor. Cyrus took a deep breath and spoke carefully. "We can't be constantly looking out for you. Especially not underground. Especially when we don't know what we're up against."

It was a reasonable argument, but it chafed nonetheless. MacMillian squared his shoulders. "I don't need to be—how did you put it?—looked out for. I'm not a toddler. I can handle myself."

"That's great, but—"

"You're not leaving me behind." He forced the words through clenched teeth. "I don't know the kinds of people you're used to dealing with, but Vaspurkan's parents hired me to find their son. I don't just back out of a case. Not ever. Not for any reason."

Cyrus's eyes narrowed. MacMillian narrowed his right back. Cyrus opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm going with him."

It took MacMillian a moment to register Lena had spoken. Both he and Cyrus turned to her. Cyrus blinked. "What?"

MacMillian could only stare as Lena stood, moved around the coffee table in front of the couch and positioned herself beside him. "I said I'm going with him." She took in Cyrus's expression, and her face softened. "Look, you didn't see him today, okay? He was good. He had my back. If he says he can handle himself, I believe him."

MacMillian swallowed. A strange feeling rose in his chest. He had the sudden urge to say thank-you, but the words eluded him. He did the next best thing he could think of, and grazed the side of her hand with his fingertips. She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. He shrugged.

Cyrus scowled. "Fine." He glared at MacMillian. "But if this goes to shit, don't expect me to carry your ass out."

MacMillian's lips peeled back in a snarl, but before he could think up a retort, a deep, guttural chime echoed off the parlor walls.

Lena breathed a blatant sigh of relief and swept around to the door. "Saved by the bell. I was about to asphyxiate on all the male hormones in here."

MacMillian let out a surprised bark of laughter. By then, Lena had disappeared into the hallway. Cyrus glared at him again, rose to his feet and followed. MacMillian smirked and trailed after them.

Outside the parlor was a short, dark hallway. MacMillian followed the sound of Cyrus's footsteps to a small door at the end. He pushed it open, and found himself in the front reception hall. He took a few more steps, and realized the door was set into the base of the immense staircase. Sunlight spilled through an oculus above the third-floor landing, and set the crystals in the chandelier blazing.

Just inside the front door stood two young men. Both were slender and wiry, both clothed head to toe in black. The one on the left had a wide-brimmed black fedora pulled low over his eyes. MacMillian paused under the shadow of the staircase.

"I thought you said you were going to visit more often." Lena pulled the man in the fedora in for a hug. Something itched at the base of MacMillian's throat. He shook off whatever it was as the man chuckled.

"Ah, you know how it is. Mysteries of the universe to protect, and all that."

MacMillian blinked.

The second man scowled. "Not to mention the energy barrier around this place." His words contained the barest hint of an Eastern European accent. "Honestly, why you won't let us install a labyrinth..."

Cyrus tensed, but then the first man jumped in. "Don't listen to Puzzle. He just doesn't have the stomach for mundane travel anymore." He winked at Lena. "Gets carsick."

The man called Puzzle snorted. "Do not." He lowered his voice and nodded toward MacMillian's hiding place. "You are aware we're not alone?"

Lena slapped a hand to her forehead. "Damn, I almost forgot." She turned towards the stairs and called, "Come on over, let me introduce you."

MacMillian reluctantly stepped out of the shadows and crossed the hall. The men in black watched his progress. He assessed them while he walked, and knew they were doing the same to him.

By the time he reached them, the skin on the back of his neck felt itchy. It wasn't often he met someone he couldn't read, much less two at the same time. The man in the fedora looked pleasant enough, but the other one looked like a predator eying a possible meal. MacMillian returned his calculating stare with one of his own.

It soon became clear neither of them were going to be the first to look away. Lena cleared her throat, and hooked a hand through the first man's arm. "Emil, this is Mr. MacMillian. He's the private detective helping us out with this whole Jimmy situation."

MacMillian forced himself to return the man's nod. How much had she told them already?

Lena caught his eye. "MacMillian, meet Misha Kaslov—Puzzle—and Reverend Emil Stone. Emil and I grew up together."

MacMillian narrowed his eyes at the man in the fedora. Neither he nor his friend looked a day older than nineteen, at most. "You're a... minister?"

The man's lips twitched. "Of sorts."

Puzzle tugged his sleeve back and checked the utilitarian black watch strapped to his wrist. Sinewy muscles rippled in his forearm. "These introductions have been touching, but perhaps we could get back to why we're here—"

Emil rolled his eyes. "I swear, he's like a pit bull. Hopeless." He turned to Lena. "Might we move this to the library?"

"Of course." Lena motioned for them to follow, and led the way to one of the doors on the opposite side of the hall. MacMillian fell into step behind Cyrus, all too aware of Puzzle's presence at his back.

He'd never been in a house with an actual library before. Parquet floors amplified the sound of their footsteps as they filed in. Inside, a long, ornate wooden table practically bisected the room. Dark wooden bookshelves extended two stories to the coffered ceiling. A wrought iron catwalk ringed the entire second level, and a mammoth gaslight chandelier hung down the open center.

Lena stopped directly under it, in the epicenter of a strange, circular design inlaid in the floor. MacMillian drew in for a closer look. It reminded him of a Masonic symbol, the top-secret kind members would guard with their lives.

Ghost prisons, secret symbols; what kind of person lived in a place like this? He looked up at Lena, chattering brightly with the Reverend. Underneath the dresses, the artsy aprons, the fashion sunglasses, who the hell was this woman?

With a start, he realized Emil was speaking to all of them. "Much as I wish this were a social visit, Puzzle was right. We're here for a reason." His gaze lingered on Lena. "Something strange is going on in this city."

Lena arched an eyebrow.

Emil's lips twitched. "All right, stranger than usual. Puzzle and I were sent here to find out what." He turned his focus to MacMillian. "If you're involved, that suggests subversive matters are spilling into the mundane world. Tell me, what have you discovered?"

MacMillian crossed his arms. "Couldn't really say. Not much."

Emil and Cyrus both looked exasperated, and Lena hissed out a breath. Puzzle took a threatening step towards him. In a flash, MacMillian notched the head of his cane under the younger man's chin. "Watch it, kid. I don't just carry this thing for the support."

Puzzle's jaw ticked. Emil took a step forward, hands raised. "It's all right. Please. We're all friends here."

After a long moment, Puzzle jerked his head in a nod.

MacMillian lowered his cane. "Nice sentiment, but I don't think so. You four are friends. I don't know you. I don't know what you do. Hell, I don't even know what 'subversive' and 'mundane' mean."

Cyrus glared at him, and Lena shook her head. Emil's expression tightened.

MacMillian ignored them all. "So let's try this. You go first. Tell me who the hell you are --beyond just one of Ms. Alan's old schoolmates-- and what the hell all this is about. After that, maybe I'll answer your questions."

Puzzle growled low in his throat. "We don't have time for this."

"Make time for it, Spartacus." MacMillian planted his cane and leaned on it. "I am."

Emil tugged off his fedora, revealing a shock of blond hair. He raked a hand through it. "Fine." He hesitated. "I'm not entirely sure where to start. How much do you want to know?"

"Today, I'll settle for the abbreviated version."

"All right, then." Emil thought for a minute, then spread his hands. "I assume if you're here, you've already been exposed to the spirit world."

MacMillian nodded. "You could say that." He aimed an accusatory glance at Lena. She flushed, and made a show of studying her fingernails.

Emil inclined his head. "Then you're probably starting to realize the world you see around you every day isn't, well, the world you see around you every day."

MacMillian thought back to The Procyon and Daniel Zerubabbel's canid smile, to the black flames that had encased Aloysius Paul. "Yeah."

Emil started to pace. "What you've been seeing is the subversive realm. Most of us call it the demimonde. It exists alongside the mundane world, the world you've lived your life in up to now. There are protocols in place to keep the demimonde separate, hidden. Select humans have always known about it, and have formed different... organizations... dedicated to maintaining order."

MacMillian realized he was white-knuckling the head of his cane. He shook himself. "Let me get this straight." He struggled to form the words. "You're telling me all the conspiracy nuts are right? The Freemasons, the Illuminati, Area 51... All that shit's _real_?"

Puzzle snorted.

Emil smiled slightly. "Not quite. I'm not talking about the New World Order here. I'm talking about ancient guilds stretching back centuries, all with a single mandate: to protect human interests in a world most humans will never fully comprehend."

MacMillian gave up trying to process all he was hearing, filed everything away in a distant corner of his brain. He'd sort through it all later. "So tell me about you two." He waved his cane between Emil and Puzzle.

Emil raised one eyebrow. "You seem to be taking this in stride."

"I'm adaptable. Keep talking."

Emil nodded. "You asked before if I was a minister. To answer your question, yes, but not the kind you were thinking of. My colleagues and I are ministers of knowledge. We seek it, we collect it, we protect it."

He dipped his chin towards Puzzle. "Puzzle is a member of the organization we know as The Peers. They've been in operation since the Dark Ages, though under a different name." He paused. "You've probably never heard of the Order of Saint Mary."

MacMillian shook his head. "No."

Emil shrugged. "Most people haven't. For simplicity's sake, let's just say they were contemporaries of the Knights Templar. Back in the early middle ages, our two orders formed a partnership. The Ministers are scholars, first and foremost. Our talents lie in academic pursuits and esoteric wisdom. Unfortunately, our particular brand of scholarship is often quite dangerous."

"That's an understatement," Puzzle muttered.

A small smile flickered over Emil's face. "That's where the Peers come in. Each Peer is still trained as a knight. You could say they're the brawn to our brains. When one of our oblates first becomes a Minister, he's paired with a Peer. The partnership is for life."

MacMillian looked from one of them to the other. "So how long have you two been partners?"

"A year, as of next month. Initiation is a long process." Emil caught Puzzle's eye, held it a moment. He turned back to MacMillian. "In that time, we've upheld our mandate. We've helped maintain order and harmony between the demimonde and the mundane realm. That brings me back to why we're here. Something is wrong."

He turned to Lena. His expression darkened. "Something is very wrong."

# CHAPTER NINE

#

How had this become his life?

MacMillian hovered off to the side while the two newcomers and his hosts spoke. Most of what they were talking about didn't make any sense, even with his newfound knowledge. Something about three spheres, problems in the subtle plane, and overall cosmic chaos. If he'd overheard any of it even two days before, he'd have written the lot of them off as insane.

Part of him still wanted to.

Lena and Cyrus listened intently. From the looks on their faces, it was shaping up to be more than just another day at the office. Emil finally paused for breath. "So, there you have it. All over the world, the Ministers have been charting severe disruptions in the Spiritus Mundi. It's like the walls between the spheres are breaking apart."

MacMillian watched Lena's face closely. He might not know what they were talking about, but judging by her expression, it wasn't good.

The lines in her forehead deepened. "The other night, I was communicating with a spirit, and he mentioned there was something wrong in the spectral realm. Do you think that could have anything to do with what you're talking about?"

Emil grimaced. "It's possible. What else did he say?"

"It's not so much what he said. It's what happened next." Lena twisted her hands. "He disappeared. Not like they usually do, either. It was like something ripped him away."

Emil and Puzzle glanced at each other.

Lena nodded towards MacMillian. "We checked out his home today, and there he was. But it was like he'd been brainwashed. He didn't remember our previous encounter. He didn't even realize he was dead." She paused. "We may have another problem. That wasn't the only spirit Mr. MacMillian and I came across today."

She gave an abbreviated account of their encounter with Tree. By the time she finished, Emil looked even more concerned. "And what she described, the assorted objects where she was killed, are you absolutely sure?"

"Definitely." Lena wrapped her arms around herself. "Why? Do you know what they're for?"

Emil straightened. "Your first spirit. Where is he now?"

"I bound him in a brazen vessel and brought him back—"

"Here?" Excitement flashed across Emil's face. He and Puzzle exchanged another glance. "You're telling me he's here?"

Lena nodded. Emil started to pace. "This could be the chance we've been looking for. Up until now, we haven't been able to speak directly with anyone from the other planes. It's like, I don't know, the signal's been jammed somehow. If we could talk to this spirit..."

Lena cringed. "I don't know if he'll cooperate. He wasn't exactly stable, if you know what I mean."

"Not a problem." Emil stopped pacing. "Where is this vessel now?"

Lena sighed. "Hang on. I'll go get it."

MacMillian's head pounded while they waited for her to return. Brazen vessels? Other planes? He resisted the urge to rub his forehead.

Cyrus strolled casually over to his side and bent his head in close. "Not too late to back out, you know." MacMillian looked at him sharply, and he shrugged. "Just saying. This isn't your world. This isn't your responsibility."

Neither of them had time to say anything else. Lena strode back into the room, the earthenware box in hand. She passed it to Emil. "His name is Jimmy Vaspurkan. He worked for me briefly back when he was alive. He was a good man." Her voice faltered. "Whatever he's become, I know it's not his fault."

Emil nodded understandingly. "I promise, we won't use any more force than is absolutely necessary."

MacMillian's jaw dropped. "Wait, _force_? What the hell are you going to do to him?"

Emil set the box at the end of the long table. "Don't worry. We've dealt with this kind of thing before."

MacMillian ground his teeth. That didn't answer his question. Damn it, _baro_ or not, the Vaspurkans had trusted him with the wellbeing of their son. That he happened to be dead didn't change a thing.

For the moment, however, he could only stand and watch while Puzzle unwound the ribbon from around the box, then flicked the clasp. Emil stood in front of it, arms relaxed at his sides. Puzzle gingerly swung the lid back and Emil spoke, a single word MacMillian couldn't have remembered or repeated if he'd tried.

He already knew he wouldn't see the spirit, so he watched Lena's face instead. Her features looked tighter than usual, her lips thin and white. Emil spoke another word. She cringed.

MacMillian tensed. "What is it? What's he doing?"

It was Cyrus who answered. "He's compelling the spirit to speak. The spirit is... resisting."

Emil repeated the same word, his voice harsher this time. Lena balled her hands into fists, and even Cyrus looked uncomfortable. The chandelier started to sway slightly, as though touched by a nonexistent breeze.

Emil repeated the word again. Lena choked back a protest. Cyrus looked away.

MacMillian stepped forward. "That's enough."

In a flash, Puzzle was in front of him, his face hard beyond his years. "Stay out of this."

MacMillian stooped until their noses nearly touched. "Feel free to make me, _boy_. If you think you can."

Puzzle's mouth twisted. Cyrus elbowed his way between them. He shot Puzzle a warning look, then turned to MacMillian. "Damn it, what did I tell you? This isn't your—"

"Responsibility? I'm afraid you're wrong about that." MacMillian drew his shoulders back, all too aware of Lena's eyes on him. He kept his focus on Emil. "Vaspurkan. He's here right now?"

Emil nodded.

"Then give him a message for me." MacMillian took a deep breath. "Tell him his _baro_ is here, and orders him to answer your questions."

The silence in the room was like a vacuum. Even the sounds from the street outside seemed to drown in it.

Emil turned slowly to the box, and echoed MacMillian's words. His face tightened. "He says he was expelled from the _kumpania_ , whatever that means. He says he doesn't answer to you."

"Tell him one doesn't stop being Rom simply because they're no longer in the _kumpania_. We still share the same blood, the same ancestors." The words left a bad taste in his mouth. MacMillian forced himself to continue. "He will always answer to them. And to me." Wouldn't his grandfather be proud to hear him now? He swallowed the bitterness on his tongue.

It was odd, hearing his exact words repeated to what looked like a patch of naked air. MacMillian waited, his full attention on Emil. The other man shifted back on his heels. Satisfaction flooded his face. He didn't look at MacMillian, but murmured, "Thank you."

MacMillian forced himself to stay still, to keep his eyes on the box. No one looked at him, and he knew they were listening to whatever Jimmy was saying. To whatever he had convinced Jimmy to say.

Acid burned at the base of his throat. All his life, he'd watched his grandfather wield his power like a weapon, manipulating people and events according to some undisclosed master plan. He'd told himself he was above such tactics. He'd told himself he was different.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

←↑↓→

Either Jimmy was a gifted liar, or he truly didn't know anything.

MacMillian left The Wayfare not long after Puzzle and the Reverend, with an extracted promise from Lena and Cyrus to meet him the next morning. After a small internal debate, he went back to the office. Darius was already gone. MacMillian went through the motions of organizing his files for as long as he could stand it.

By the time he finally headed home, it was getting dark. Residents poured from the apartments that lined the side streets around Washington Square Park. Urbane young couples packed the uneven sidewalks, pushing strollers, walking dogs. Further down, neon lights flashed as North Beach's strip heated up. Chinatown was settling in for the night, too. A dense fog had crept in from the Bay, and the throngs of sightseers had long since dispersed. The red paper lanterns strung across Grant bobbed gently in the cool air.

MacMillian turned off the commercial drag. His building sat on the corner of a cramped alley. Rusted white fire escapes clung to the ancient brick facade, each floor graced with a long, catwalk-style balcony. He was more likely to hear Cantonese than English through the walls of his apartment, and strange, exotic smells often filled the hallways. It was nothing like where he'd grown up.

That was why he'd chosen it.

He wedged the Fury into an open spot against the curb. A compact grocery took up the first floor of the building. It was dark inside, a steel gate dragged down over the entrance. Squeezed into the wall next to it was a small door.

MacMillian limped up the four narrow flights of stairs to his floor. Even at the top of the building, the smell of cabbage and something unidentifiable and musky saturated the hallway. He breathed through it and hobbled to his tiny corner unit.

Once inside, he knocked the door shut with his cane, leaned hard against the wall and toed the shoe off his extant foot. On a normal day, he'd have taken his leg off hours ago. His stump felt hot, the gel liner itchy and slick with sweat. He didn't try to make it to the bedroom, simply dropped his pants in the front foyer and flicked the valve on the socket.

The negative pressure equalized with a dull hiss. MacMillian worked the leg off with a sigh, paused a moment while his muscles realigned and restabilized. Balanced on his one foot, he carefully bent down to retrieve his trousers. He draped them over one arm and, prosthetic in hand, hopped into the living room.

The liner couldn't come off fast enough. MacMillian flipped over the upper lip and rolled it down. Cool air whispered over his skin. The scar tissue drew tight over his transected bone. He sank onto his sagging sofa and reached for the small tub of ointment on the side table. He unscrewed the cap, and a faintly oily, lemony smell filled the air.

The area around the top of the socket felt more irritated than usual. He grimaced. Must have been all the sitting. He scooped out a generous dab of ointment, peeled up the leg of his boxer briefs and massaged the balm into the reddened skin near his groin.

His evening routine used to be much different. Come home, eat dinner with the family, retire to the study and pass a bottle of brandy back and forth with his brother. He couldn't count the number of times they'd lost track of the hours that way, drinking and talking. Their mother or Babko might join in for a time, but by the end of the night, inevitably, it would be just the two of them.

MacMillian swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. The accident had changed everything; not just his body, but his life. Instead of coming home to a family, he lived alone. Instead of brandy, he drank whiskey. Instead of a brother...

His jaw tightened. Nothing had replaced his brother.

And now he had a whole new set of problems. He sighed and pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets. The pressure did little to ease the ache in his head.

It was all his grandfather's fault. The old man had elevated manipulation to such an art form, he was even doing it from beyond the grave. It wasn't enough he had to manage his own train wreck of a life, now he had to put out other people's fires, too?

That still wasn't counting Lena Alan and her ghost circus. MacMillian pinched the bridge of his nose. Conspiracy theories, secret societies... what the hell had he gotten himself into? What was next? Vampires? Werewolves?

It was technically morning by the time he finally hauled himself off to bed. He triple-locked the front door on his way into the bedroom, made sure his gun was loaded and a round chambered when he slipped it into his nightstand drawer.

Lena's words echoed through his head just before he dropped off to sleep: _bullets aren't much good against ghosts._

# CHAPTER TEN

#

The dream started the same way it always did.

She was in a familiar bedroom.

A twin-sized canopy bed sat in the middle of the floor. Airy white curtains swayed from the posts. Dolls lay scattered over the rug, their limbs frozen mid-play, ready to be picked up again in the morning. The fairy nightlight emitted a soft glow from the outlet near the door.

She was tucked between her favorite sheets, the pink-and-white ones she'd gotten for her birthday. She'd begged for them, and now she couldn't sleep on anything else. She snuggled in a little deeper. Sleep tugged at the corners of her subconscious. Everyone else would be sleeping already, and she was so comfortable, so warm. Her eyelids drooped.

_No_. She couldn't fall asleep. Not yet.

Not until she saw them.

The closet door creaked, as if on cue. Her eyes popped open. They were here! Of course they were. From the moment they'd first come to her, they hadn't let a day go by without stopping in to play. To check on her. To say hello. They were her friends.

No- not just her friends. Her _best_ friends.

She'd tried to introduce them to Cyrus, to Hannah, to Mom. She would open the closet doors all the way, even crawl in to the very back, but no use. She could never find them. She always shrugged it off. They were just shy.

The closet door began its slow slide on its tracks. She sat up, hands folded over her blankets. Anticipation swelled in her chest, and she wriggled forward a bit. What would they want to do tonight? Maybe they could have a tea party. Her eyes flicked hopefully to the rosebud china tea set on the shelf. She loved a good tea party.

A shadow crept forward from the darkness, and she beamed her welcome. For some reason, she only ever saw her friends' shadows. Try as she might, she could never convince them to come into the light. They had sensitive eyes, they said.

The light hurt them...

Lena's eyes shot open. Without thinking, she scanned her bedroom. The digital alarm clock on her nightstand was blinking two fifty-six. Her chest felt heavy, like someone had been sitting on it.

Of course, that was impossible. She was alone.

The air was still, the street outside, quiet. A few blocks away, cars hummed up and down Market Street. Just another night in the city.

She nestled deeper into her pillows and pressed her fingers to her eyelids. Why was this happening? She hadn't dreamt about _them_ in a long time. Not since moving out of her parents' house. She was a different person now. She'd grown up, put her life back together. She'd moved on.

Hadn't she?

Lena rolled onto her side, willed the change of position to change the direction of her thoughts, too. Before long, a new face filtered out of her subconscious, strong and harsh, with dark, assessing eyes.

The thought of Jesper MacMillian was the last thing that should have comforted her, but just picturing him, the tension leaked steadily from her muscles. She summoned up an image of the black cane, of his odd three-step gait. Her breathing evened.

I'm not a cripple.

I can handle myself.

If the state of his body was any indication, MacMillian had been through a lot. If he could be strong, maybe she could manage it, too.

Her hand tingled with the memory of his fingertips. She wrapped her mind around the sensation and tucked it close. It was her defense against the shadows when blackness finally enveloped her again.

←↑↓→

Morning couldn't come quickly enough.

MacMillian left the Fury where it was parked and set off from his building on foot. Every apartment within a square city mile seemed to have simultaneously upturned, dumping the entire population onto the streets. Even without the influx of tourists that clogged the major thoroughfares, he could scarcely take a step without bumping into some housewife with a market basket, or grandfather headed for a game of Chinese checkers in the park.

He pulled out his beat-up cell phone and double-checked the address Lena had texted him. It was scarcely two blocks away. With a shake of his head, he started walking. The entire time he'd been living in Chinatown, he'd never heard of Hou-Yun Tea. Not that that was unusual. It wasn't like he made a habit of frequenting tea shops.

MacMillian snorted. Since meeting Lena Alan, everything about his life seemed to be changing.

He checked the street, then half-hopped, half-jogged across. A delivery man wielding a loaded handcart swerved to avoid him, and belted out something ungenerous-sounding in Cantonese. MacMillian shrugged apologetically. The man shot him a dirty look, but continued along his route.

A white delivery van emblazoned with graffiti camouflaged the entrance to Ross Alley. MacMillian skirted the dented rear fender and ducked down the narrow backstreet. Three- and four-story buildings rose on either side of him, blocking out the sun and creating a strange half-world in the shadows. Some of the facades sported not-so-fresh paint jobs. Most had been left alone, however, and the age-and-exhaust-darkened brick gave the alley a damp, cool feel. Pipes and naked electrical cables snaked along the walls beneath rickety metal fire escapes. Protruding signs lined the ground floors, the names spelled out in Cantonese and Toishan.

It wasn't a stretch to imagine the alley the way it had been a hundred years ago, lined with gambling parlors and opium dens. MacMillian kept his eyes fixed ahead of him. Judging from the looks he was getting, half the shop owners and inhabitants would have preferred he be somewhere else.

He almost missed Hou-Yun Tea. Wrought iron bars masked the windows. A narrow, pagoda-style marquee stretched the length of the exterior, and two small wooden chairs sat outside the door. All told, it didn't look like much of anything, let alone the "neighborhood institution" Lena had mentioned in her text.

He was about to pull out his phone and triple-check the address when a familiar flash of red caught his eye. MacMillian peered inside, then bit back a snort.

Trench coat fetish, indeed.

He had to duck to fit through the door. Lena sat at a wraparound counter, sporting her customary red trench. She didn't look up, deep in conversation with a stately, ageless woman opposite her.

"You're right. It's smoother than I expected." She took a sip from a small china cup, and hummed low in her throat. "Nutty, smooth. Delicious." Her voice lowered and she muttered, "I should really stock this."

MacMillian cleared his throat. She finally looked up. A broad smile lit her face. "You made it! Give me just a moment, I'm nearly finished."

MacMillian lingered in the doorway, momentarily winded. People didn't smile at him. On the rare occasion they did, it was accompanied by a sympathetic twist of the eyebrows after they'd noticed his cane. He pulled himself together and nodded.

Her vivid blue eyes sparkled a little brighter, then she turned back to her cup. MacMillian edged closer until he could see over the rim. The liquid inside was a deep caramel color, with a faintly purplish tint. An earthy, almost fungal aroma hovered in the air.

Lena glanced up and caught his eye. "It's called pu'erh," she said. "Want a taste?"

MacMillian held up a hand. "No, thank you." He grimaced. "Still haven't fully recovered from the last tea you gave me."

Lena laughed. "Suit yourself." In a couple more quick sips, she drained the remainder of the liquid. She tugged a wallet from the backpack in her lap and laid a few bills next to her empty cup, then swung off her stool and headed for the door.

With a final glance at the woman behind the counter, MacMillian followed. Lena paused just outside to return her wallet to the backpack's front pocket. MacMillian arched an eyebrow at the collection of small ceramic boxes inside. "Expecting trouble?"

Lena glanced up, followed the line of his gaze, and shrugged. "You never know."

"Where's Cyrus?"

"Something came up." She started up the alley, opposite the direction he'd come.

MacMillian considered that, then shifted into step behind her. "So, why this place?"

"Well, the tea is amazing."

MacMillian snorted.

Lena tossed a shoulder. "I've known Mom Cho for a while. She... _notices_ things. The kinds of things most people don't."

MacMillian blinked. "Wait. Are you telling me you have a network? In Chinatown?" The thought of Lena Alan having eyes and ears in his neighborhood was more than a little disconcerting.

She slowed until he was walking beside her. "Don't sound so surprised. I told you I wasn't just some untrained civilian." She looked up at him. "I know what I'm doing."

She had a fierce expression on her face, like she was waiting for him to argue. Instead, he inclined his head and aimed his eyes forward. "So what did you find out?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw her face forward again, too. "Road construction."

MacMillian sighed. "Yeah, I could have told you that. They're—" He stopped.

Lena looked back up at him. "What?"

"They've been excavating a tunnel for a new subway system underneath Stockton Street. Just started work on the future Chinatown station." He shook his head. "But there's no way to get underground from there. Not without being seen. Place is swarming with—"

He stopped again. This time, Lena stopped walking and turned to face him. "Are you going to keep doing that?"

But he wasn't listening anymore. It was so obvious. How had he not thought of it before? "The Butterfly Room."

Lena lifted her hands, palms-up.

MacMillian blew out a chuckle. "Of course. It's perfect." He turned abruptly and started walking again, as fast as his leg would allow.

Lena trotted after him. "Care to share with the class?"

He didn't break stride. "The Butterfly Room was an old vaudeville theater across from Washington Square Park. The city razed it to build an extraction shaft for the two subway drills. Caused a huge rift in public opinion. I swear, you've never seen people so up-in-arms about a pigeon sanctuary before." He felt her eyes on his face, and shrugged. "Place was abandoned for decades."

"And you think this extraction shaft...?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it? Now that the tunnels are done, there won't be more than a skeleton crew posted there. And you've seen the manholes around here. They're tiny. Definitely not big enough to fit a body through."

Lena shuddered. "So, where are we going now?"

"My car. The Butterfly's not far, but I'd just as soon not walk."

Lena glanced at his cane, and didn't say anything.

MacMillian thought of something, and pulled out his cell. Ignoring Lena's questioning look, he tapped out a familiar number. The dial tone droned in his ear for what felt like ages. Finally, a voice picked up.

"This better be important."

MacMillian rolled his eyes. "Glad the San Francisco Police Department is still so friendly and accommodating."

An aggravated sigh sounded in his ear. "You calling to ask me on a date, MacMillian? If so, I'm hanging up."

"You know better than that." MacMillian took a deep breath. "I need a favor. Can you meet me at Washington Square Park in ten minutes?"

Silence hummed over the line.

MacMillian lowered his voice. "It's important. And don't pretend you won't be there. We both know you owe me."

Another sigh. "Fine. But make it fifteen. I'm in the middle of a thing."

MacMillian fought to keep the grim smile out of his voice. "See you soon."

"Are you going to tell me what this is—"

MacMillian hung up.

Lena cleared her throat, and he looked down. Her eyebrows were raised.

He looked forward again. "Mark Durbin, an inspector for the SFPD. We go back a ways. He'll help us get into that extraction shaft."

Lena half-trotted alongside him. "Is he a friend of yours?"

MacMillian's lips twisted. "No."

←↑↓→

How long could it possibly take to find parking?

Lena shifted from one foot to the other. The three-way intersection next to Washington Square Park was a complicated snarl of cars, buses, and pedestrians. Across the street, the lot that had once housed The Butterfly Room sat behind a chain-link fence. Several cranes and a flat-bed truck were parked inside. A small smattering of neon-vested construction workers milled around them.

Lena tried to settle on a position that didn't look suspicious. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them again. Shoved her hands towards her pockets, only to remember at the last minute her red fashion trench didn't have any. She sighed.

"Everything all right, miss?"

She turned, a quick dismissal on the tip of her tongue. That was as far as it got.

Behind her stood a man roughly the same height and build as MacMillian. He wore basic slacks and a navy sport coat, and the top of his pale blue shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. Silver dusted the dark, glossy hair at his temples, and a closely-trimmed shadow followed the sharp line of his jaw. Steady gray eyes studied her with an unreadable expression.

Lena shook herself. "Yes. Thank you. I'm just, ah, meeting someone."

"What a coincidence. So am I."

She blinked. Was it her imagination, or had his voice deepened? She looked at him a little closer. His face, somehow both severe and jarringly handsome, revealed nothing. Then as she watched, his eyes slid deliberately down her body. They raised back to her face, and one eyebrow lifted.

Lena blinked, her mind suddenly, embarrassingly blank. Her belly turned a slow flip.

"Hope I'm not interrupting."

Lena jerked around. MacMillian stood behind her, a strange look on his face, one finger tapping the head of his cane.

Before she could answer, the other man spoke. "You didn't mention anything about company."

Lena's heart sank. At least, she assumed that was the cause of the flutter in her chest. She turned back to him. "You're Mark Durbin."

The man's lips curved. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss...?"

"Alan." MacMillian's tone was clipped. "Ms. Alan. And yes, she's helping me look into something. Now could we please-"

"I'm helping you?" Lena aimed a glare over her shoulder, then turned back to the inspector. "What he meant to say was, _he's_ helping _me_ look into something. And you can call me Lena. Pleased to meet you." On reflex, she stuck out her hand.

Durbin's lips curved still further, and she suddenly doubted the wisdom of offering it to him. His fingers were long and smooth, and closed around hers in a gentle squeeze. Just as quickly, he released them again. "Pleasure's all mine, Lena."

MacMillian cleared his throat. "If you two are finished, I'd like to have a look at that extraction shaft sometime today."

Lena sniffed, but turned towards the street. "Don't get snippy just because I've mastered the fine art of social skills."

Durbin snorted a laugh beside her. On her other side, she could feel disapproval pouring from MacMillian. She bit her lip against a grin. She didn't know why she was so driven to antagonize him all of a sudden. It wasn't as if he'd done anything to deserve it.

At least, not recently.

He ignored her and spoke to Durbin over the top of her head. "We need to get a look down the extraction shaft across the street." He nodded at the fenced-off lot.

Durbin's forehead furrowed. "You said this was important."

"It is."

Lena looked back and forth between the two of them. MacMillian's face was set. So was Durbin's. Both were impossible to read.

She rolled her eyes. "For god's sake, we won't get anywhere at this rate." She turned to Durbin. "We're looking into acts of vandalism in the area. There have been rumors about suspicious lights in the extraction shaft at night, and we think they might be connected." She was surprised how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. "Can you help us, or not?"

Durbin's eyes narrowed and roved over her face, so intense she wanted to squirm. Something closed around her chest.

When he spoke, his voice was hard. "Well, I've got to hand it to our detective, he certainly knows how to choose a partner."

Lena swallowed. The vise around her chest tightened.

Durbin gave a short nod, and motioned them towards the crosswalk. MacMillian started forward without a word. Lena began to follow. Durbin stopped her with a hand on her arm. She looked up.

His forehead was creased again. "You didn't have to lie, you know. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't planning to help."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat. "I, um. Thank you."

MacMillian was waiting at the crosswalk, watching them. His face bore the same strange expression as before. Durbin removed his hand from her arm. "Come on, before John McClane over there gets the wrong idea."

Lena snorted, but headed for the crosswalk. She brushed past MacMillian without a word, squared her shoulders and led the way across the street.

Two sets of eyes burned into her back the entire way.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

#

A small Italian restaurant took up the corner next to the empty lot. Delicious smells inundated the air, and patrons sat outside at white-draped cafe tables, seemingly oblivious to the activity going on next door. An impeccable host hovered around the sidewalk. He nodded as they passed by.

A temporary sound wall had been constructed between the restaurant and the lot, but just around the corner, the chain link fence was wide open. Lena slowed and waited for Durbin and MacMillian to catch up. "So, how are we going to do this?"

She'd meant the question for MacMillian, but it was Durbin who answered. "I'm going to speak to the foreman. I won't go into detail—not difficult, since you two haven't told me anything—but I'll tell him we need temporary access to the shaft."

MacMillian held up a hand. "Wait, 'we'? You're not coming."

Durbin's lips thinned. Lena pinched the bridge of her nose. "Damn it, can you two just—"

"Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm the one with the badge. Either we do this my way, or you can forget the whole thing." Durbin crossed his arms and locked eyes with MacMillian. "I agreed to help you. That doesn't mean you're in charge."

MacMillian made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl. Durbin waited. MacMillian's eyes flicked from him to Lena. He jerked his chin in a nod. "Fine. Your way it is."

Lena let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Durbin reached under his jacket and unclipped the badge from the waistband of his slacks. She moved aside as he strode into the construction site. He raised the badge above his head. "Attention, please! I'll need to speak with the person in charge here."

Several minutes later, the three of them were standing around the open shaft, looking down. The interior contained an intricate framework of flange sections, steel wale, and diagonal struts. At the bottom, two massive tunnels yawned in the concrete wall. A mostly-intact boring machine still blocked one of them.

The other, however, was empty.

Lena blew out a breath and adjusted her backpack straps. "Okay. So how are we doing this?"

The foreman marched up behind them, three hard hats balanced in his arms. He looked them up and down, and his eyes narrowed. "You all sure you're allowed to be here? Don't need nobody suing my ass if something happens down there."

Durbin took two of the hard hats. "I said we are, didn't I?" He handed one to Lena. "If you're that worried, I guess you'll just have to make sure nothing happens."

The foreman's face scrunched up, but he handed MacMillian the last hat. His gaze settled on the cane. He shook his head and muttered something under his breath, then spun on his heel and stalked off.

Durbin nodded at the cane. "You sure you don't want to—"

"I'm going down." The tone of MacMillian's voice left no room for discussion.

Durbin clapped the hard hat on his head. "Suit yourself. I'll go first. Then Lena. Then you." He turned and picked his way towards the narrow metal ladder before MacMillian could argue.

Lena hesitated as she searched MacMillian's face. "I hope you're not just doing this to prove a point."

His jaw ticked. "Why are we still talking about it?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Whatever. Just... be careful."

She didn't wait to see the inevitable scowl cross his face, instead scrambled around the construction equipment to where Durbin was waiting. "Everything okay?"

Lena forced a smile. "Yeah." She met his eyes, and smiling came a little easier. "Yeah, everything's fine."

"Good." He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then MacMillian spoke behind her.

"Come on. Let's get this over with."

Lena turned around. This time, there was no mistaking the naked disapproval on his face. He nodded stiffly towards the ladder. "Durbin. I believe you wanted to go first."

Durbin looked from one of them to the other, then inclined his head. "Of course." He braced his hands against the rails and started down.

Lena watched until his head disappeared beneath the rim of the shaft. She was about to follow his lead when MacMillian's voice stopped her. "Careful."

She blinked up at him. "Thanks. You, too."

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant." He glanced at the ladder. "I'm talking about Durbin. He's not how you think he is."

She recoiled. "And just how do I think he is?"

"Please." MacMillian's jaw flexed. "I'm not blind. You like him."

"And I shouldn't?"

"No." He said it so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "You shouldn't."

Lena shook her head. "We're not doing this. Especially not right now. We're here for a reason, in case you forgot." She headed for the ladder and grasped the handrails. After a final glance at MacMillian's face, she started down.

The air cooled the further she descended, and the metal ladder was freezing. She fought back a shiver, and quickened her pace.

A narrow black object sailed past her head, clattering to the concrete below. Durbin's surprised shout echoed up the shaft. Lena froze, and looked down. MacMillian's cane. She glared back up at him.

He peered over the edge, a genuinely sheepish expression on his face. "Sorry. Couldn't think of a better way to get it down."

Lena quickly made it to the bottom. Strong hands closed around her waist, and lifted her to the ground. She looked up at Durbin. Her belly flipped again. "Thanks."

A quick grin flashed across his face. "No problem." He paused. His gaze skimmed over her hard hat. "May I...?"

Lena nodded, and he notched a finger under her chin and tilted her head back. Her mouth went dry. She swallowed hard.

"How does that feel?" His voice sounded deeper. "Is the inside secure enough?"

Her belly flipped. "No. Yes. It feels good." She swallowed again. "The hat feels good."

His lips twitched.

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. She didn't move while he stooped and picked up MacMillian's cane. Without a word, he pressed it into her palm.

They didn't speak while they waited. The instant MacMillian's feet touched concrete, Lena passed him the cane. It was as though Durbin's touch had electrified it, and while it wasn't an entirely unpleasant sensation, it was still a relief to hand it off.

Seemingly unaware, MacMillian strode towards the open tunnel. The undulating sound of his footsteps and cane reverberated off the walls. "At least we know there's only one way in." He paused at the entrance, turned back to where she and Durbin were still standing. "You coming?"

Lena nodded and headed after him. Electricity crackled over her skin as she neared the tunnel. She glanced back. Durbin was watching her. She shrugged off the lingering prickle in her nerve endings and climbed up behind MacMillian.

He was watching her, too. "Are you all right?"

She stiffened. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He searched her face, then looked away. "No reason."

Durbin joined them, and they started off as a group. Lena tugged her trench coat tighter. The concrete-lined tunnel was even cooler than the extraction pit. Lights dotted the ceiling, strung along naked cables. Pipes of various widths lined the walls, and a thin line of muddy water ran down the center of the floor.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the wet slap of their feet and the faint drone of traffic overhead. Finally, Durbin cleared his throat. "So, are you guys going to tell me what we're really looking for?"

MacMillian didn't answer. Lena shifted her backpack. What was she supposed to say? It wasn't like he would believe the truth. She settled on a shrug. "We'll know when we see it."

She could feel his dissatisfaction radiating behind her, but didn't turn.

They walked for several more minutes. Lena sneaked a peek at MacMillian. If his leg was bothering him, he didn't show it. She sighed and squinted down the tunnel. "There has to be a break in here somewhere."

Paper rustled, and she looked back. Durbin was studying what looked like a blueprint. MacMillian narrowed his eyes. "Where did you—"

"Got it from the foreman." Durbin glanced up. "Lena's not the only one with social skills."

MacMillian glowered, but didn't say anything.

Durbin returned his attention to the paper. "Right now, we're walking down the northbound tunnel. If we keep going, we'll hit the proposed Chinatown station."

MacMillian turned to Lena. "Chinatown. Underground." His eyes glittered. "And I'll bet you anything they dug this tunnel right underneath the existing transit lines."

Lena's eyes widened. "That would explain the sound Tree heard."

Durbin held up his hands. "Okay, that's it. What the hell are you two talking about? What's going on under Chinatown? And what's this about a tree hearing things?"

MacMillian was already walking again. Lena picked up her pace so she was walking alongside him. Durbin's frustrated growl echoed down the tunnel, then his footsteps started up again too. "You do remember I'm a police officer, right? I could haul the both of you in for—"

Lena stopped short. She ignored Durbin's surprised grunt and grabbed MacMillian's arm. "There. Up ahead. You see that?"

A door. She couldn't help the giggle that erupted up her throat. She was fifty feet under the city—maybe more—looking for god knew what with two undeniably attractive men, and there was a door. "That has to be it." She looked up at MacMillian. "Right?"

The paper rustled again as Durbin studied the blueprint, a deep crease in his forehead. "But that doesn't make any sense. According to this, that's just an offshoot for a dewatering well." He looked up. "There's not supposed to be a door there."

MacMillian's lips thinned. "Then that's it."

Lena approached the door and swung the backpack down from her shoulder. She reached out and flattened her hand against it. The metal felt inexplicably warm, and seemed to vibrate against her palm. She pulled her hand back.

MacMillian came up behind her. "What is it?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "I can't get a read on it." Just like at Jimmy's. It was becoming too common to dismiss as mere coincidence.

"Step back."

She looked behind her to find Durbin pulling a handgun from a shoulder holster under his jacket. He clicked off the safety. Before she could stop him, he planted his back leg and kicked the door. It shuddered, but held. A grating metallic rattle echoed down the length of the tunnel.

Before she had the chance to shield, a superheated wave of energy knocked her back. A harsh buzzing invaded her skull. The volume and pitch ratcheted steadily higher, like the whine of a thousand furious bees.

Lena clutched her forehead in her hands. The next thing she knew she was on the ground, MacMillian and Durbin on their knees beside her. They were both talking. She could see their lips moving, but couldn't hear them.

It took her a moment to realize she was screaming.

The pressure inside her head was unbearable. Her vision flashed between darkness and blinding light, as if each was fighting for control. Everything spinning, her stomach rolling, cold sweat dripping down her back...

She doubled over and threw up on the wet concrete. Then the darkness won.

←↑↓→

MacMillian was moving before he had time to think.

He scooped up Lena's limp body and retreated down the tunnel at as close to a run as he could manage. Dimly, he realized he'd dropped his cane outside the door. When was the last time he'd walked without a cane? He couldn't remember. Didn't care.

Lena's body flopped against his chest. Was she breathing? He couldn't check. Holy fuck, what if she wasn't breathing? He leaned in until her lips dusted his cheek, let out a relieved breath at the soft tickle of air against his skin.

Durbin's footsteps were heavy and even beside him. "Is she all right? What the fuck was that?"

MacMillian didn't have the slightest idea, but he already knew who he was holding responsible. "You fucking idiot! What the hell were you thinking?"

"What do you mean, what was I thinking? I don't even know what happened!"

Of course he didn't, but he'd kicked the door, and something had attacked her. Cause, meet Effect. It was the only explanation that made sense. "Do you always go busting into places without checking them first? Did it occur to you something might have been in there?"

Durbin cursed. MacMillian ignored him. Up ahead, daylight bathed the tunnel walls. They were almost out. He'd get Lena to his car and take her to The Wayfare. Cyrus would know what to do. Cyrus had to know what to do.

His stump was on fire by the time they made it back into the extraction pit. MacMillian didn't stop. He limped to the ladder.

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. He whirled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Durbin's face was tight. "Give her to me."

MacMillian started to protest.

Durbin shook his head. "You can't carry her up that thing, and you know it. You want to help her? Get yourself up and call an ambulance."

"She doesn't need an ambulance." MacMillian had to force the words out.

Durbin jerked his head in a nod. "Fine. Honestly, I don't know what the hell she needs. You seem like you know what's going on. But if you care about her at all, you'll stop wasting fucking time arguing about this."

_Stop wasting time_. The words landed like a swift kick to the gut. MacMillian nodded, forced his muscles to unbunch and gently passed Lena's still form to Durbin. The sudden loss of heat made his stomach burn.

The look on Durbin's face as he took her made it burn even more.

He grasped the ladder rails with both hands, gave up trying to maneuver his prosthetic and extended it behind him. The climb went surprisingly quick. He looked down once. Durbin was taking it slower, Lena slung over his shoulder in a fireman-hold.

He didn't look down again.

The Fury wasn't far. MacMillian pulled up to the curb. Durbin was waiting outside the double gates, Lena cradled in his arms like a child. He yanked open the back door and slid into the rear bench seat without releasing her.

MacMillian pealed a partial U-turn onto the main street, ignoring the blaring horns and Durbin's muttered curse. Up ahead, the stoplight turned yellow. He flipped on his emergency flashers and sailed through it just as it went red.

"Jesus!" Durbin braced a leg against the back of the driver's seat. "Could you at least _try_ not to get us killed?"

MacMillian met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "How's she doing?"

Durbin looked down. His expression softened. "Lena? You there?" He brushed a knuckle against her cheek. MacMillian tried to ignore it.

Lena groaned and shifted. "Durbin?"

MacMillian whipped his head around. "Lena? What happened back there?"

Lena forced out a single word. "Jumped..." Her face twisted, and she hissed. Whatever lucidity she'd managed to grasp slipped away. She went limp again.

Durbin shook his head and looked up, his eyes troubled. "I don't get it. Jumped? You saw it yourself, we were the only ones in that tunnel."

MacMillian already had his cell out. He scrolled through the list of dialed numbers, one eye on the road. Finally, he came to the number for The Wayfare. He hit the call-back button and put the phone on speaker.

Cyrus answered on the first ring. "Wayfare Hotel."

MacMillian balanced the cell on the dash and set his hand back to the driving controls. "Cyrus? It's MacMillian."

"Oh. Hey." Cyrus's voice sharpened. "Wait, why are you calling? Is Lena all right?"

"Yeah." MacMillian winced. "I mean, I think so. We were checking something out, and she got..." he used her word, "jumped."

"Fuck." He could practically here Cyrus pacing. "How many? Did she say?"

"No." MacMillian took a blind guess. "But it looked pretty intense."

"Damn it." Silence, then, "You're on your way back now?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Cyrus blew out a breath. "Just park in our driveway. I'll have everything ready when you get here."

←↑↓→

The garage was open when they pulled into the driveway, a black and chrome motorcycle parked inside.

MacMillian eased up behind it, and glanced in the rearview mirror again. Durbin sat frozen, eyes locked on the looming facade of The Wayfare. "Jesus Christ. Why do I feel like I'm about to walk into an episode of American Horror Story?"

_You have no idea_. MacMillian allowed himself a humorless chuckle. Out loud, he said only, "Come on. Let's get her inside."

He shunted open the driver's side door and reached for his cane on reflex, scowled at the empty seat next to him. The door to the house opened before he could dwell on it. He pushed himself out of the car.

Cyrus watched, eyes narrow, as Durbin climbed out of the back seat with Lena. He aimed an accusatory glare at MacMillian, but all he said was, "Follow me. We're ready for you in the parlor."

Before he could ask who "we" referred to, Cyrus turned sharply and retreated back into the house.

He led them through a complicated maze of passages MacMillian didn't remember passing through the last time. By the time they reached the parlor, his socket was slick with sweat. Even Durbin was huffing. Cyrus pushed open the door. They followed him inside.

It was the same parlor as before, but everything looked different. Blazing candles littered every available surface, the only sources of light. The furniture had all been pushed to the walls, creating a wide open space in the middle of the floor. A white sheet covered the Persian rug.

A woman knelt in the center of it. Candlelight glinted off the purple streaks in her dark hair. She looked up when they entered, and her gaze zeroed in on Lena. She patted the sheet. "Lay her here."

MacMillian stared at her while Durbin obediently laid Lena down. Now he remembered where he'd seen her before. It was the bookkeeper from Cross Your Teas, the woman who'd distracted him while Lena brewed up her hallucinogenic concoction. What was her name?

Cyrus answered the question before he could ask it. "This is Georgia. I called her after I hung up with you. She has experience dealing with situations like this."

Durbin straightened, and retreated back to where they were standing. "And just what sort of situation is this, exactly? Would someone please explain to me what the fuck is going on?" He looked down at Lena, and even in the half-darkness, MacMillian could see his face turn gray. "Will she be all right?"

"She'll be fine, if you'll all quit yammering and let me work." Georgia stood and crossed over to the couch. For the first time, MacMillian noticed several small items spread over the cushions.

After a moment's consideration, she made her selection, talking to herself as she went. "Better do a nine-crystal grid. Tourmaline, onyx... fuck, maybe some jet, too. Now, where the hell did I put that smudge stick?"

Cyrus's brow knitted. "That bad?"

Georgia glanced at them on her way back to Lena. "It's a doozy, all right. Can't remember the last time I saw this many in one host."

Durbin's eyes bugged. "What did you say?"

Georgia looked at him for the first time. "Ghosts, genius. She's been inhabited by ghosts." Ignoring his stunned expression, she knelt beside Lena again and started placing small, dark stones in a pattern around her body. "A whole mess of 'em, by the looks of it."

Durbin turned to MacMillian, his jaw slack. "Tell me she's kidding."

MacMillian shrugged.

Durbin raked a hand through his hair. "No, seriously, I mean it. Tell me she's kidding. Tell me the three of you aren't actually telling me that woman has been possessed by ghosts." He jabbed a finger at Lena.

MacMillian blew out a breath. "Jesus, Mark, will you shut the hell up?"

Georgia barked out a humorless laugh. "Thank you." She grasped at the floor next to her and scowled. "Cyrus, be a gem. Pass me that red candle and my banishing oil."

MacMillian rocked back on his heels and watched while she opened the little bottle of oil Cyrus handed her. The sharp aroma of cinnamon filled the room. Georgia shook a few drops onto her finger and dabbed it behind Lena's ears, on the insides of her wrists, between her breasts. MacMillian raised an eyebrow.

Oblivious to him, she picked up a fat bundle of what looked like dried grass, tightly bound with string. She waved one end over the flame of the red candle. Sparks crackled around the tip, and a plume of acrid smoke puffed into the air.

Both MacMillian and Durbin recoiled at the same time. Durbin's nose wrinkled. "What the hell is that?"

Georgia didn't look up. "Sage. For purification."

She waited until the sparks died down, then traced the outline of Lena's body in the smoke. Without a word, she handed the smoldering bundle to Cyrus. He was already waiting with an ashtray, and stubbed it the rest of the way out.

Georgia picked up the candle and held it over Lena's belly. Suddenly, she seemed somehow bigger. MacMillian blinked. He couldn't lay a finger on any physical difference, but the change was undeniable. It was as though her very essence had expanded to fill the room.

She spoke, and even her voice sounded bigger. "In the name of the Lord and the Lady, I order you to leave this woman."

MacMillian shifted. A strange hum danced across the back of his neck.

Georgia's voice built. "By my will, I command you. By my power, I banish you."

The photos on the mantle started to rattle. Durbin's hand flew to his holster. MacMillian caught his eye, shook his head.

"Be gone from this vessel, and this house."

Lena's hands started to shake. Georgia kept her grip on the candle and nodded at Cyrus. He dropped to his knees and braced Lena's shoulders.

"I call you by name, Legion, and I order you to leave this woman." Georgia's voice thundered in the small room. "So mote it be."

She blew out the candle. At the same time, Lena's entire body seized. Cyrus grunted as she strained against his hands. Georgia set the candle aside and held Lena's head. MacMillian forced himself to stay still.

The tremors ceased, and Lena collapsed back against the sheet. Georgia placed a hand over her friend's forehead, kept it there for several long seconds. Finally, she pulled away. "Wake, sister."

Lena's eyes shot open. Air rattled in her throat. She stared up at Georgia. "Am I...?"

Georgia nodded. "You're clean. I'd eat something and take a nap if I was you, but other than that, you'll be fine."

Lena nodded. Her gaze drifted to where MacMillian, Durbin, and Cyrus still stood. She wheezed a laugh. "Will you three sit down? You're making me nervous."

MacMillian exhaled a snort. Cyrus rolled his eyes.

Durbin looked from one of them to another, and shook his head. "So what is all this, exactly? Who are you people, the Ghostbusters?"

"Hell, no." Lena clasped Georgia's shoulder while the other woman helped her into a sitting position. "Bill Murray's got nothing on me."

# CHAPTER TWELVE

#

"You really didn't have to drive me home, you know." Lena glanced at where Durbin sat behind the wheel of his nondescript Corolla. His smartphone was plugged into the radio, and U2 filtered through the speakers. "Cyrus could have taken me after he dropped you at your car."

"True." He looked at her. A pair of dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. "But it's on my way, and there are a few things I want to ask you."

Of course there were. She should have known this was coming. Lena let her head fall back against the headrest. "Ask away."

"Okay." Durbin's fingers flexed against the steering wheel. "Why don't we start with what just happened."

"What about it?"

"What about..." He trailed off. "Are you serious? You were possessed. By ghosts."

Lena sighed. "Look, you may find this difficult to believe, but that wasn't the first time I've been jumped. It wasn't the worst time, either."

Durbin stared at her incredulously.

"Let me put it this way." She sat up a little straighter. "You're a cop. There are certain hazards that come with your job. Well, it's the same for me. Possession is one of the risks that comes with what I do."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"I, um..." She hesitated. The tone of his voice was impossible to decipher. "I'm a medium."

He didn't speak right away. Lena studied his face. Not so much as a muscle flickered.

She cleared her throat. "Please say something."

"I just..." He stopped, started over. "I should think all this is crazy, right? I should think _you're_ crazy. But I just witnessed an exorcism performed by an actual witch, and what happened in that room..." He shook his head. "There's not a single way I can explain it that doesn't go against everything I know is true."

"You mean everything you think is true." Lena stared out the window as he pulled onto her street.

"I guess." He guided the Corolla around the rim of the park. "It's not that I don't want to believe you. I'm pretty sure I do, it's just..."

Lena's lips twisted. "An adjustment."

"Right. An adjustment."

Lena didn't look at him. The turquoise exterior of Cross Your Teas peeked between the buildings in front of them. A wave of exhaustion swept over her. Suddenly, all she wanted was to go home, drink a cup of chamomile tea, and crawl into bed. Maybe just crawl into bed. "You can let me off here."

Durbin pulled over to the curb. Lena slipped off her seatbelt. "Thanks for the lift."

He caught her hand before she could reach for the door. "Listen, please don't think less of me for this. I mean, I'm just," he looked down, then back up at her. "I'm glad you're okay. I hope I get to see you again."

She smiled in spite of herself. "I hope so too." She gave his hand a quick squeeze. He let her fingers slip through his as she opened her door. She smiled again and climbed to the pavement.

"Hey."

Lena bent down. "Yes?"

Durbin's sunglasses were gone, and his gray eyes sparkled up at her. He winked. "Take care of yourself, Dr. Venkman."

Lena bit back a grin. "You too, Dana Barrett." She straightened, and allowed the grin to flood her face.

Durbin was still laughing when she closed the door.

←↑↓→

He had the entire ride back to the office to fester.

MacMillian struggled to keep his hand steady on the driving controls. A clip of Lena heaving on the floor of the tunnel played over and over again in his head. His stomach turned. Less than a week ago, he hadn't even believed in ghosts; now he was finding out they could possess people? His forehead started to ache.

And some good he'd been. Acid burned the back of his throat. If Durbin hadn't been there, she'd probably still be in that tunnel. For the first time in a long time he felt like a cripple, and in more ways than one.

Something hardened in his chest.

The door to the adjoining office was closed when he arrived. Ray Charles' distinctive alto filtered through the walls. Darius's deeper, coarser voice sang along with it.

Something dark and unpleasant welled up inside him. MacMillian snatched the spare cane from next to his desk and marched over to the door. He pushed it open with such force it banged against the wall.

Darius jumped and turned down the volume on his iPod dock. "Have you lost your goddamn mind? What the hell is wrong with you?"

MacMillian didn't apologize. "How long have you known about all this ghost stuff?"

Darius stilled. "Why?"

"Damn it, just answer the question. How long?"

Darius hunched forward in his chair. "My whole life."

From the look on his face, it was clearly a sore subject. MacMillian swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and pressed on anyway. "I want you to teach me."

Darius sat bolt upright. "What? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You heard me." MacMillian's jaw worked. "You think I haven't always known you were into something? Maybe I didn't know about all of it, but give me some credit."

Darius's face turned ashen. He started to shake his head. "Whatever you think you know..."

MacMillian rolled his eyes. "Don't start. How long have we been sharing this office? You have a weird symbol carved under your desk. You have piles of salt in all four corners of this room. And don't think I haven't smelled whatever the hell it is you burn in here." He planted his feet. "I never mentioned it because I never cared. Now I do. I want to learn. So teach me."

Darius's expression darkened. "You don't understand what you're—"

"That's exactly my point." MacMillian dragged a hand through his hair. "Something happened today, Darius. Something bad that could have ended up worse. And if it had, there wouldn't have been a damn thing I could have done about it."

Darius's brow furrowed.

MacMillian started to pace. "I'm in this now, and I don't even know what 'this' is. So you tell me. Am I supposed to just live my life blindfolded when I have a fucking target on my back?"

Darius's voice was so low he had to strain to hear it. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't care." MacMillian trapped his gaze. "Just help me."

Darius's lips thinned. MacMillian refused to look away. For a moment, he wondered if his partner wasn't getting ready to throw him out by the scruff of his neck.

Then Darius rubbed a hand over the smooth dome of his head. "Fuck. I'm going to regret this."

MacMillian raised his eyebrows.

Darius sighed heavily and stood. "You got your keys? You're driving."

←↑↓→

"This is it. Just park on the street."

MacMillian peered up at the sign on the corner building as he pulled up to the curb. He glanced sideways at Darius. "The Black Magic Voodoo Lounge. Really?"

Darius didn't look at him. "Just trust me."

Inside, the lounge was nearly empty. Burgundy-cushioned banquets lined the walls opposite a long wooden bar. Behind it, shelves packed with bottles and various kitschy gimcracks extended to the ceiling.

MacMillian trailed after Darius as he headed past the tables. A woman with long dreadlocks, two tattoo sleeves, and a faceful of piercings looked up from wiping down the bar. She tossed her head at Darius. "Hey, D. Been a while. Papa was gettin' worried."

"Yeah, just Papa, I'm sure." Darius mustered a smile. "How you been, Bez?"

The woman's lips ticked up at the corners. Her heavily shadowed eyes slid to MacMillian. "Who's the mundane?"

MacMillian scowled. "I wish people would stop calling me that."

Darius ignored him. "He's fine. The shop open?"

"For you? Always." Bez flashed him a grin. A diamond stud above her lip winked in the dim light. "Go on down."

She reached below the bar. A latch clicked, and a section of the counter swung open. Darius stepped through it and brushed a kiss over her upturned cheek, then motioned for MacMillian to follow.

MacMillian gave the woman a polite nod, then tailed Darius through a set of double doors. Instead of leading to a kitchen, they opened into a narrow hallway, even more dimly lit than the lounge. A few steps in, the passage split. MacMillian pulled his shoulders closer together as Darius led the way down a cramped set of stairs. At the bottom was a door, marked with black block letters:

NOT AN EXIT.

Darius pushed it open, and a draft of fragrant air flooded out. MacMillian recognized some of the individual scents: sandalwood, frankincense, patchouli, all underlaid with something indescribably musky.

Darius stepped inside, paused just over the threshold and looked back. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah." MacMillian flexed his fingers on the head of his cane. "I mean, of course, I just—"

"You better be." Darius's eyes were hard and unreadable. "Because once you're in this world, trust me, you're in it for good. There's no going back."

MacMillian paused. A memory of Lena's pale, sweat-soaked face filled his mind. He squared his jaw. "Let's go."

Darius searched his face, then turned on his heels with a clipped nod and continued forward. MacMillian followed him inside.

The first thing he saw was the altar. It held pride of place on the wall opposite the door, situated at what on a shorter man would have been shoulder-height. At first glance, it didn't look so different from the altars he was accustomed to. It was draped in white, simple and clean-looking.

Darius turned to him. "I need to go find someone. Wait here. Don't touch anything." Before MacMillian could protest, he disappeared through a narrow archway into another room.

Unsure what else to do, MacMillian drew closer to the altar. A single white candle sat in the center, a brandy sniffer filled with what looked like water beside it. Behind both stood a grotesquely detailed crucifix. A Bible lay open off to the side.

MacMillian peered at the words on one crisp white page. He recognized Psalm 91 immediately. A familiar phrase leaped out. Without thinking, he murmured it aloud. "There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling."

A deep, rich voice spoke behind him. "For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone."

MacMillian barely managed not to jump. He turned. A man was waiting, arms crossed. Polished white teeth grinned from a deep mahogany face. The man was dressed even more impeccably than Darius, in a black three-piece suit with a matching dress shirt. A red tie and a red-and-black polka dot pocket square broke up the monochromatic effect. Black and white spectator shoes gleamed on his feet.

He nodded at the open Bible. "You're wondering about the altar."

MacMillian cleared his throat. "No, I just—"

"The color white represents piety and attracts benevolent energies." The man slipped an arm around his shoulder, seemingly oblivious when MacMillian stiffened. "The cross represents our link to God. The water allows our ancestors to commune with us from the spirit world, and the candle marks our intention to hold communion with the spirits."

He withdrew his arm and stepped back, an expectant look on his face.

MacMillian cleared his throat again. "That's... interesting."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"I see you've met Papa."

MacMillian turned to Darius with a barely disguised sigh of relief. "Are you ready to tell me just where exactly we are?"

The other man stepped forward again. "You, friend, are standing in King Papa's House of Hoodoo, the premier supply shop for conjure and rootwork in the greater North Bay—hell, the whole Bay Area. King Papa, proprietor, at your service."

MacMillian stared at Darius. "Hoodoo. You're serious."

"A skeptic." King Papa's other eyebrow lifted. "I take it you're new to conjure."

"You could say that, yes."

"Well, just tell me what it is you seek." King Papa went to the wall nearest the door. "Is it oil? We have a variety: Sanctuary oil, Van-van oil, John the Conqueror oil, Crossing oil, Uncrossing oil..."

He took in the blank look on MacMillian's face, and moved on down the wall. "Or maybe water? We stock Holy water, Storm water, War water, Peace water, and Florida water."

MacMillian opened his mouth, then shut it again.

King Papa seemed unperturbed. "We have candles, all colors, for every kind of spellwork. Quite popular with the witches."

MacMillian thought back to Lena's friend, and swallowed.

King Papa didn't slow down. He strolled to the far wall. "We are also the foremost supplier of minerals in the city. Perfect for cleansings and energy work. Alum, sea salt, sulphur, lodestones, crystals, graveyard dirt. You name it." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and herbs, of course. We source them locally from a curandera in the Mission."

MacMillian's eye drifted towards the archway Darius had disappeared through earlier. "What's back there?"

"That would be our menagerie."

MacMillian gave him a blank look.

King Papa's eyes twinkled. "Animal curios, friend. We stock black chicken feathers, chicken feet, chicken bones, cat bones, black cat fur, and black dog fur." He paused. "Poodle, to be precise. Very standard."

MacMillian turned to Darius. "Get me out of here."

King Papa blinked. Darius nodded to him. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" Without waiting for an answer, he steered MacMillian into the far corner. He lowered his voice. "What's the problem?"

"The problem..." MacMillian clenched and unclenched his fingers around the head of his cane. "Are you fucking kidding me? Cat bones? Graveyard dirt? This was _not_ what we talked about."

"This was exactly what we talked about." Darius leaned in and lowered his voice. "You're the one who came to me, remember? You asked for this."

MacMillian shook his head. "No. There has to be another way."

"Of course there's another way. There's always another way." Darius rocked back on his heels. "But this is the way I know. You want my help? This is me helping."

MacMillian pressed his lips together. What else had he expected? Had he really thought he could simply dip a toe in this pool and somehow avoid falling in? Darius had warned him what he was getting into. _Once you're in this world, you're in it for good. There's no going back._

He took a deep breath, but before he could speak, King Papa's voice rumbled over his shoulder. "I know what you're looking for."

MacMillian sighed and turned. "Look, thank you for your help, but I don't even—"

"You're looking for an edge."

MacMillian stared at him. "I... yes, actually. How did you...?"

King Papa's eyes twinkled. He crooked a finger and started towards the other end of the shop. MacMillian traded glances with Darius, then fell into step behind him. King Papa spoke over his shoulder.

"Seen men like you come through here before. Men who got the same look in their eye. You can't stand the thought of relying on somebody else to get where you're goin'. Think your ignorance makes you weak." He stopped in front of a row of shelves and turned to MacMillian. His bright eyes hardened. "Well, it does."

The words caught him like a straight-punch to the chest. MacMillian buried them deep and met the other man's gaze without flinching. "Look. You have a nice establishment here, Mr..."

"Papa." King Papa crossed his arms. "Name's Papa."

"Right." MacMillian shifted. "And you obviously know what you're talking about. But I didn't come here to learn about candles, or oil, or water, or to look at, Christ," he gestured to the shelf next to them, "Dragon Blood, whatever the hell that is."

King Papa didn't speak.

MacMillian took a fortifying breath. "It's like you said. I'm here because I need an edge. Something that'll scare off whatever I can't shoot."

Darius snorted. King Papa merely studied him without answering. MacMillian's insides twisted under the weight of his deep, disconcerting eyes.

Finally, King Papa turned to the shelf. "I may have something like that." His fingers danced over the myriad strangely labeled jars and decanters. He finally stopped at a small plastic bottle, plucked it up and turned back to MacMillian. "Van Van oil. Ever heard of it?"

MacMillian shook his head.

"It's an old conjure recipe, good against just about everything but demons." King Papa paused. "You don't got a demon problem, do you?"

MacMillian stared at him.

The other man shrugged. "Always pays to check. Here." He passed MacMillian the bottle. "You find yourself jammed up, anoint yourself and anyone with you on the forehead. Just a drop'll do. There's more to it, but I think the starter version's about all you're ready for. You decide you want to level up, just ask Darius."

MacMillian took the bottle and studied the pale golden fluid inside. "And this will really work?"

King Papa frowned. "Course it will, though you keep harboring that seed of doubt in your mind, it won't work as well. Conjure's just like any other magic, draws its strength from the spirit and conviction of the worker."

MacMillian sighed. "Great."

"Didn't say you have to like it. Just that you need to have faith." King Papa's eyes were fixed on Darius. "Funny thing about faith. It's not about quantity. Even faith the size of a mustard seed is enough to work miracles."

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

#

It was early when MacMillian left for The Wayfare the next morning.

The street out front was already clogged with traffic. It was a good ten minutes before he finally found parking on the opposite side of The Panhandle. MacMillian cut through the narrow park on foot as quickly as he could, avoiding eye contact with both dogwalkers and the indigenous homeless alike.

He put more weight on his cane than usual. His stump had been red when he woke up, and already he could feel his gait skewing more and more towards a limp. He kept his other hand in his pocket, a meager defense against the chill of the morning fog.

With each step, his fingers brushed the tiny bottle of Van Van oil. He still wasn't sure how he felt about it. He had always assumed hoodoo was something for people with strange accents and missing teeth. Even so, he'd almost dabbed a drop of the oil on his forehead before leaving his apartment. At the last minute, he'd lost his nerve.

He jog-hopped across the street and mounted The Wayfare's foreboding front steps. Before he could lose his nerve about that, too, he strode up to the door and knocked.

Cyrus opened it. His hair was slightly tousled, and he held a dark blue mug in his hand. Seeing MacMillian, his eyebrows went up. "You're here early. Wasn't sure we'd be seeing you again."

MacMillian shifted his weight off his prosthetic and shrugged. "Neither was I."

When he didn't say anything else, Cyrus stepped back and jerked his head in a come-on-in gesture. "Just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. How do you take it?"

MacMillian paused halfway over the threshold, swung through and stepped into the front hall. "Tan. Thanks."

Cyrus was already heading for the door at the base of the stairs. He called over his shoulder, "Go ahead into the library. Lena's already in there."

MacMillian stared at his retreating back. Wasn't it just the other day the man had been treating him like a liability? The sudden shift in attitude threw him off balance. He shook himself, then headed for the library door.

Lena was curled up under the bay window on the far side of the room, on a bench he hadn't noticed before. Both her hands were wrapped around a steaming blue mug identical to the one Cyrus had been holding. Her loose hair formed an auburn curtain around her face.

MacMillian cleared his throat and rapped his cane against the doorframe. Lena's head jerked in his direction. Her welcoming smile lacked its usual vibrant energy. "Hey."

MacMillian stepped the rest of the way into the room. "Hey. How do you feel?"

The noise she made was half-chuckle, half-growl. "Cyrus asked me the same thing. I'm fine. Really."

MacMillian continued towards her. She didn't look fine. Deep shadows ringed her eyes, and her skin had the sallow tinge a lack of sleep bestowed. He took in her slumped posture, and furrowed his brow. "Maybe you should take it easy for a couple days."

"I told you, I'm fine."

"You're exhausted." He stopped a few feet from her and planted his cane. "You need to rest."

"So now you're my mother all of a sudden?"

The sharpness in her voice made one of his eyebrows go up. Lena winced. "Sorry. I just... you're right. I'm still a little peaked from yesterday."

Something on her face made him suspect that was only part of the story, but before he could ask, Cyrus strode into the library, a blue mug in each hand. He gestured towards the table. "Have a seat. We ran out of cream. Hope black's okay."

"Black's fine." MacMillian aimed one last look at Lena, then backtracked to the table.

Cyrus slid him a mug. He waited until Lena joined them, then turned to her. "Okay. Tell the detective what you told me."

MacMillian paused, the mug halfway to his lips. "What is it?"

"It's about Val." Lena sighed and leaned hard against the table. "She might have been right about those other ghosts."

MacMillian didn't speak.

Lena's eyes flicked to his face. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to tell me sometimes crazy people are just crazy?"

MacMillian brought the mug the rest of the way to his lips and took a sip of coffee. "She bought herself the benefit of a doubt when she led us to the girlfriend. What makes you think she was right?"

Lena rubbed her face. "When I got jumped, it wasn't just...one."

MacMillian thought back to what Georgia had called the spirits: _Legion_. He tightened his jaw. "How many?"

Lena sighed. "I couldn't say for sure. It was too chaotic. Twelve? Maybe more?" She looked up. He couldn't tell what she saw on his face, but the tightness around her lips eased. "They didn't hurt me. At least, I don't think they were trying to. And they didn't feel angry. More like scared."

MacMillian glanced at Cyrus. "What do you make of all this?"

Cyrus's mouth worked. "I don't like it."

Lena nodded. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost say they were trying to escape. Once they realized I was a medium, they tried to ride me out." She shuddered. "They disappeared as soon as Georgia banished them. Cyrus looked everywhere. I wonder if they went back to... to..."

Cyrus set his mug on the table, his eyes hard. "All the incidents we've investigated, I've never seen anything like this. Just what the hell are we dealing with?"

Lena shook her head.

MacMillian rubbed the crook of his cane with one finger. "Maybe that's our problem." They both looked at him. He shrugged. "From the beginning, we've been treating this like one of your investigations. Maybe it's time we treated it like one of mine."

Cyrus picked up his mug again with a growl. "If you're about to make another Occam's Razor reference—"

Lena silenced him with a glare, then turned back to MacMillian, eyebrows raised. "What did you have in mind?"

MacMillian drained the rest of his coffee and set down his mug. "Get your coat."

←↑↓→

"Cyrus will _not_ like being stuck on library-duty."

Lena tried to ignore the wail of sirens as she followed MacMillian up the steps of the Hall of Justice. An odd assortment of people milled around the spartan concrete compound: stringy-haired transients, hard-eyed _cholos_ in white t-shirts and Vans sneakers, average-looking urbanites clutching traffic tickets and jury summonses. The smattering of uniformed officers didn't make her feel much better.

MacMillian made an indifferent noise in the back of his throat. "We need leads more than we need backup right now. He'll get over it."

Something else was nagging at her. "Not to be obvious, but shouldn't we head back to the extraction shaft? Whatever was behind that door—"

"I already tried." His voice was hard. "They're not letting anyone down there after what happened to you."

"What about Durbin? Couldn't you call...?"

MacMillian pressed his lips together. "Already tried that, too."

They reached the doors at the top of the stairs, and he paused. Lena waited. She'd noticed his limp the second he walked into the library, and it had only gotten more pronounced during the long trek from their parking spot. She cleared her throat. "How's your, um..." She took in his expression, and shook her head. "Never mind."

He opened the door and motioned her inside first. "My what? My stump?"

Lena glued her eyes to one of the art deco-style reliefs on the wall. "Sorry."

MacMillian didn't answer. She glanced at him again. He was watching her, an inscrutable look in his eyes. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's fine. My stump, I mean. The skin just flares up in the socket sometimes."

"You're limping." Lena lowered her voice. "Does it hurt?"

He gave a clipped nod. "Yes."

He didn't offer any more information, merely took a position in the line for the metal detectors. Lena followed. They didn't speak again until they neared the security check. MacMillian turned to her. "Some advice: just empty your pockets. Cell, keys, loose change. Down to the drier lint."

Lena nodded.

She went first, and walked through without a hitch. MacMillian was behind her. The instant he stepped through the machine, a harsh buzzer went off.

An officer stepped forward. "Sir, I'll need you to come this way."

MacMillian let out a frustrated growl, but before he could move, a familiar voice echoed through the security area. "It's all right, officer."

Lena turned to see Durbin striding towards them. His face brightened when he saw her. "Lena. My morning's finally starting to look up." He nodded to the security officer. "This man and I have an appointment. I can vouch for him."

The officer inclined her head and returned to her position. "All yours, sir."

MacMillian's lips thinned, but he didn't speak. Lena gathered her belongings. Durbin waited until she had situated herself again, then motioned for them to follow him.

He led the way deeper into the building, down a long, nondescript hallway. The echo of MacMillian's cane seemed louder than usual in the narrow space. Numbered doors lined both sides, each tagged with a different nameplate: Vice Unit, Gang Task Force, Special Investigations Section.

Durbin stopped at a door labeled Homicide Detail, and turned to them. "Okay, wait here. I'll just be a minute." He pulled it open and disappeared inside.

Lena looked up at MacMillian. "You still haven't told me why we're here. What was that all about?"

MacMillian flexed his hand on the crook of his cane and didn't return her gaze. "Just a hunch. I asked Durbin to pull a few files to see if I'm right."

"A hunch? About what?"

MacMillian hesitated before answering. "What you said about Val got me thinking. If she really was right, if more people have disappeared from The Damascus, I want to have solid evidence of it."

Lena swallowed against the sudden burn in her chest. "Because my word isn't enough for you."

"Because I want something that will hold up in court." MacMillian finally met her eyes. "When we catch the crazy son of a bitch responsible for all this, I want him spending the rest of his life in a very cold, very dark hole."

Lena nodded slowly. "And my testimony wouldn't guarantee that."

MacMillian shrugged. "No one testimony would, even if it didn't involve ghost possession and speaking to the dead." He paused. "Pretty sure that would count as hearsay, anyway."

Lena stared at him. He didn't blink, but the edges of his lips twitched. She smacked his arm. "You're teasing me!"

She caught the twinkle in his eye just before he looked away.

The door opened before she could say anything else. Durbin stepped back into the hallway, a manila folder tucked under his arm. He glanced both ways, then passed it to MacMillian. "This is all of them, at least, all the ones I could get without attracting attention." He glanced at Lena, and lowered his voice. "Are you going to tell me just what this is for?"

MacMillian opened the folder a crack and thumbed through the papers inside without looking up. "I don't know what you're talking about." He shut the folder again. "One more thing. I need background checks on everyone who's worked on the Downtown Subway project."

Durbin balked. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

MacMillian didn't budge. "Something's going on in that tunnel. It's impossible to get onto the job site without clearance. Ergo, find out who has clearance, and check them out."

Durbin pressed his lips together. A tic started in his jaw. "I'm not your fucking secretary."

"No. You're just the reason I can't get back into that extraction shaft."

Durbin glared at him. MacMillian glared back. Lena glanced from one of them to the other, and shifted uncomfortably.

Finally, Durbin gave a stiff nod. "Fine. Check back with me in a few days. I'll have your background checks."

MacMillian tucked the folder under his arm. "Great. Now if you'll excuse us, we should get going."

Durbin scowled, but nodded again. "You'll keep me posted."

"You know I'll inform you if—"

"No." Durbin's voice grew hard. "No _ifs_. I'm putting my ass on the line with this one, MacMillian. I might owe you, but I don't owe you my job. You'll keep me posted, or I'll have that folder back."

MacMillian's face darkened. Lena held her breath. Finally, he gave a single, sharp jerk of his head. "Fine. I'll keep you posted." He started down the hallway, paused and looked back at her. "You coming?"

She nodded, all too aware of Durbin's eyes on her face. "Yeah, just give me a second. I'll meet you out front."

MacMillian's lips thinned, but he only turned and headed back the way they'd come. Lena watched him for a moment, then turned back to Durbin.

He slid his hands in his pockets. "Hi."

A blush stained her cheeks. "Hi."

"I'll be honest, I was tempted to turn our good detective down when he called me." A smile tugged at his lips. "Glad I didn't."

Lena blew out a laugh. "Yeah. Me too." She looked around, searched for something else to say. "You told me my house was on your way back here."

Durbin shrugged. "I lied."

"Why?"

"Because if I hadn't driven you home, I wouldn't have known where to find you." He leaned against the wall and studied her face.

Lena reminded herself to breathe. "You want to find me?" Her voice came out unusually high-pitched.

If Durbin noticed, he didn't mention it. "Of course. How else would I pick you up for drinks later?"

She tried to think of a response. There didn't seem to be a word left in her head.

"Is that wrong?" The corners of his mouth turned down. "I hope I haven't overstepped. I just thought—"

"No!" Lena took a deep breath and tried again. "No, not at all. A drink would be nice."

Durbin arched an eyebrow. "Nice?"

"Really nice." Lena bit the inside of her cheek. What the hell was wrong with her? "Fun. I'm sorry. It's been a long couple of days." She massaged her forehead.

Durbin's brows drew together. "Of course. I should have thought..."

"No, no, it's fine. I'm glad you asked." She managed a smile. "Well, sort of asked."

"Right." He winced theatrically. "Why don't we make it eight? Maybe that'll give me enough time to have my foot removed from my mouth."

Lena laughed. Giddy lightness flooded her belly. She ducked her head. "Eight sounds perfect."

A slow grin spread across his face. He straightened. Lena held her breath as he leaned in and brushed a kiss against her cheek. He stepped back again. The tip of his tongue flicked over his lips.

Her stomach flipped.

A mischievous light danced in his eyes. "Better get going, before MacMillian decides to come looking for you."

MacMillian. The case. Lena shook herself. "Of course. Guess I'll see you at eight, then."

"Guess so." Durbin winked. "Wear a dress."

Lena snorted. Somehow, she made it back down the hallway without missing a step.

←↑↓→

The street scene in front of The Damascus was every bit as raw and disturbing as she remembered.

Lena kept her eyes locked forward and down, on high alert for any foul-smelling waste on the sidewalk. The back of her neck prickled under the weight of multiple stares. She pretended not to hear the myriad grunts and moans and muffled curses that filtered up the alleys, deliberately ignored the used syringes that littered the doorways and gutters.

MacMillian stuck closer than usual. With each step, his free hand dusted her arm. It was a blatant mark of possession, a message for the countless hard-eyed figures watching from the shade of the surrounding buildings.

She was agonizingly grateful for it.

They finally reached the familiar art deco doors. MacMillian pulled one open for her, waited until she was safely inside before stepping in behind her. The lobby was mercifully deserted. A new face was visible behind the glass-enclosed desk, a young Indian man who scarcely looked old enough to drink.

He looked up the instant the door opened, then back down at the paper he'd been reading. "No vacancies."

MacMillian led the way up the bank of stairs to the desk. "Not here for a room."

The young man's head shot back up, his eyes wide. "If you're here to rob me, this glass is bulletproof." He reached below the counter.

"Wait!" MacMillian held up both hands. "No silent alarms, please. We're not here to rob you. Actually, we need your help."

"What kind of help?" The man's eyes narrowed. "I'm not a dealer."

MacMillian glowered, and the man's hand drifted back under the counter. Lena made her face as friendly and open as she could, and stepped forward.

"My friend meant to say we're looking into some disappearances that may have occurred here." She turned to MacMillian and held out her hand. He passed over the manila folder with a dark look.

She turned back to the desk clerk. "These are police files. We were hoping to compare the names on them with your records. Would it be possible to see your registration for the last, say, month?"

The young man hesitated. "I don't know if I'm supposed to... Shouldn't you have a warrant or something?"

Lena spread her hands. "Look, we're not cops. In fact, you really don't want to know how I got these. It's just that my brother..." She looked away, returned her gaze to the man. "We've been over three blocks already, and you're the first decent-looking person we've run into. Are you sure you can't help us?"

The young man wavered. Then he got to his feet. "Just one moment."

Several minutes later, a scuffed three-ring binder lay open on the counter behind the glass. The desk clerk watched as she and MacMillian held up first one file, then another. "What did you say you were looking for again?"

MacMillian didn't slow down. "These files contain the names of people who have gone missing in the Tenderloin during the past few weeks. If we can get a lock on where they were staying..." He stopped. Triumph flooded his face. "There. Got one."

The desk clerk's eyes widened. Lena fought back the excitement rising in her chest and peered over MacMillian's arm. "Stan Mitkovski." She glanced up at the clerk. "Recognize the name?"

"Mitkovski... Mitkovski..." The man snapped his fingers. "Sure. Except he called himself Stretch." His eyebrows drew together. "Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him recently."

MacMillian pulled a pen and notepad from the pocket of his field jacket, and jotted down the name. "Any idea how long?"

The man shrugged. "A week. Maybe two. I was beginning to think he'd skipped on his bill."

They found several more matches by the time they reached the end of Durbin's files. The desk clerk closed the binder, and caught Lena's eye. "Your brother is lucky to have a sister like you. I hope you find him."

Lena gave him a sad smile. "Thank you. I hope so, too."

MacMillian didn't speak until they were outside again. Eyes on the street around them, he murmured, "Never would have pinned you for such a convincing liar."

Lena shrugged. "Years of practice." Her lips twisted. "It's not like I can just go around telling everyone I see dead people, right?"

MacMillian's lips twitched. "No. I suppose not."

She blew out a sigh and looked up at him. "So, what now?"

"Well, we found some of the names we were looking for." MacMillian nodded at the SRO's that lined both sides of the street. "Now we find the rest."

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

#

"I'm officially ready to stop treating this like one of your investigations."

Lena leaned hard against the outside of the last SRO on the block. Her head pounded with errant pot smoke and what she suspected were residual crack fumes. She massaged her temples and shot MacMillian a pleading look. "Please tell me we're done here."

MacMillian didn't look much better than she felt. His face was drawn, and his walk was painfully stiff. "Yeah. Let's get back to the car."

Lena resisted the urge to sprint back to where the Fury was parked, instead matched her pace to MacMillian's. Jaw tight with concentration, he kept his steps short and even. There was no sign of his previous limp. They passed a group of bedraggled-looking men clustered outside one of the hotels. Lena tried to ignore the flagrant stares aimed her way.

Without a word, MacMillian tucked her hand through his arm.

She didn't start to breathe normally again until the Fury's sleek green body came into view. By some miracle, it appeared untouched. MacMillian unlocked the door, still scanning the surrounding street. They slid into their respective seats, and he quickly started the engine and pulled out into traffic.

A few blocks later, Lena finally gave herself permission to relax. She unfisted her hands in her lap. "Let's not do that again."

MacMillian's lips curved.

Her cell phone rang. Lena shook off the events of the past few hours and answered it.

"Lena? It's Cyrus. Where are you?"

Lena glanced at MacMillian. "Just left the Tenderloin. We were checking something at Jimmy's old hotel."

"MacMillian still with you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Put me on speaker."

"Yes, sir," Lena muttered, and did as he ordered. She nodded to MacMillian. "I think Cyrus found something."

"Sure did." Cyrus's voice reverberated through the car. "Turns out I can survive abandonment under a stack of books."

Lena made a face. "You were on a computer. And we didn't abandon you."

"Same principle, but it's not important." His voice turned smug. "Point is, I'm a goddamn wizard at this shit. I did what MacMillian suggested and googled the Downtown Subway project."

Lena rolled her eyes. "Congratulations, Sam Spade. You can operate a search engine."

MacMillian let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "What did you find out?"

"You mean besides that we live in a society with no respect for privacy?"

"Yeah. Besides that."

The sound of knuckles cracking echoed over the speaker. "Well for one thing, it wasn't just construction workers who had access to the tunnels. Hold on, I'm sending you something right now."

Lena waited. A split second later, the alert dinged on her email. She minimized the call screen and opened it.

"Did you get it?"

"I'm looking at it now."

It was an article from _The San Francisco Chronicle_ : "Stuck In The Midden: Archaeologists Discover Artifacts During Subway Excavation." Lena scanned it quickly.

MacMillian's eyes flicked back and forth between the road and her phone. "Well?"

"Apparently while they were tunneling under Fourth Street, the digging crews ran into some old Native American trash heaps." Lena raised her voice so Cyrus could hear. "This is it? What does this have to do with—"

"Look at the picture I'm sending you."

Lena waited until her email buzzed again. This time Cyrus had forwarded a picture of a slender, academic-looking man wearing a construction vest and a hard hat. "Who's this?"

"Dan Wachsmuth. He's an anthropology professor at San Francisco State University. He's also the consulting archaeologist on the Downtown Subway project."

MacMillian raised an eyebrow. "'Consulting archaeologist'?"

"That's not all. I found another picture." Cyrus paused. Lena's email buzzed a third time. "Got it?"

She opened the file, and drew her brows together. "What am I looking at?"

"That, dear sister, is the former site of The Butterfly Room, otherwise known as the extraction site."

Lena stared at the new photo. "Okay, I recognize the archaeologist. But who's the guy shaking hands with him? Is that a _priest_?"

"Father Edward Narvaez." Excitement filled Cyrus's voice. "When they broke ground for the extraction shaft, they discovered a piece of foundation from an old church that used to stand there. Father Narvaez's church. The place was destroyed in the 1906 quake, and the theater was built right on top of the wreckage."

MacMillian's hand flexed on the driving controls. "So this Father Narvaez had access to the site?"

"Yeah but only once, when the project commission returned the piece of foundation to his church. Our Professor Wachsmuth, on the other hand, has had pretty much free reign over the entire tunnel system throughout construction."

Lena caught MacMillian's eye, then turned back to her phone. "Cyrus, what's the quickest way to SFSU from downtown?"

←↑↓→

San Francisco State's Anthropology Department was housed in an oddly haphazard, faintly modernistic yellow building. Tall trees cast dappled shade over the path that led up to the entrance. Beyond them stretched a lush green quad, mostly empty.

MacMillian double-checked the campus map Cyrus had sent to Lena's phone. "Is he sure this is the right place?"

Lena reached out a hand, and he obligingly placed the cell in her palm. "I guess. I've never seen him so fired up about research before."

"Maybe he just needed the right kind of encouragement."

She snorted. "What, like your boot up his ass?"

MacMillian swallowed the chuckle that rose up his throat. "Sure. Like that." He swept his free arm towards the door. "After you."

They rode the elevator up in silence

Taking stock of the third floor's deserted hallway, MacMillian frowned. Basic tile floors, harsh fluorescent lights, cinderblock walls, and the glimpses inside the classrooms were hardly impressive; all in all, the place looked more like a high school science wing than a university-grade facility.

The office was the last one at the end of the hall. An engraved plaque hung beside the door:

Dan Wachsmuth, PhD

Professor

A loud voice carried through the wall. "No, you tell them we'll show up at the original time. They said they'd have someone there to let us back. I will not be kept waiting just because some eight-dollar-an-hour security guard feels like sleeping in."

A pause. MacMillian glanced at Lena.

The voice continued louder. "Well, then we'll bring bolt-cutters. If they don't want us breaking in, tell them to have somebody meet us at the exhibit like they promised in the first place."

A phone banged back into its cradle. MacMillian knocked on the door.

"I'm not taking appointments right now. Office hours are on the syllabus."

MacMillian scowled. Lena looked up at him. "Maybe we should come ba-"

He rolled his eyes and opened the door.

The room was small, even for an office. A packed bookshelf stood against one wall. The other was plastered with various certificates and awards. An oversized desk, strewn with papers, took over the center of the room. A framed picture of a blonde, middle-aged woman rested in the corner, her beaming face angled towards the door.

The man from the newspaper photograph was seated behind it. He looked even less imposing in person. A pair of round, Benjamin Franklin-style spectacles sat perched on his nose. He glowered over the wire rims.

"I don't have time to answer questions. You'll have to get the assignment from one of the other students."

Lena took a step forward. "We're not students here."

The man's eyebrows raised, then drew together. He pursed his lips and looked them up and down. "No. I suppose not."

MacMillian bristled and started to retort. Lena cut him off. "Dr. Wachsmuth, my name is Lena Alan. This is Jesper MacMillian. We need your help."

Wachsmuth's eyebrows rose again. "My help?"

MacMillian stepped up next to Lena. He forced his voice to remain even. "We're interested in your work on the Downtown Subway project. Can you tell us about your role as consulting archaeologist?"

Wachsmuth started shuffling the stack of papers in front of him. "The Chronicle already did an article on that. I suggest you read it. Now if you'll excuse me..."

"We're doing a follow-up."

MacMillian gaped down at Lena. She didn't look at him, instead kept both eyes on Wachsmuth. "For _The Examiner_. After all, can't rely on _The Chronicle_ to get it right every time."

Christ, did she wink? Wachsmuth stared, as if noticing her for the first time. A slow, sly smile spread across his face. MacMillian resisted the urge to snarl.

"Of course not, Miss... Alan, you said?"

"That's right." Lena's voice sounded more like a purr. She lowered herself to the edge of his desk and crossed her legs. "So maybe you could go over it for us again. Please?"

Wachsmuth adjusted his glasses. "Of course I could always, that is, I don't suppose there'd be any harm in..." He cleared his throat. "What did you need, exactly?"

MacMillian swallowed a growl and pulled out his notepad. "Did you ever encounter anything unusual in the tunnels?"

Wachsmuth's eyes jerked up from Lena's legs. "Unusual? Unusual, how?"

Wasn't that interesting. MacMillian feigned apathy. "Oh, you know, anything that might not have made it into your original reports."

Wachsmuth's eyes darted to the side. Before he could speak, the office door opened. A pretty, petite Asian woman strode inside, eyes locked on her smartphone screen. "Dan, I made the reservations for six. Do you want to pick me up in front of the..." She looked up, and trailed off. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were..."

Wachsmuth cleared his throat, then cleared it again. "This isn't a good time, Ms. Sato."

The woman's gaze landed on Lena, sharpened. "I can see that. Sorry to have disturbed you." She retreated back into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.

MacMillian waited until the sound of her footsteps faded, then turned to Lena. "You know, maybe we have this all wrong. Maybe we shouldn't be doing a follow-up." He flashed his most predatory smile. "Maybe we should be doing an exposé."

Wachsmuth balked. "An exposé? What the hell are you talking about? Exposé of what?"

"Not what. Who." Lena slid off his desk and returned to MacMillian's side. She looked up at him, a twinkle in her eye. "You may be on to something. Just imagine. It wouldn't be Pulitzer material, but the public always loves a good sex scandal."

Wachsmuth's complexion visibly grayed. "S-s-sex scandal?"

Lena gestured towards the picture of the blonde woman. "So tell me Dr. Wachsmuth, for the record, how long have you been married?" She nodded at his bare ring finger. "Do you always remove your wedding ring at the office?"

"Stop! Enough." Wachsmuth's Adam's apple bobbed. He slid a finger between his collar and his neck. "You have to believe me, I was going to mention it, I just needed to collect more proof."

MacMillian finally released the growl he'd been holding back. "Proof of what?"

Wachsmuth leaned back hard in his seat. "You don't understand how it is in this business. You have no idea how difficult—no, _impossible_ —it is to get funding." He wiped a thin sheen of sweat off his forehead. "The instant word got out, those fucking parasites at Sonoma State would have poached the whole site."

MacMillian drew his brows together and looked down at Lena. She appeared every bit as confused as he was. He turned back to Wachsmuth. "And just why would they do that?"

Now the professor looked confused, too. "The bone awls I left out of my preliminary report." His eyes shifted between them. "You were talking about the middens we found, weren't you?"

←↑↓→

"So? How did it go?" Cyrus sounded excited over the phone.

MacMillian sighed and shifted the Fury into gear. "Professor was a bust, though if your sister had showed a little more leg, we probably could have gotten his phone number."

"Phone number? What? Lena, what the hell's he talking about?"

Lena rolled her eyes. "Don't worry about it. Point is, the guy was more worried about his middens than that church foundation. Speaking of which, do you have the current address?"

"Sure." Paper rustled in the background. "Name's St. Sophia Orthodox Cathedral. It's a few blocks off Lombard and Van Ness."

"Great." Lena rubbed her face. "We can check it out tomorrow."

"I have another theory." A chair squeaked as Cyrus shifted. "What if we're dealing with a poltergeist?"

MacMillian fought to keep from swerving. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Oh, please. Don't go all mundane on me all of a sudden." Cyrus paused. "Lena? What do you think? The article did mention Native American artifacts."

MacMillian sneaked a glance at her. She pursed her lips, then after a moment, shook her head. "No. It just doesn't fit. Wachsmuth didn't say anything about human remains, and I doubt ancient spirits would waste time guarding a few old trash heaps. Besides, the signature's all wrong. No rapping, no loud noises, no strange lights. And the last time we saw Jimmy, it was daytime."

"Damn." Cyrus sounded gloomy. "Okay, I'll keep brainstorming. Seriously, I don't like this. When was the last time we worked a case with zero possibilities?"

"I know." Lena was quiet. "Just try to get some rest tonight. Maybe we'll find something new at the church tomorrow."

"Yeah. Maybe." Cyrus sighed. "All right. Night, Pee-Wee."

"Night." Lena hung up, then grimaced at MacMillian. "I'd appreciate it if you forgot hearing that."

MacMillian couldn't help the grin that tugged at his lips. "Pee-Wee?"

"For Powonia. Seriously, you can't tell anybody. Ever."

He wrestled the smile off his face, lifted a shoulder and dropped it again. "Who would I tell?"

She _humphed_ and crossed her arms.

They were almost to The Wayfare before she looked at him again. "I completely forgot to ask. Would you mind driving me home?"

"No problem." MacMillian paused. "You were good, you know."

Her gaze had been drifting out the window. It jerked back to him. "What do you mean?"

"Today. At The Damascus, then back there with the professor." Another grin threatened to break free. "I've never seen a man sweat so much for so many different reasons."

Lena chuckled. "I was a little mean to him, wasn't I?"

"A little." MacMillian shrugged. "Point is, you were... impressive."

"You were impressed?" She angled her body towards his. "Why, Mr. MacMillian, is this your way of telling me I've made the grade? Do I get to be your Gal Friday now?"

"Let's not get carried away." He hesitated. "I was going to grab some food before heading home. You could come, if you want."

She cleared her throat. "Thanks, but I, um, already have plans."

"Plans." MacMillian raised an eyebrow. "For dinner?"

She didn't answer.

He let out a short laugh. "Of course. Durbin."

Lena turned to him. The swiftly decreasing light hid her exact expression, but her voice was earnest. "He's nice, you know."

His lip curled before he could stop it. "Oh, I'm sure he is." He blew out a breath. "You said you wanted to get an early start tomorrow. I can pick you up at eight. Think you'll be home?"

He could feel her eyes harden. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." _Damn it._ MacMillian sighed. "Really. Whatever you do or don't do is none of my business. I'm just asking if I should pick you up."

Lena didn't respond right away. MacMillian glanced over at her. She'd shifted face-forward again, her arms still crossed. A street light illuminated her stony expression. "Yes. I expect to be home."

"All right, then."

She didn't say anything else. He didn't try to make her. They rode in awkward silence until the dark facade of Cross Your Teas came into view.

He pulled up to the curb, and she turned to him again. "Why do you hate him so much?"

The genuine distress in her voice almost made him tell her. MacMillian swallowed the impulse and gripped the wheel tighter. "Ask him."

"I might." She opened the door and climbed out to the sidewalk. "Thanks for the ride." She started to shut the door behind her.

"Lena."

She stopped, and bent down. "Yes?"

Her eyes looked ultra-bright in the deepening darkness. MacMillian suddenly didn't remember what he'd been about to say. He settled for the first thing that came to mind. "Be careful."

Her face softened with something that looked like pity. She shook her head. "Go to hell, Magnum."

MacMillian's stomach twisted. He waited until she was safely inside her building, then drove away without a backwards glance.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

#

She had just finished applying a last swipe of mascara when her door buzzer sounded.

Lena took a deep breath and put the events of the day out of her mind. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to think about the disappearances, about St. Sophia Orthodox Church, about MacMillian. Tonight was her night off. Her night to have fun.

Lord knew she'd earned it.

Lena tugged on her heels and shrugged into the black wool coat she saved for special occasions. She gave her hair one last check in the mirror next to her front door, then picked her way carefully down the stairs to the street entrance.

Durbin looked up at the sound of the door. He took in her shorter-than-usual dress, her platform heels, her loosely curled hair. His jaw slackened. "Wow."

Heat crept up her neck. "I hope this isn't too much."

"What? No! Are you kidding?" He groaned. "And once again, my foot has managed to make its way into my mouth."

Lena bit back a grin. "Yeah, you should get that checked. You might have a real medical problem."

Durbin held out his arm. "Fortunately, I know a place that keeps the cure in stock."

He ushered her to where his car sat parked against the curb. She settled in and waited until he slid into the driver's seat. "And where is this pharmaceutical wonderland?"

He winked at her and started the engine. "You'll see."

He wove up the narrow one-way street bordering the park, powered through a left turn before finally looking at her again. "So, what happened after you left the station?"

A too-vivid image of the Tenderloin flashed to mind. Lena twisted her hands in her lap. "Oh, you know. Nothing really. Just chased down a few dead ends." She forced a laugh. "We're not going to spend all evening discussing work, are we?"

Durbin's lips curved. "Point taken."

They passed the Giants' stadium, drove over the little jump of water beyond it. Lena squinted at the converted warehouses lining the street in front of them. "We're going to Potrero Hill?"

"Dogpatch." Durbin kept his eyes on the road. "Home of the last best dive bar this side of Market."

He eventually turned down a dark little side street. They were soon hiking back up it on foot, Durbin's car safely stashed in what looked like a locals-only parking lot.

Lena tugged her coat tighter around her. Durbin noticed. "Cold?"

"A little. How far away is this place?"

He nodded at an unassuming brick building on the corner. "Just up ahead."

Like the other buildings on the street, it appeared to have started life as a warehouse. Lena peered up at the badly-lit sign. "The Gin Mill. Cute."

"You have no idea."

Lena snorted. They drew closer. Slow, throbbing music saturated the air around the door. The bass notes reached deep and shook something loose in her belly. A delicious quiver rolled through her.

She looked up to find Durbin already watching her, his eyes darker than usual. He didn't say anything, merely opened the door. A blast wave of sound and heat surged out. Lena paused while her senses adjusted to the assault. Durbin's hand dusted the small of her back, and she allowed him to guide her forward.

Her senses started tingling the instant they were inside. The atmosphere felt charged, everyone carried along on a riptide of energy. She glanced around at the other patrons. The prevailing style seemed to be hipster with a side of grunge.

She glared up at Durbin. "I thought you told me to wear a dress."

A small smile touched the corners of his mouth. He leaned down and spoke into her ear. "I believe I promised you a drink."

Before long, they each had a beer in hand. Durbin led the way to a deserted nook in the far corner of the room. Lena sat. He sat beside her. Heat pulsed from his body on a frequency that made her skin crackle.

He leaned in and clinked his glass against hers. "Cheers. This place might not win any mixology awards, but you can't beat the microbrews."

Lena sipped her beer. Her eyebrows went up. "It's good."

"You sound surprised." Durbin flashed a lopsided grin before taking a pull from his own glass. "I never joke about my microbrews."

Lena took another sip and rested her glass on the small table in front of them. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't seem like the type to be into artisanal beer."

"Meaning I don't wear thick-rimmed glasses, flannel, and skinny jeans?" Durbin shuddered dramatically. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Lena snickered. "When you put it that way, I guess it is."

Durbin took another sip, then leaned back. "Okay. Do we know each other well enough now that I can ask?"

"Ask what?"

"How you got into ghost-busting?"

Lena studied him. His expression was teasing, but there was a noticeable shadow behind his eyes. She picked up her glass again. "I thought we weren't going to talk about work."

"Come on. Humor the guy who just found out the monsters in his closet are real." His gaze intensified. "I'm curious. Can you blame me for that?"

Lena sighed. "No. I suppose not." She took another drink.

Durbin followed suit. "So, what happened? How did you first find out about...you know...?"

Lena peered into his face. "About ghosts?"

Durbin glanced around, then met her eyes again. "Yeah. About ghosts."

"I was raised knowing about the spirit world. My parents, well, they're kind of a big deal in our circles."

"Oh, are they?" Durbin's smile turned teasing. "What does that mean? Are you like royalty, or something? Should I learn to curtsey?"

Lena rolled her eyes. "Please. My parents founded the first school on psychic and subversive research in the Bay Area. So really, I'm more like a pedigreed nerd." She paused. "Though if you're looking for an excuse to curtsey..."

He arched an eyebrow. "Who said I needed an excuse?"

Lena laughed.

Durbin started to speak, but before he could get a word out, his phone rang. It took Lena a second to recognize the ring tone. "Is that the Flying Monkeys song from The Wizard of Oz?"

Durbin grimaced. "I'm sorry. I have to..."

She nodded. "It's fine. Go ahead."

He gave her a grateful, apologetic look and answered just as the song reset. "This isn't a good time."

Lena sipped her beer and studied the room. Most of the seating was located either around the dark wood bar or on banquettes lining the walls. The vast majority of the other patrons milled around the open center of the floor, drinks in hand, laughing and chatting and flirting.

"No, I know we both agreed on cello lessons."

Lena looked back at Durbin. His forehead was creased, his lips turned down. He sighed. "Of course I still want her to go. I just-" He stopped, listened. Then he sighed again. "Look, put her on and I'll talk to her."

He glanced up and caught Lena's eye. _I'm sorry_ , he mouthed. His attention abruptly shifted back to his call.

"Petra? Honey, what's this about you skipping your cello practice?" He paused, listened. "I know Brittany's sleepover is tonight, but that's no excuse. You need to listen to your mother. Besides, I want to hear what you've learned when I see you this weekend."

Lena looked away. Durbin paused again. His voice softened. "I love you too, sweetheart. Have fun. I'll see you soon."

He hung up. Lena returned her gaze from a dimly lit wall sconce back to his face. He blew out a breath. "Sorry about that."

She shrugged. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

"Thank you." He fell silent.

Lena cleared her throat. "So when did you get married?"

"A year before I graduated the academy. She was just finishing up college." Durbin tapped a finger against the side of his glass. "We lasted five years."

"I'm sorry." She tried to sound like she meant it. "What happened?"

He took a sip of his beer. "The usual, I suppose. Lack of communication. Nothing in common anymore." He looked down into his glass. "We were too young to be married. We both knew it. But we were in love." His lips twisted. "Love conquers all, right?"

His voice sounded raw. A knot formed in her chest. Lena spoke carefully. "It doesn't always work that way."

Durbin barked out a laugh. "No. No, it doesn't."

She didn't know what to say to that. She drained the last of her beer at the same time he did. He stood, relief stark on his face. "I'll get us another."

Lena nodded. "Sounds great."

By the time he returned with their refills, his good humor was firmly back in place. He set her beer down in front of her and sat. "Now as I recall, we were talking about your family. Besides your folks, is it just you and your brother?"

"No." Lena hesitated, then picked up her glass. "No, I have a sister, too. Gracie's the baby. She's a student at the Academy of Art University."

Durbin took a drink. "Nice. She wasn't interested in the family business?"

Lena snorted. "I don't know what she's interested in, to be honest. We've never really understood each other."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too." Lena raised her glass to her lips and took a heavy swallow. She set it back down. "Okay, my turn to grill you."

Durbin set his glass down too, and winced. "Damn, was I that obvious?"

"Please." Lena rolled her eyes. "You are such a cop."

"You're the one who agreed to go out with me, sweetheart." He grinned. "Fine. Fair's fair. Shoot."

Lena settled back against the wall. "Why does MacMillian hate you so much?"

The levity faded from his face. A slightly haunted expression replaced it. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

Durbin retrieved his glass and drank. When he set it down again, it was halfway empty. "Did you ask him?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

Lena kept her eyes on his face. "He said I should ask you."

Durbin blew out a laugh. "Of course he did." He took another drink. "Ask me something else."

Lena tapped the side of her glass and pursed her lips. Durbin waited. Finally, she leaned forward. "All right, here's one. Why did you keep us from going back to the extraction site?"

Durbin groaned. "Jesus, you and MacMillian. A couple of dogs with a bone, I swear." He fell silent, held her gaze for a moment without speaking. Then abruptly, he stood. "Come with me."

Lena blinked, grabbed her purse and slid out from behind the table. Durbin waited until she was steady on her feet, then caught her hand. He headed towards the back of the room, into a narrow hallway she hadn't noticed before.

He towed her past the bathrooms, past what must have been a storeroom, finally through a heavy door and into a dark alley. Lena caught her breath at the sudden gust of cold air. She pulled her hand out of Durbin's and cupped it around the other in front of her mouth.

Durbin was suddenly in front of her. The heat from his body chased the chill away. Lena shivered anyway. He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. His thumb notched under her chin, and he tilted her face up. A delicious thrill shot through her. "What...?"

"Enough questions." The words vibrated against her lips.

Then he was kissing her.

Lena caught her breath on a moan and clasped the back of his head with both hands. Durbin's breath hitched. He shifted closer, walked her backwards until she was pinned against the freezing side of the building.

Strangely enough, it didn't feel freezing. Or maybe she was just overheating. That had to be it. Her skin felt like she was on the verge of combustion, like if she wasn't careful, she'd burn right through the wall.

Durbin's hand left her jaw, skated down her throat like a streak of fire. He ended the kiss abruptly and followed the path he'd marked with his lips. Lena gasped, and the reverberations of his answering chuckle hummed deep inside her. Stubble scratched her skin as he nipped the side of her neck.

Lena jumped. Heat gathered deep inside her. The next thing she knew, he had her wrists pinned above her head. She hissed out a breath. "You planned that."

A quick grin flashed over his face. He shifted focus to her ear and caught the delicate lobe between his teeth. Lena groaned. A needy shudder rolled through her. "Mark..."

It was like he'd been waiting for her to say his name. He returned to drink it off her lips, then sank deeper still. Lena started to bring her hands to his face, only to realize he still had them pinned. She strained against the restraint, finally gave up and parted her lips.

The second his tongue touched hers, she buckled. His thigh was already firmly between her legs. She landed on it hard, and sensation rocketed through her. Already long past conscious thought, she ground against him.

He let out a strangled groan, released her hands and grabbed her hips. "Wait." His voice was harsh and need-strained. "Not here."

Lena nodded blindly, even as her lips sought his again. "Of course not."

"I have a confession." Durbin grazed her lower lip with his. "This place. Coming here. I had ulterior motives."

He sank into her mouth again. By the time he gave quarter, Lena was breathless. "You don't say."

"Smartass." He growled the word against her lips.

Lena pulled back a fraction. "So, what about this confession?"

"My apartment. That is..." He groaned as she grazed his jaw with her teeth. "I live upstairs."

Lena hesitated. "This is..."

_This is going too fast_. She stopped. They were both adults. Responsible adults, even. How long since she'd made a real, flesh-to-flesh connection with someone? Didn't she deserve that?

Lena wove her fingers through his hair and guided his lips back to hers. It was less heat and need this time, more a wordless agreement. Durbin seemed to know exactly what it meant. He broke away first, silently twined her fingers with his and led her out of the alley.

She barely noticed when he unlocked the nondescript door around the corner, barely remembered the walk up the stairs, him unlocking his apartment or turning on the light. She hovered in his front entryway, dimly aware of his actions. He moved like everything he did was already an afterthought. Finally, he turned back to her.

The naked desire on his face made her chest quake. With a deep breath, she shrugged her coat off her shoulders. It pooled on the ground around her feet, instantly forgotten. Durbin's eyes heated, and she stepped into his arms without a word. Her face was already tilted upward when he lowered his lips to hers.

She didn't realize she'd been tense until his unexpectedly soft touch bypassed her defenses. He kept the kiss light, teasing. Soon, she was gasping into him. He backed her up against the wall next to the door. The heat inside her gathered, focused between her legs.

She felt his lips curve a split second before he pulled back. She tried to follow, but his body held her trapped. His fingertips skimmed her thigh, just below the hem of her dress. "You asked why I wanted you to wear this?"

His touch was maddeningly gentle. She closed her eyes.

He didn't speak, merely slipped his fingers beneath the fabric and traced them up her leg. Her flesh jumped under his attention. His progress was slow, a deliberate assault on her senses. He skimmed the line of her panties, paused.

Lena had to swallow before she could speak. Even then, she could only manage a whisper. "What are you waiting for?"

His lips closed over hers the same instant his hand slid inside the scrap of fabric. Lena arched into him, her gasp disappearing into his mouth. He explored with one long, strong finger.

One heady pass took him over a particularly sensitive spot. She barely recognized the sound she made. He returned for another pass, lingered and toyed without mercy. Lena wrapped her arms around his neck, more for support than anything else. She was burning, all of her was burning. The only solution was for him to touch her, everywhere, and all at once.

She rubbed against his chest, desperate for contact. Durbin took the hint, and his free hand snaked up between them. He palmed one breast, hooked a finger over the dress's low neckline and bared her to him.

His eyes darkened, and he dipped his head.

Lena cried out as warm heat enveloped oversensitized flesh. His tongue was like a brand. It took up the same rhythm as his fingers between her legs, teasing her nipple again and again.

She broke against him with a strangled shriek, but instead of release, it was like everything tightened inside her. His hands disappeared. She almost protested until she saw what he was doing. His wallet was out, and he was fishing a foil packet from the billfold, his face flushed and hard with concentration.

She started on his fly without a word, her movements neither subtle nor gentle. He grunted as she jerked open his belt buckle, again when she reached inside his pants and closed her fist around him. His cock, already hard, hardened still further in her hand. She brushed her thumb over the tip.

His groan was downright feral. He surged forward and recaptured her lips, nipped and suckled until her knees shook. She kept her hold on him by sheer force of will. He flexed his hips and slid deeper. She tightened her grip when he slid out again.

His eyes closed briefly. He growled, and opened them again. "Enough. I didn't bring you here to fuck your fist."

Lena's pulse hammered in her ears. She released him, stripped off her panties with shaking hands. By the time she straightened, Durbin had the condom in place. He gripped her thighs and lifted her easily. "Wrap your legs around me."

She obeyed, and he sank into her with one smooth thrust. A single panting cry shredded her throat. He gave her a moment to adjust to him, then started to move.

She didn't realize she was moving too until she heard Durbin's breathless voice in her ear. "Holy fuck. Just like that."

She gripped his shoulders and rode him hard. He met each roll of her hips, his breath raw and ragged. Lena tightened her legs around his waist. The head of his cock nudged a supersensitive spot deep inside her again and again and again.

The pressure and friction touched off a chain reaction. Pleasure roared through her at a cellular level. She gasped for air. Her heart thundered in her chest. She barely heard Durbin's hoarse shout as he followed her over the edge.

Lena wrapped her arms around him and held on tight.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

#

She was back in the familiar bedroom.

Something was moving across the floor. It was dark, like a shadow, but unlike a shadow, had a distinctly oily feel to it. Its progress was slick and fluid, but it didn't rush. It didn't need to. She wasn't going to call for anyone. Why should she? She wasn't afraid.

It was just one of her friends.

And it wanted to play. Her rosebud tea set was on her play table, though she was sure she'd left it on her shelf when she went to bed. She shrugged. It wasn't worth thinking about. Not when she was about to have a tea party.

She slid out of bed and padded over to the table, already set. Her friend was pouring a drink from the dainty teapot into one of the cups.

Something felt off. She furrowed her brow. "Are you sad?" She didn't know how she could tell; she just could. Mommy called it a gift; she didn't know about _that_. Sometimes when other people were sad, she felt sad too. If that was a gift, it wasn't a very nice one.

Her friend nodded. _Yes. Sad._

Its words echoed in her head. It didn't have a voice that she'd ever heard; when it spoke, it sounded just like her own thoughts. She'd never stopped to wonder how that was possible.

She didn't stop now, either. "What's wrong?"

Its formless shoulders drooped. _Lonely_.

An image blossomed in her mind. It was her, playing hide-and-seek outside with her brother and sister. Mommy sat off to the side watching, her belly swollen with what she and Papa said would be a new brother or sister to play with. They were all smiling, all laughing, all happy.

She knew her friend had showed her the image on purpose; another mysterious skill she had never taken the time to question. For some reason, seeing her with her family made her shadow friend sad.

She couldn't imagine why, but suddenly, it made her sad, too. Distressed, she wrung her hands. "Don't you have any family? Any friends?"

If it had eyes, it would have looked up. _You. Only you._

Feelings she didn't understand welled up inside her. Now she wasn't sad. She was angry. How dare she be happy when her friend wasn't? How dare she have a family when it had no one? She looked around her room, at her canopy bed, at the fairy nightlight, at her mountains of dolls. She had everything, and her friend had nothing. It wasn't fair. It was _wrong_.

Her friend watched her. The empty darkness where its mouth would have been shifted into what resembled a smile.

Without a word, it passed her the teacup...

Lena awoke with a start. She sucked in a breath, tried to chase the last remnants of the dream from her mind. Then she froze. The air tasted different. She looked around. The room wasn't hers.

Panic clawed at her throat. Before she had time to give in to it, a warm body shifted beside her.

Durbin.

The events of the previous night came back to her in a rush. She was at Durbin's. In his bed.

And she was naked.

She lifted the blankets just enough to slide out from underneath them, careful not to disturb her bedmate. He lay on his belly, face buried in his pillow. Lena resisted the urge to smooth the hair around his forehead, instead tip-toed around the room, collecting her clothes piece-by-piece.

Not ten minutes later, she was fully clothed and standing on the sidewalk below. She briefly debated just making the trip down Third Street on foot. It hardly seemed worthwhile to call a cab for what couldn't amount to more than a seven-minute drive. She glanced down at her drop-dead sexy, thoroughly impractical heels.

She made the call.

Sure enough, the wait was longer than the actual ride. Lena swallowed her pride and paid the driver, then stumbled up the stairs to her apartment. The second she stepped through the door, she hauled in a deep breath. Residue from the dream still hovered in her mind, but it didn't disturb her like it had when she first woke up.

Now she was just tired.

She dragged herself into her bedroom, sat on the edge of her bed and toed off her heels. She toyed with the idea of changing out of her dress, or at least going into the bathroom and removing her mascara.

She was already flat on her back by the time that last thought occurred to her. In a minute. She would just lie down for a minute...

←↑↓→

She stared into the teacup.

Viscous black liquid filled it to the brim. She looked back up at her friend. "What's this?"

Tea.

"I've never seen tea like this before."

_I know._ Her friend folded its hands on the table in front of it. _It's special._

She gazed into the cup again. It didn't look special. It looked disgusting, like something that might back up from the storm drains after a heavy rain. "I... I don't think I want it."

Her friend darkened with displeasure. Just as quickly, it lightened again; at least, as much as a shadow could. Serene energy radiated from it, soothing tendrils that stroked the corners of her mind like a cool hand. _It's okay. I understand._

She let out a relieved breath. "You do?"

Of course. You don't want to be friends.

Its sadness rolled over her. Her eyes widened. "Yes I do!"

_I don't believe you._ It stood dejectedly and started back towards the closet.

She leaped to her feet. "Wait! Don't go!" She searched wildly for a way to make amends. Her eye settled on the teacup. She picked it up. "Here, I'll drink it, okay? If I drink it, can you stay?"

Her friend paused. _You'd do that?_

"Of course I would."

Her friend turned back. _If you drink it, I'll never have to leave again._

She beamed. That settled it. She lifted the teacup to her lips, tried not to think about the ugly liquid inside.

At first sip, her eyes widened. "It tastes like chocolate!" She took another sip. Her friend watched.

It almost seemed to be smiling...

Lena didn't realize she'd fallen asleep again until she woke up screaming. Arms and legs thrashing, she clawed her way to a sitting position. She could still feel the thick, sweet sludge oozing down her throat, coating all her deep and hidden places. Maybe it was still there, biding its time, corrupting her from the inside.

She curled into as tight a ball as she could and rocked. A strange keening noise poured out her throat. Dimly, she heard a crash from the direction of her front door. Footsteps. A muttered curse sounded from the bedroom doorway. A few seconds later, the side of the bed sank down.

Warm, strong arms closed around her, tugged. She went without thinking, and found herself cradled against a man's broad chest.

"Lena? Take it easy. You're all right."

MacMillian. Mortified, Lena squeezed her eyes shut, but moisture continued to leak steadily out the corners. To her horror, she could do nothing but bury her face in the crook of his shoulder and let her treacherous tears soak his shirt.

He was mercifully silent while she shivered out the last of her surging adrenaline against him. Only his hand moved. It flattened against her back, hesitant at first. When she didn't flinch away, it steadied, firmed. She focused on the sensation like it was some sort of external mantra. Gradually, the seizing pain in her chest subsided.

MacMillian seemed to sense it, and took his hand away. The sudden loss of contact was another, unexpectedly potent systemic shock. Lena swayed.

Instantly, his hand was back. "You good?"

She forced her breathing to normalize. "Yeah, fine." She blinked, gradually aware of the sunlight fighting its way through the blinds, of the sounds of work traffic a few blocks away.

Her body was still humming from the night before. Suddenly, even MacMillian's chaste contact was too much. Lena peeled herself off his chest and cleared her throat. "I'm, um, sorry about that. I just, I had a—"

She broke off. How did she tell him about her dreams without explaining why she had them? She started over. "Thank you for, you know, coming in." Something occurred to her. "Just how did you get in?"

MacMillian wouldn't meet her eyes. "I was outside when I heard you scream. Thought somebody was in here with you." He cleared his throat. "So I broke in."

"You broke..." Lena stared at him. " _How_? The downstairs entrance is a security door!"

MacMillian shrugged. "I wasn't always a detective, you know. Back in the day, it was my job to get into secure places."

Lena arched an eyebrow. "What were you, a cat burglar?"

"Something like that." MacMillian briefly caught her eye, then looked away again. "My brother and I were repossession agents."

"Wow. A repo man. I guess I can see it." She twisted her quilt in both hands. "So what happened?"

MacMillian stood. The mattress groaned with relief. He shoved one hand in his pocket and curled the other around his cane, then started for the door. "If you're feeling better, we should get going."

The cold change of subject couldn't have made his real message more clear: _mind your own business_. Lena sighed. "Right. St. Sophia Orthodox Church." She gave each syllable a little extra emphasis. "Give me five minutes?"

His eyes flicked over her, as if noting for the first time her bedhead and rumpled clothes. His face closed. "Of course. I'll be outside."

Lena waited until the bedroom door shut behind him, then slid out of her tangled sheets and onto the cold floor. She padded to the adjoining bathroom as quickly as possible and turned on the shower. Then she caught sight of herself in the medicine cabinet mirror, and groaned out loud.

"Ouch."

No wonder MacMillian had beat such a hasty retreat. She didn't just have bedhead and rumpled clothes. She looked like she'd spent the night under a bridge. Raccoon eyes, pale skin. The wrinkles in her dress had wrinkles of their own.

And then there was the sex hair.

Lena unzipped the back of the dress and let it slither to the ground. At the same time she muttered to no one in particular, "Okay, maybe ten minutes."

←↑↓→

"Are you sure this is okay? I mean, what if they're busy?"

MacMillian pulled the Fury into an open spot on the street and curbed the wheels. "I called yesterday. The rector assured me we were welcome."

The tiny Russian Hill neighborhood was quiet for that time of morning, though MacMillian got the feeling it was always that way. Pastel-colored Victorian walk-ups lined both sides of the street. On the corner sat St. Sophia Orthodox Cathedral.

From the outside, it didn't look like much. Situated in a building scarcely larger than those surrounding it, its sole distinguishing features were a couple of royal blue, witch's hat-capped turrets and an impressive dome. A steep set of stone stairs led up to the second-level main entrance.

MacMillian paused at the base of the steps, and turned to Lena. "Before we go in, I wanted to ask- when I came into your apartment, you were screaming."

Lena looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "Yes."

"Want to tell me why?"

If he hadn't been watching so closely, he would have missed the pain that flickered in her eyes. It disappeared almost as soon as he noticed it. She met his gaze without flinching. "I don't know. Do you want to tell me what happened to your brother?"

It was an obvious deflection, but it worked. MacMillian pressed his lips together against the salty sting in that very old, very open wound. He swept his free hand towards the stairs. "After you."

Her eyes lingered on his face. He could see from her expression she knew just what her words had done to him, but she didn't apologize. She simply put her back to him and started up the steps.

She held the door for him at the top. He almost scowled, but decided on a clipped nod instead. For some reason, things felt tenuous between them today. He could only think of one possible explanation. He glanced over his shoulder. "How was your date?"

Her flushed cheeks gave him all the answer he needed. MacMillian shook his head and stepped into the narthex.

The doors to the sanctuary were closed, but eerie, ethereal music floated from behind them. He'd heard the same music since he was a child. Now, as then, it made the back of his neck prickle and the hairs rise on his arms. MacMillian shivered.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Both he and Lena turned to the speaker at the same time. Before them stood the man from the photograph, dressed in a simple black cassock with a silver cross around his neck. "What you're hearing is the Akathistos Hymn to the Mother of God. We're preparing for a service to honor the icon of the Most Holy Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary of Częstochowa. It passes through here on its global pilgrimage later this week."

MacMillian stepped forward. "You must be Father Narvaez."

"In the flesh. You must be Jesper and Lena." The man clasped first MacMillian's hand, then Lena's. "Please forgive our meeting out here. As you noticed, our choir is practicing in the sanctuary. I would hate to disturb them."

Lena wrapped her arms around herself. "It's lovely," she murmured.

Father Narvaez beamed. "We take great pride in our choral program. Just as the holy icons make visible the invisible mysteries of the Divine, holy music allows us to experience the songs of the angels that surround the throne of God."

MacMillian cleared his throat. "We'll try not to take up too much of your time. Like I mentioned over the phone, we're interested in the foundation fragment that was found in North Beach."

"Ah, of course." Father Narvaez pressed his hands together. "Miracles occur in the strangest ways. Some of our parishioners have been following the subway project closely. If you had told us a piece of our original church would be unearthed as a result of it, well, even I would have had a difficult time believing it."

MacMillian crossed his arms. "That must have been something, getting to go down there and watching them remove it."

Father Narvaez beamed. "Yes, quite something. And now to have it here, to have such a tangible link to our brothers and sisters from so long ago, well, it is a true blessing."

Lena shifted. "And have you been back to the extraction site since then?"

Father Narvaez shook his head slowly. "No. Why would I?"

MacMillian studied the other man's face, but failed to find any sign of deception. He adopted his friendliest smile. "Would you please excuse us a moment, Father?"

Narvaez inclined his head and retreated to the opposite end of the narthex. MacMillian guided Lena back a couple steps with a touch of her elbow. Angling his head closer to hers, he lowered his voice. "So? What do you think?"

Her eyes flicked between him and the priest's black-clad back. "Honestly? I believe him."

MacMillian sighed. "I was afraid of that. So do I." He turned back to Narvaez. "Father?"

Narvaez turned, his face open.

MacMillian nodded towards the door. "I think we've taken up enough of your time. Thank you for speaking with us."

Narvaez blinked. "That was it?"

MacMillian barely contained his grimace. "I'm afraid so. We'll see ourselves out."

Narvaez still looked puzzled, but he smiled anyway. "In that case, I hope you found what you were looking for. Our doors are always open, should you have further questions. About anything."

He gave MacMillian a pointed look. MacMillian ducked his head and pretended not to notice. "Of course. Thank you. Lena?"

Lena was already halfway to the door. She paused and flashed the priest a brilliant smile. "Thank you, Father."

She opened the door. MacMillian caught it before she could hold it open again. She looked up at him. He shrugged. "My turn."

She shrugged too, stepped out and started down the stairs. MacMillian followed, one stair at a time. The door clacked shut behind him. Lena slowed her pace, and looked back at him. A deep crease marred her forehead. "He was our last real lead."

MacMillian frowned. He'd been thinking the same thing. "I know."

"So what do we do now?"

He shook his head. "I have no idea."

They had just reached the base of the stairs when Lena's phone buzzed. She sighed loudly and pulled it out of her pocket. Her eyebrows went up. "Cyrus texted me."

MacMillian stepped down onto solid sidewalk and released a breath. "Answer it. Maybe he has some good news for a change."

Lena pulled up the message and read it out loud. "Found another pic from the extraction site." She tapped her phone screen. Her lips parted.

MacMillian leaned forward. "What is it?"

She didn't answer, just turned the phone around for him to see. The photo was of a man in a black cassock and with a silver cross around his neck. Over the cassock he wore a neon colored construction vest. A hard hat sat atop his white-haired head.

MacMillian looked from the photo to Lena's face. "That's not Father Narvaez."

Her eyes were bright. "I know. You realize what this means, don't you?"

MacMillian turned back to the stairs. Predatory anticipation welled in his chest. "We talked to the wrong priest."

Father Narvaez was still in the narthex when they burst through the main doors again. He jumped, clutched a hand to his chest when he realized who they were. "Good heavens! You two make quite an entrance."

"We're sorry, Father." MacMillian took Lena's cell phone and pulled up the photo. He passed it to Narvaez. "We believe this priest may be able to answer a few more questions for us. Would it be possible to speak with him?"

Narvaez studied the picture. His eyebrows lifted, then drew together. He handed the phone back to MacMillian. "Of course you can speak with him, but there must be some kind of mistake. The man in that photograph is not a priest."

MacMillian traded glances with Lena. He turned back to Father Narvaez. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." Narvaez punctuated the word with a vehement nod. "That's Gershon. Gershon Zintchio. He's been a member of our parish, goodness, longer than I have." He looked from one of them to the other. "I don't understand. What's going on here? Why was he dressed like that?"

"I'd like to ask him that myself," MacMillian muttered. He cleared his throat. "Do you know where we can find Mr. Zintchio?"

"He volunteers at our Dining Room in the Tenderloin most days." Father Narvaez touched the silver cross around his neck. "He's not in trouble, is he?"

MacMillian chose to ignore the question. He leaned heavily on his cane. "Please, Father, think carefully. What else can you tell us about this man?"

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

#

MacMillian drove by St. Sophia's Dining Room twice without stopping.

On the third pass, Lena finally turned to him. "Were we planning to actually go inside, or...?"

MacMillian eyed the people lining the sidewalks and pursed his lips. Then he nodded. "I'll find a place to park."

The Dining Room was located on the ground level of a bright, new-looking building. What appeared to be an office space sat above it, and at least six more floors that were clearly housing on top of that. A delivery truck with the St. Sophia's seal emblazoned on the side was double-parked at the curb. A small army people in aprons milled around the back, unloading boxes and carrying them inside.

Lena dodged past them, MacMillian right behind her. They approached the front door. A few people in ragged clothes slouched along the outside wall. She stiffened, but none of them seemed hostile. She relaxed again, and pulled open the door.

It opened to a surprisingly welcoming, spacious foyer. Lena looked around. Sunlight bathed the white tiled floor and brightly hued walls. The entire level was open, with the foyer feeding directly into the Dining Room. Rows of communal tables filled the space, all of them packed.

MacMillian stepped up beside her. "This isn't quite what I expected."

Lena studied the individual faces. "Me, either."

Intermingled with the residents of the streets were people who didn't appear homeless. There were families with children. Ancient Asian women sat chattering together in front of trays piled high with rice and vegetables, guarding battered Tupperware containers filled with more of the same. People in aprons darted between the tables, bearing full trays of food, extra napkins, pitchers of water and juice.

Friendly conversation and scattered laughter echoed around the large room. Lena shifted. "Maybe we shouldn't be here."

MacMillian looked down sharply. "What are you talking about?"

She shook her head. "Don't you feel like we're, I don't know, intruding? All these people are just here for a hot meal." She rubbed her arms. "I feel like we just walked into somebody else's house in the middle of dinner."

MacMillian started to speak, but at that moment a petite, middle-aged woman caught sight of them. She started forward. He shrugged. "Too late now."

The woman drew closer, and gave them each a bright smile. "Welcome. Are you two here for the meal?"

Lena faltered. "No, sorry, we—"

"We're actually looking for a man who volunteers here." MacMillian shot her a warning look and stepped forward. He extended his free hand. "Jesper MacMillian, ma'am. This is Lena Alan. And you are...?"

"Doris Chan." The woman shook his hand, then turned to Lena. "Who are you looking for?"

Lena set her reservations aside and offered her hand. "A man named Gershon Zintchio. Do you know him? Apparently he's been volunteering here for quite some time."

"Ten years, at least." Doris took in their faces, and dipped her head. "I've been volunteering here for eight. Of course, we all know Gershon." Her expression turned guarded. "Is he in trouble?"

Again, Lena faltered. Again, MacMillian stepped in. "Ms. Alan and I are looking into some disappearances from around this neighborhood. We're hoping Mr. Zintchio can help us."

Doris pursed her lips. She gave a short nod and turned towards the Dining Room. A heavily tattooed young man in an apron was bussing one of the recently vacated tables. She called out to him. "Francisco!"

He looked up. "'Sup, Mrs. Chan?"

Doris gestured towards MacMillian. "These people need to speak to Gershon. Could you find him and bring him up here, please?"

The young man bobbed his head and jogged off towards the busy kitchen area. Lena craned her neck, but he quickly disappeared into the army of other apron-clad volunteers.

Doris turned back to them. A worry knot marred the space between her eyes. She lowered her voice. "So, people are really disappearing."

Lena cocked her head. "You don't sound surprised."

"Do I know a few people who have fallen off the grid? Sure. It's not that unusual around here." She looked back over her shoulder at the Dining Room, and her face softened. "We get all types. A lot of our regulars spend the majority of their lives alone, isolated, whether they're on the streets or in the residential hotels. This place is the closest they have to a real community."

Lena glanced up at MacMillian. Neither of them spoke.

A smile tugged at Doris's mouth. "Just look at them. They might not say two words to each other on the outside, but here? Here they sit together, tell stories, catch up." Her face darkened. "And yes, lately there's been talk about people who don't come in anymore. I mean regulars, people who'd made connections, who had friends, favorite seats." She shook her head. "If you ask me, people like that wouldn't just leave. Not without saying goodbye."

Lena looked up at MacMillian again. He caught her eye, his mouth a thin, tight line. He turned back to Doris. "How long did you say Mr. Zintchio has been volunteering here?"

Doris tapped her lip. "A decade, maybe longer. He was already here when I started eight years ago." She lowered her voice again. "At first, he came with his wife. She died about five years ago now. He's mentioned a son, but I've never met him. I think they're estranged." She raised her hands, palms up. "I guess this place is his community, too."

Before any of them could say anything else, Francisco called from the Dining Room, "Yo, Mrs. C! Found him!"

Lena's stomach lurched. She peered around the young man's broad shoulder. Then she blinked.

The grandfatherly man behind Francisco didn't look like a deranged serial killer. His white hair was slicked back from his temples. A full white beard covered the lower half of his face, and round-rimmed spectacles sat perched on his nose. The clothes underneath his volunteer apron were simple: a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a sweater vest, dark wool trousers.

Doris moved to stand beside him. She nodded up at the young man. "Thank you, Francisco."

A shout sounded from the tables. "Hey, Chicho! Need your help over here!"

Francisco grinned. "That's my cue." He winked at Lena and jogged back into the Dining Room.

Gershon Zintchio took Doris's hand and raised it to his wrinkled lips. "Beautiful Doris. When are you going to run away and marry me?" His heavy _r_ 's and clipped vowels suggested Eastern European origins.

Doris laughed. All lingering traces of worry cleared from her face. A blush colored her cheeks. She motioned towards Lena and MacMillian. "Gershon, these are Mr. MacMillian and Ms. Alan. They wanted to speak with you." She looked up at them apologetically. "Please excuse me. I have to get back."

MacMillian inclined his head. "Of course, and thank you."

Zintchio waited until Doris was out of earshot, then turned to them. "So good to meet you both. May I ask what this is regarding?" His tenor-toned voice was slightly gravelly.

MacMillian extended a hand. "Mr. Zintchio. Thank you for speaking with us. I'm Jesper MacMillian. This is Lena Alan."

Zintchio shook his hand, then turned to Lena. "Ms. Alan." He held out his hand.

Lena swallowed. Ever fiber in her being strained against taking it. She forced a smile to her face and placed her hand in his. "Pleased to meet you."

The instant their fingers touched, a wave of unease swept over her. It was all she could do not to yank her hand back. Zintchio clasped it, then instead of letting go, brought his other hand up and trapped hers between the two. "I assure you, the pleasure is all mine."

The words were laced with Old-World charm, but rather than putting her at ease, they only intensified that strange feeling. It took her a moment to realize where she'd felt it before.

Jimmy's apartment. Then again, at the entrance to the extraction tunnel. At the time she'd written it off as nerves, but now she was reconsidering that assessment, especially considering she'd been possessed not long after. In fact, she'd gotten the same feeling again and again ever since she and MacMillian started looking into the disappearances.

Zintchio was watching her face. "Is everything all right, my dear?"

Lena took a deep breath and sneaked a peek at MacMillian. He was watching her too, a deep groove in his forehead. She kept her smile in place and returned her attention to Zintchio. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

Zintchio finally released her hand. At the same time, Lena released the breath she was holding. MacMillian glanced down at her, cleared his throat. "Mr. Zintchio, we just came from your church. Father Narvaez said we could find you here."

Zintchio's bushy white eyebrows went up. "Yes, of course. Father Narvaez." He looked from one of them to the other. "I'm sorry, what did you say this was about?"

"There have been reports of people disappearing out of this neighborhood." MacMillian adjusted his grip on his cane. "Ms. Alan and I are concerned. We're trying to get to the bottom of things."

Lena kept her eyes on Zintchio's face. Not so much as a muscle twitched in his expression. He lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "People in this neighborhood disappear all the time. This is an unfortunate fact of life. The ones I see in the Dining Room are often physically ill, mentally ill, addictively ill..." He shook his head and stared out the glass doors at the street outside. "It is no way to live."

Lena felt like someone was sitting on her chest. "You believe they would be better off dead?"

His head jerked up, and he stared at her. "No! Of course not." He looked up at MacMillian. "I _am_ glad somebody is taking notice, though I'm not sure how you think I can help you."

Lena took out her phone and pulled up the photo from Cyrus. She held it up for Zintchio to see. "Remember this?"

Zintchio's lips parted. "Where did you get that?"

MacMillian laid a hand on Lena's arm. She lowered her phone. "Doesn't matter. We're more interested in what you were doing at the old Butterfly Room lot dressed as an Orthodox priest."

Zintchio's eyes widened. "You think it's me, don't you? You think I am somehow responsible for these disappearances you mentioned. Is that why you're here?"

MacMillian raised a placating hand. "Sir, please. I'm sure you understand, we have to consider every possibility."

Zintchio's lips thinned, but he nodded. "Fine. I suppose I should have known better than to think no one would find out."

Lena's heart leaped into her throat. "Find out what?"

Zintchio's eyes flicked to her phone. "I know it was wrong, but I couldn't help myself. Ever since my wife passed, St. Sophia's has been everything to me." He leaned in like he was sharing a secret. "Did you know that old theater was built on top of the original church? Imagine!"

His shoulders slumped. "All I wanted was to experience for myself where the church first came to be. I knew they wouldn't allow just anyone in to see it, so I... I borrowed one of the spare cassocks. It was just sitting in the rectory. I didn't think anyone would miss it."

Lena swallowed, then swallowed again. Her skin felt itchy and thick. She rubbed her arms.

Zintchio turned to her and fixed his pale blue eyes on her face. "I just hope God and Father Narvaez can forgive my deception."

←↑↓→

Lena followed MacMillian back to the Fury in silence. He found a discreet spot half a block away from the soup kitchen, and idled against the curb. It was mid-afternoon before the doors of St. Sophia opened and Gershon Zintchio came out, rolling a battered white bicycle. He paused on the sidewalk and adjusted the cuff clip on his trouser leg, then mounted the spindly frame.

The street was slanted downhill, and Zintchio sailed towards Market at a brisk clip. MacMillian followed easily. Lena kept her eyes on the back of the older man's white head and tried to shake the rolling sensation in the pit of her stomach. She clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap.

MacMillian glanced at her, frowned slightly. "Try to relax. We don't even know if it's—"

"It's him," she blurted. At MacMillian's sharp look, she took a deep breath. "It is. I can feel it." She grimaced. "Wow. I never realized how much I sound like Luke Skywalker when I say that."

MacMillian snorted. "Just so long as that doesn't make me Princess Leia." He grew serious again. "All right, so help me out. What makes you so sure it's this guy? I mean, you saw him. He's... old."

Lena blew out a breath. "It's hard to describe. God, I'm not even sure I know what it is." She waved a hand. "There's just something I've felt everywhere we've gone. Like some sort of weird energy signature, if that makes sense. I can't pinpoint what it is or why it bothers me so much. It just does."

She waited for him to snort again. When he didn't, she sneaked a peek at his face. It was drawn tight.

"I think I know what you mean."

Lena blinked. She hadn't been expecting that. "You do?"

Air hissed through his teeth. "I know, I can't believe I'm saying it, either. But something about that guy just feels off." His eyes flicked from the road and met hers briefly, then flicked back. "In my line of work, you learn to trust gut feelings."

Zintchio turned just before they reached Market Street, leading them further into the heart of the Tenderloin. He turned down a last side street, finally rolled to a stop outside a shabby brick walk-up. It was surrounded by identical buildings, the monotonous brick landscape broken up by a single Cash 'n Check on the corner.

In a surprisingly spry move, Zintchio dismounted from his bike, opened the building's iron gate and disappeared inside.

MacMillian slowed the Fury to a crawl, and peered up at the building. Then he gunned the engine and kept driving.

Lena stared at him. "That's it?"

"It is for you." He didn't look at her. "I'm taking you home. I'll come back with Darius, and we'll sit on the place tonight."

"Seriously?" Lena gaped. "If you think you're coming back without me, you're out of your mind."

"I'm out of _my_ mind?" MacMillian's eyebrows went up. "You clearly don't know what goes on in the 'Loin at night."

"There you go again, treating me like I'm someone for you to babysit." Lena crossed her arms. "I've dealt with worse things than desperate crackheads, Magnum. Shouldn't you have figured that out by now?"

He gave her a dark look.

She raised her nose in the air. "Besides, you might need me."

MacMillian didn't answer right away. His jaw ticked. Finally, he jerked his head in a single nod. "Fine. But I'm warning you, if we do this, you're here for the night. No running home if you see someone get stabbed."

Lena snuggled deeper into the passenger seat and stared out the window. She couldn't help the smug smile that spread over her face. "Deal."

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

#

The alley across from Zintchio's building was deserted when MacMillian backed into it.

Lena slumped in the passenger seat, munching on a pretzel, watching the two buildings that loomed on either side of them. She glanced at MacMillian. "Nice parking spot."

He didn't answer while he guided the Fury further back into the narrow street. Finally satisfied they were out of sight, he shifted to a stop and pulled out a dented metal thermos. He unscrewed the lid. Coffee flavored steam filled the car.

"We're hidden. That's all that matters." He took a sip, winced. "Just cross your fingers no one tries to take a piss on the fender."

Lena choked.

The light faded quickly. A dense fog rolled in, and soon the windows were coated with moisture. Shadows moved outside, darting past buildings, ducking down alleys. Lena shivered. She'd been so sure of herself when she'd insisted on being here. Maybe MacMillian had been right. Maybe she should have let him take her home.

Something brushed past her door. She jumped.

Damn it, this was how everything always started: with shadows. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Everything was different now. She was older, smarter. She had her own business, her own home. Hell, if her date with Durbin was any indicator, she probably even had a boyfriend.

Something passed by the front of the car. Lena's throat closed, her heart racing.

"Coffee?"

She whipped her head around and found MacMillian holding out the thermos. It took her a moment to remember how to work her fingers, but she finally managed to take it from him. The lid was already open.

MacMillian didn't say a word as she drank. Lena finished and passed the thermos back. _Thank-you_ was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite bring herself to say it. She leaned back against the seat with a sigh. "So, you probably do this a lot, huh?"

MacMillian didn't look at her. "Do what?"

"You know." Lena gestured towards Zintchio's building. "This. Stake-outs."

She could barely make out his face in the ever-decreasing light. He smirked. "I've done a few." Fabric rustled as he lifted a shoulder. "Company's not usually this good."

A second passed before she registered the compliment. Her cheeks warmed. "Oh."

She couldn't think of anything else to say. Heavy silence stretched between them, then MacMillian cleared his throat. "So, what about you? How does this whole ghost-hunting thing with you and Cyrus usually work?"

Lena barked a quick laugh. "Nothing like this." She folded her hands in her lap, unfolded them again and crossed her arms. "For one thing, he's not used to spending so much time at a desk."

MacMillian _humphed_. "I guessed that."

"Most of the time, it's pretty low-key. A lot of our calls involve convincing half-baked ex-hippies the noises in their attics are a problem for pest-control, not paranormal investigators."

"What about the rest of the time?" MacMillian's gaze was heavy on her face. "I saw the way you handled Jimmy. And that ghost possession? You walked it off like it was nothing more than a scraped knee."

Lena tried a smile, almost managed it. "I've had... other... experiences, too." She shrugged. "I guess I just don't scare that easy anymore."

MacMillian didn't look away. Lena held her breath. He was going to ask about the nightmare. She swallowed hard. _Please, please don't let him ask about the nightmare._

He faced forward again, raised the thermos and took a drink of coffee. Eyes fixed on Zintchio's building, he took a deep breath.

"There was an accident."

Lena blinked, regrouped. She tried to guess what he was talking about, quickly gave up. "What?"

MacMillian didn't look at her. "You asked what happened with my brother. There was an accident."

The toneless sound of his voice was jarring. This was clearly an open wound for him, and he was getting ready to share it with her—why? Because he thought she expected it? Needed it? A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. "Look, you don't have to—"

He continued like he hadn't heard her. "We were on our way back from a job. Some guy out in Lakeside who was behind payments on his flat-screen TV." He shook his head. "When we showed up, he was blitzed. Drunk off his ass. Didn't put up a fight at all, just stood on his front porch swearing at us while we loaded his TV in our van. We figured the whole job for easy money."

Lena was silent. The knot in her stomach twisted.

"Anyway, it was late. Dark. We were on Highway 280 near where it branches off onto 101 when he hit us."

Lena forgot to breathe. "The same guy?"

MacMillian nodded. "Don't even know how he made it that far, drunk as he was. We weren't so hard to spot, I guess, being the only big white van on the road. I was driving. Didn't see him until he was right up on us, and by then it was too late." He stopped.

Lena watched his face, her chest tight. "You don't have to tell me this."

He took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was even. "He clipped us hard, and I lost control. The van flipped twice. My brother was asleep in the passenger seat, without his seatbelt. First roll, he went through the windshield. Second roll, my leg was crushed."

Lena couldn't speak. On impulse, she reached out and curled her fingers around his.

MacMillian stared down at their hands. His face softened. "I don't remember much about it," he murmured. "I mean, it's all in my brain, but it's like a jumble. There's this loud, awful noise. Glass shattering in my face. Blood."

He closed his eyes, and his fingers tightened around Lena's. She squeezed back.

His face hardened again. He opened his eyes. "When I woke up in the hospital, my leg was gone. At first no one wanted to tell me my brother was dead. But I knew. I'd seen what happened to him. Nobody could survive that." He stared straight ahead. "Nobody would want to survive that."

Lena tried to speak, swallowed, then tried again. "And what happened to the man? The one who hit you?"

MacMillian's lips twisted. "Far as I know, he's still living in that same ghetto neighborhood."

Lena didn't try to keep the horrified expression off her face.

MacMillian glanced at her, chuckled darkly. "The detective in charge of the investigation had just gotten his wings, so to speak. Didn't know what the hell he was doing, apparently mishandled some key pieces of evidence. Anyway, the guy had a smart lawyer, and got it all thrown out at trial. In the end, it was just me up there on the witness stand." He looked down at the thermos. "Of course, you know all Gypsies are liars and cheats."

Lena gaped at him. "You can't be serious. People don't think like that here."

"Maybe, maybe not." MacMillian shrugged. "All I know is, the verdict came back not-guilty. The guy walked." His lips thinned. "But that's not what bothers me most."

Lena waited.

He turned to her. His eyes cut through the darkness, bright and fierce. "A flat-screen TV. That's what my brother's life was worth. It's been five years, and that still keeps me up nights." He shook his head. "A fucking flat-screen."

Lena squeezed his hand again. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

MacMillian stiffened like she'd slapped him. "I'm not asking for your pity." He pulled his hand away.

She let his fingers slide from hers without a word. Deep inside her, something she'd done her best to bury started to ache.

It's not pity.

A small part of her wanted to tell him. The bigger part of her knew she couldn't. Not without explaining how she knew exactly how he felt. Not without talking about the matching stain on her own soul.

She sank back in the seat. "Got any of that coffee left?"

←↑↓→

It was nearly dawn when MacMillian finally eased the Fury back up the alley. Lena was passed out in the passenger seat, her body contorted into a position he wouldn't have previously believed possible, her cheek resting against the window. Each soft huff of air that passed her lips spread a halo of fog against the glass.

I'm sorry.

Her words echoed in his head. He'd heard those same words before, plenty of times and from plenty of people. Usually they grated on his psyche like a buzz saw hitting a rusty nail. He'd gotten good at deflecting the sentiment, at shutting it out and forgetting about it.

I'm sorry.

Strangely, when he replayed it in her voice, it didn't itch under his skin like usual. He hated pity, but it wasn't pity he'd heard from her. What he'd heard was sadness. Guilt.

Understanding.

They hit a bump in the road. Lena shifted, but didn't waken. MacMillian shook his head. She clung to sleep with the single-minded fervor of someone who had been deprived of it for far too long. He thought back to that unexpected encounter in her apartment. How long since she'd had a decent night's sleep?

If what he suspected was true, very likely it had been about as long since he had.

He felt a twinge of regret when he pulled up outside her shop. He looked over at her peaceful face, and regret morphed into downright guilt. MacMillian sighed. Nothing for it. He reached over and shook her shoulder. "Lena, hey."

She groaned, and he winced in sympathy. Abruptly, her eyes flew open. She jerked forward in her seat and whipped her head around blindly. "What is it? What happened?"

MacMillian raised his hands. "Easy, Rambo. You didn't miss anything. We're at your place."

"My place?" Lena blinked, looked around again. "I fell asleep. Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Figured at least one of us should get some shut-eye." MacMillian shrugged a shoulder. "Besides, I had to make sure the hubcaps didn't get jacked."

Lena stared at him, her expression hovering between amusement and disbelief. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Deadly."

She shook her head, stretched, and stifled a sudden yawn. MacMillian jerked his head towards her building. "Go on. You should try and get some more sleep."

Lena nodded, but the look on her face said she wouldn't. MacMillian didn't push the issue. He was all too familiar with the struggle. Pushing wouldn't do any good.

He waited until she was inside with the door closed before pulling away from the curb. The nighttime thrum of the city was a balm to nerves he hadn't even realized were frazzled. An ever-changing display of streetlights, stoplights, and taillights whirled past the windows. MacMillian sighed as the tension leaked from his muscles.

It wasn't often he talked about the accident. He wasn't even sure why he'd brought it up. It had seemed like the right move at the time, but now it was lodged in the forefront of his mind. Around someone else he could pretend like he was over it- at least, as much as it was possible to be. But alone?

Alone, it was just him and his thoughts.

Just him and Danny Ramirez _._

He thought about the man every day. And unlike he'd led Lena to believe, he knew exactly where he was. What he was doing. One of his first moves as a private investigator had been to find out everything about him: where he worked. Who his Internet provider was. Ramirez's entire life was painstakingly chronicled, collecting dust in a plain manila envelope in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Nights like this, he almost considered taking it out.

His phone rang before he could entertain that thought further. MacMillian released a breath and answered it at the next stoplight. "MacMillian."

"Hey. It's Cyrus."

MacMillian raised an eyebrow, even though no one could see it. "Hey. Everything all right?"

He could hear the other man pacing. "You'd better get over here." Cyrus skipped his question entirely. "Emil and Puzzle are back. You'll want to hear what they found."

←↑↓→

She should have realized the apartment was too quiet.

Lena changed into her favorite gray yoga pants and a well-worn t-shirt, and padded into the bathroom. Trance-like, she went through the motions of preparing for bed. Brush teeth. Pull hair back. Wash face.

She worked her cleanser into a lather and massaged it into her skin. Then she bent down and splashed water on her face. Once, twice, three times. When she couldn't feel any more soap, she straightened.

The medicine cabinet mirror was completely black.

Air surged from her lungs in a single, terrified wheeze. Her back hit the wall behind her before she even realized she'd moved. The blackness moved. She recognized it immediately.

The shadows had found her.

Lena burst back into the bedroom at a dead run. She snatched her oversized purse from the chair in the corner, tossed it onto the bed without stopping. She reached the dresser in two long strides, flung open the top drawer and grabbed anything she could reach. Arms full of mismatched socks and underwear, she dashed back to the chair and jammed them into her purse.

Get out, get out, get out, get out...

The words echoed inside her head like a litany. She had to leave. The shadows were back. She wasn't safe there anymore. Maybe she could go to The Wayfare- but no. She couldn't risk them following her. Lena shook herself. No matter. She'd think of something.

A wave of dizziness hit her. Her vision tunneled, then darkened.

She was in a familiar room.

A moan forced its way up her throat. "No. Not now."

She shook herself. Reality flickered, skipped between her apartment bedroom and her childhood nursery. She stumbled towards what she hoped was her closet. Just a couple things. All she needed were a couple things, then she'd be out of there.

The doors opened before she reached them. Yawning darkness greeted her. Thousands of shadowy tendrils reached out, beckoning.

Her friends.

Only this time, they didn't want to come out. They didn't want to play. They wanted to take her with them.

Lena backed away. "I can't!" She ground the words through clenched teeth. "I don't want to!"

The darkness deepened, like it was laughing at her. Suddenly, she felt like she was choking. Liquid gurgled at the back of her throat. Lena doubled over, hacked until whatever it was spewed up into her mouth. It tasted like chocolate. She spat onto the floor.

It was black.

Lena sank back against her bed. Horrified tears burned her eyes. She shook her head, kept shaking it. "No. No. No."

_Pointless to refuse_. She heard the words as clearly as if they were being spoken out loud. _We're already part of you. You belong to us._

"NO."

The room flashed white. The next instant, she was on her knees. She looked around wildly, released a ragged breath.

The closet door was closed. Socks and underwear littered her bedroom floor. She pressed a hand to her mouth. All traces of the foul liquid were gone. Only the minty flavor of her toothpaste remained.

Lena dragged herself to her feet. She hadn't dreamt that, had she? It certainly hadn't felt like a dream. She took stock of the mess around her. That, at least, was no dream. So what the hell had just happened? Head throbbing, she pressed the heels of her hands to her eye sockets.

Energy crackled around her. Lena groaned. Of all the times for someone to try and make contact. She dropped her hands again. "Look, now really isn't a good..." She stopped.

Jimmy was standing at the foot of the bed.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

#

Lena shot to her feet, already pulling energy towards her and mustering her shields.

Jimmy stepped back, hands raised. "Whoa! Hey, it's okay. It's me."

"It was you last time too." Her palms started to warm. "Or did you forget about all those plates you threw at my head?"

"I know, and I'm sorry. That wasn't—" Jimmy rubbed the back of his neck. His skin shimmered on contact. "I wasn't exactly in my right mind then."

"No kidding. And you are now?" Lena paused and studied his face. She pressed her lips together, sighed. "What the hell is going on here, Jimmy?"

Something that looked like fear shimmered over his face. "I know I don't have the right to ask, but I need your help."

Lena narrowed her eyes. "You're right. You don't have the right to ask."

The fear turned to desperation. "Please! Look, I know I've been a dick, but when I was alive, well, you were kind to me. I guess I sort of thought we were friends."

Fantastic. Lena gritted her teeth. "What do you need?"

"Thank you." The words came out on a whisper. "I just want to rest. That's all. But I can't. Someone's locked my soul to my body, and—"

"Wait." Lena took a step forward. "You found your body? Where is it? Is yours the only one there? Do you know who—"

Jimmy kneaded his temples with his fingertips. "Jesus, slow down. My ghost brain isn't worth a shit." He took a deep breath. "Yeah, I found my body. No, it's not the only one. There are a bunch of us trapped there, and there's this man—"

Lena leaned in. "Is he an old man? Did he do this to you?"

"What? No." Jimmy looked confused. "Old man? I haven't seen anyone like that. No, I'm pretty sure this one's dead." He grimaced. "For a while, too, by the looks of him."

Lena blinked.

Jimmy's gaze flicked around the room. "We need to go. I haven't seen who did this. It's like I'm blindfolded or something whenever he's around. If I can see, it means he's gone. I don't know when he'll be back." He gave her a pleading look. "This could be our only chance."

"Hold up." Lena stepped back again. "What are you talking about? I didn't agree to go anywhere with you. Our only chance at what?"

"To release me." Jimmy stepped towards her. "Please. I've heard him talking. Only a medium can do it."

Lena looked at him askance. "Did he know you could hear him? How can you be sure he wasn't just feeding you bullshit?"

"Of course he knew. He teased me with it." Jimmy's lips thinned. "He told me a medium could release me, release all of us, but it didn't matter because none of us knew any mediums." His eyes brightened. "He didn't realize I know you. I told the others. We pooled our energy to give me the strength to reach you."

"Others." Lena chewed on her lip. "How many are we talking about?"

"Twenty. Maybe thirty." Jimmy's face hardened. "I won't let them down, Lena. I can't."

Thirty trapped souls. Lena swallowed hard. A knot formed in her chest, tightened until she could barely breathe. She nodded stiffly. "Fine. All right. I'll go with you. I just need to make a call first."

Jimmy shifted impatiently while she crossed over to the chair and pulled her phone from her purse. She couldn't call Cyrus. He'd blow a gasket if he knew she was attempting something like this alone. But MacMillian might understand. She brought up her call log and hit redial on his number.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear for far too long. Lena hissed out a breath. Jimmy paused. "We can't wait. We have to go now."

She gave a single, grim nod as the voicemail message started. She waited until the beep. "Hey, it's Lena. I don't have time to explain, but Jimmy's here, and he needs my help. Tell Cyrus I've got this, and not to worry. If you don't hear from me, we'll be..." She stopped, looked at Jimmy. "Where did you say we're going?"

He winced. "I can't. Say, I mean. He's blocked me, or something. I can only show you."

Lena rolled her eyes. "Great." She addressed the voicemail again. "I don't know where I'll be. But I'm fine. Jimmy's got my back."

She hung up before she could dwell on how discomfiting that sounded.

←↑↓→

MacMillian reached The Wayfare in what he assumed was record time.

Cyrus opened the door before he'd even finished knocking. He glanced past him at the empty porch. "Where's Lena? I thought she was with you."

"She was. I dropped her at her place before you called." MacMillian met the other man's stare without flinching. He'd debated picking her up again, at the last minute decided against it. Maybe she'd been able to get back to sleep. "It sounded urgent. Figured I'd better come right over."

Cyrus sighed heavily. "It is urgent. Guess we'll just have to fill her in later." He retreated inside, jerked his chin for MacMillian to follow. "Come on. Emil and Puzzle are in the library."

MacMillian followed him through the reception hall. "You said they found something?"

"Yeah. But it'd be better if they told you."

Puzzle was waiting just inside the library door. He tensed when they entered, relaxed again when he saw it was them. He and MacMillian nodded to each other.

Emil stood at the large table, a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up when Puzzle moved to stand beside him. "Good. You're here." He looked around. "Where's Lena?"

"It's just me." MacMillian propped his cane against one of the table legs. "What's going on?"

In response, Emil took a scroll of paper out from under his heavy black coat and rolled it onto the table. MacMillian looked closer. It was a tracing of what looked like a tablet. He glanced up at Emil. "Are those hieroglyphics?"

"Hieratic, actually. After our last visit, I remembered hearing about an obscure tablet from the mid-Ptolemaic period. Puzzle and I tracked it down at a museum in Alexandria. We just got back."

"Alexandria... _Egypt_?" MacMillian stared at him. "How did you..."

Cyrus cleared his throat loudly. Emil shrugged. His eyes flicked briefly to Puzzle. "It's not really important. The point is, we know what's going on." He took a deep breath. "We think we're dealing with a necromancer."

MacMillian rubbed his forehead. "A necromancer. Because, of course."

Emil ignored him and pointed to the tracing. "This is an ancient religious text dating back to the time of Cleopatra. It's a how-to manual, a recipe for creating spirit familiars."

MacMillian looked around the table. Cyrus, Emil, and Puzzle all looked grim. "I take it that's bad?"

Cyrus groaned, and Puzzle muttered something under his breath. Emil removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Think of a familiar as a supernatural guide. Their job is to assist in the use of magic. They mostly associate with witches, usually appearing in animal form."

MacMillian's phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He ignored it. "But not always?"

"Under certain conditions, spirits can be compelled to act as familiars while retaining their noncorporeal forms." Emil blew out a breath. "The trouble is it's dangerous, it's unnatural, and the majority of spirits dislike it, to say the least. Usually, they'll actively resist. In the rare cases they can be effectively compelled, they're incredibly unstable."

MacMillian's voicemail buzzed. He ignored it, too. Something struck him, and he turned to Cyrus. "Where are you keeping Jimmy and Tree?"

Cyrus's lips thinned. He nodded sharply. "I think I know what you're thinking. I'll go get them."

He disappeared into the hallway. Emil slipped his glasses into his breast pocket, then leaned over the table and started to roll up the tracing again. MacMillian watched in silence. Emil tucked the paper back under his coat, and MacMillian cleared his throat. "So. How was Egypt?"

Puzzle snorted. Emil just shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Cyrus returned a few minutes later. MacMillian took one look at his face, and the concern in his gut ratcheted higher. "What's wrong?"

"They're gone." Cyrus looked like he was going to be ill. "Jimmy and the girlfriend. They're gone."

Emil sucked in a quiet breath. MacMillian glanced at him, then back at Cyrus. "But that happens sometimes, right? I mean, you guys must have a lot of ghosts cooped up in here. Couldn't they have just wandered off?"

"Absolutely not." Cyrus shook his head vehemently. "Once a spirit is brought in, they're assigned a specific location on a specific plane. They're bound there immediately."

MacMillian did a double-take. "Wait, _plane_? As in—"

"Later. Point is, they couldn't have left. Not unless they were deliberately released." Cyrus pulled his cell out of his pocket. "I think it's time to bring Lena into this."

He shifted impatiently while the phone rang. Lena's voicemail message echoed from the speaker. Cyrus swore under his breath and tried again. Again, the phone rang to voicemail.

MacMillian watched the worry mount on his face. "Maybe it's nothing. Who knows, maybe she's finally getting some sleep."

Cyrus looked up, a deep crease in his forehead. "What do you mean, 'finally'?"

MacMillian's neck prickled under the weight of three pairs of eyes. He looked around the table. "Hasn't she told you about the nightmares she's been having?"

Emil's face stilled. "What nightmares?"

MacMillian hesitated, then blew out a breath. "She was in the middle of one when I went to pick her up this morning. Not to go into detail, but it didn't look pleasant. And the way she's been looking the past few days, I'm betting it wasn't the first."

Emil's expression was serious. "Combined with everything we've learned so far, what you're describing sounds like it could be dream manipulation. It's a classic necromancer attack."

Cyrus started dialing again. "So why the hell are we all just standing here? We need to warn her!"

MacMillian's voicemail alert buzzed again. A sense of dread settled over him. With wooden fingers, he pulled out his phone.

Missed Call: L. Alan.

"Shit." He put the message on speaker, and held up the phone.

Lena's voice filled the library. "Hey, it's Lena. I don't have time to explain, but..."

By the time the beep signaled the end of the recording, Emil was paler than usual, and Cyrus's face was an unhealthy shade of grey. Even Puzzle looked troubled. MacMillian took a deep breath and steeled his itching nerves. "We need to find her."

Cyrus rubbed his face. "She's not answering her phone."

"I know." MacMillian looked back down at his phone and started dialing. "Just leave it to me."

"But how—"

"Trust me." MacMillian raised the phone to his ear and met Cyrus's eyes. "Finding people is a specialty of mine."

←↑↓→

The tunnel was unnaturally cold.

Lena shivered and tugged her microfiber sports jacket tighter around her. She should have changed into something warmer before leaving home. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she adjusted her grip on her flashlight. Weird neon graffiti covered the tunnel walls. Moisture beaded on the paint.

She cringed as her foot landed in yet another puddle of standing water. The hems of her yoga pants would be ruined.

Ahead of her, Jimmy flickered around a corner. Lena sighed and picked up her pace. "How much farther is it?"

She rounded the corner behind him, stopped. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. In front of her, the tunnel opened up into an underground junction. High overhead, the first rays of morning sunlight filtered down through a storm grate. The moisture funneled into a narrow stream along the floor. Entrances to more tunnels gaped in the walls on either side of her.

Lena hesitated. "Jimmy?"

His voice sounded right in her ear. "Come on. We're almost there."

She jumped a little, crossed her arms and planted her feet. "No way. I've followed you this far, but I need some answers. I'm not moving until you tell me where we're headed and what we're going to find there."

Jimmy shimmered into view in front of her. "Come on, Lena, please? You have to trust me. We're running out of time." He raked a hand through his hair. "I know I'm asking a lot, and I'm sorry. I just want to be with my family, you know? Tree, our baby..."

Lena stopped mid-step. "What did you say?"

Jimmy looked confused. "I—what? What's wrong?"

"You said you wanted to be with Tree and _your baby_." She started to back up. "Only you don't know about the baby."

Jimmy's laugh sounded forced. "What are you talking about? Of course I know about our baby."

"No. You don't. I met Tree. She said she died before she could tell you." Lena swallowed hard. Tendrils of dread licked at her belly. "Damn it, Jimmy, how do you know about the baby?"

Jimmy stuttered. "I...no, it's not like... You see, what happened was—"

"That's enough, Jimmy."

Lena whirled around. A small, bent figure stepped out of the darkness behind her, blocking her retreat. She narrowed her eyes. "You. I knew it."

Gershon Zintchio didn't answer her. Instead, he addressed Jimmy. "Go on, then. You know what to do."

Lena whirled back to Jimmy. "Jimmy..."

Jimmy's face twisted with regret. "I'm sorry about this, Lena. Really, I am." He flickered, then disappeared.

Lena managed a gulp of air, then ice flooded her veins. She'd never been jumped like this before. It hurt. Worse, she was sure it was meant to. Her scream echoed through the junction.

Then the lights went out.

# CHAPTER TWENTY

#

It was cold in the concrete chamber.

Lena's eyes drifted open. Her head ached. She squeezed her eyes shut again. No, not just her head—her entire body. She tried to move, but nylon rope cut into her wrists and ankles.

She forced herself to breathe through the panic clawing at her throat, and focused on her surroundings. Something cold pressed against her back: metal. A table, maybe- or a gurney. Sound hummed through the walls: the dull drone of traffic, the electric buzz of streetcar lines. A savory aroma tickled her nose, and Tree's words leaped into her head.

It smelled like Chinese food.

There was another smell too, so rancid it made her stomach roll. She recognized it immediately: death. Lena pressed her lips together. A whimper escaped anyway.

"Come now, there's no cause for that."

Lena's eyes flew open. Gershon Zintchio stood at her feet. Even now, he didn't look remotely terrifying. If anything, he looked concerned. She clenched her jaw. "Where is this place?" She looked around. "And where's Jimmy?"

"Why, he's inside you, my dear. Don't you feel him?"

Lena gaped. It couldn't be. Surely she'd be able to tell—wouldn't she?

"I see you don't believe me." Zintchio spoke a little louder. "Jimmy, say hello."

Sudden, icy pain filled her chest. Lena gasped. It felt like she imagined drowning would, except there was no water—only thousands of tiny needles, scoring her lungs and windpipe.

Just as suddenly, the pain disappeared. Lena choked down breath after breath. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. "What's he doing to me?"

"Nothing permanent. Not yet, anyway. He's simply there to ensure you do as you're told."

Lena glared. "What do you want?"

Zintchio started to pace. He paused to look at her. "Your help."

Lena fought back the hysterical laugh that threatened to bubble out of her. "My help. Are you serious? Why the hell would I help you?"

Zintchio sighed and resumed his pacing. "Jimmy?"

Needles shot down her spine, the pain penetrating deeper this time, until it felt like it was boring into her very bones. A single scream wrenched up her throat. She couldn't gather enough air for another.

The pain receded again. This time, it was several minutes before she could speak. When she finally could, her voice came out a croak. "Why are you doing this?"

Zintchio stopped pacing. He walked over to a table she hadn't noticed before, pushed against the wall. A shroud covered something that looked suspiciously like a body. He laid a hand over what she guessed was the head. Lena resisted the urge to gag.

Zintchio didn't seem to notice. He stared down at the figure. "I have seen much in my life. Done much. I have no regrets about any of it, save one thing: I was a cold and distant father." He stroked the shroud. "It was how I was raised: a man was expected to be strong. Cold. So I was. I never once stopped to consider the effect it had on my son."

Lena twisted, winced as the rope dug into her skin.

Zintchio ignored her. "When my wife passed, my son stayed by her side during the final moments. I was so proud. It was difficult, but he was strong. I drew comfort from that, from knowing that when _my_ time came, my son would be at _my_ side."

He looked up at her. "I told him as much when we left the hospital. He just looked at me. He said he had loved his mother, but he never wanted to see me again. He said as far as he was concerned, he had grown up without a father."

Lena took in his tortured expression. _I'm sorry_ instinctively leaped to her lips. She pressed them together and forced the words back.

"We didn't speak for years. I told myself we had time, that we would make amends somehow. But we never did. A few months ago, he was killed. Murdered on Geary Street by a mugger looking for drug money."

Lena's lips twisted. "So that's what this is all about? Revenge?"

Zintchio looked up sharply. "It's about my _son_." His face closed. "After all, there is nothing a father would not do for his child."

The final piece clicked home. Lena stared at him. "Jimmy would never help you unless you had some kind of leverage over him." She closed her eyes briefly. "His baby. That's it, isn't it?"

His silence was all the confirmation she needed. Nausea churned in her belly. "What have you done?"

Zintchio reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, ornate box. Lena recognized it immediately. A brazen vessel. Zintchio patted it like he was patting a child on the head. "I haven't done anything. I am simply safeguarding it for Jimmy until our work here is complete."

"You're holding his unborn child hostage. What kind of—" Lena swallowed the bile at the back of her throat and started over. "Please. You don't have to do this. It's not too—"

"What? Too late? My dear, you clearly have no idea what I've done to get this far." Zintchio slipped the box back into his pocket.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Lena forced her breathing to stay steady. "Why don't you tell me, then? Tell me why I'm here."

Zintchio made a frustrated noise. "I truly am sorry. Believe me when I say I have no other choice. I thought I could complete the ritual myself, but it seems I do not possess the power necessary."

Lena shook her head. "Ritual...?"

"To call up the spirit of my son. I will make amends. I will be the father I always should have been, and in return," Zintchio's eyes were bright, "in return he will love me."

Lena groaned. "Necromancy? That's your plan? You realize you'll be bringing your son back as a zombie, right? Is that really what he would want?"

"All that matters is he will be back. We will be a family again."

Lena tugged against her ropes. "This will never work. You know that, don't you?" She glared up at him. "My friends are going to find me."

Zintchio waved a dismissive hand. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."

His lack of concern was unnerving. Lena stopped struggling. "You're not worried. Why?"

Zintchio moved around the room, and for the first time she noticed the walls were lined with candles. One by one, he lit them. "Because unlike your friends, I have an army at my command."

Her mouth went dry. "The other spirits."

"A lovely little spell I discovered. Their individual wills are now bound to mine. When your friends arrive, they will have quite the fight on their hands."

Lena sank back against the table.

Zintchio finished lighting the candles, and returned to her side. "I am not unreasonable. If you use your power to help me, I will release both Jimmy and the child, and you will be free to go." He spread his hands. "Now, shall we begin?"

"No."

Zintchio made a distressed noise in the back of his throat. "I had hoped you would not be so difficult. I had no desire to make this unpleasant for you." He closed his eyes. "Convince her, Jimmy."

Lena opened her mouth to protest. The words never came. White light exploded behind her eyes as blinding pain surged through her body. The needles sank into all her deepest places, embedded themselves in her very fibers. Her back arched off the table. She was being ripped apart, turned inside-out, reduced to atoms and carbon.

But something else was building. Familiar darkness started to rise inside her. It was as if the prison containing it had cracked open. It clawed its way upwards, fighting to escape. Lena mustered the last of her strength and forced it back down.

"Please." She barely recognized her own voice. "Jimmy. Stop. You have to stop."

Zintchio crossed his arms. "Jimmy, keep going."

Lena thrashed against the ropes. "No! You don't understand—" A wave of pain cut her off.

This time when she screamed, the darkness screamed with her.

←↑↓→

It wasn't long before MacMillian's phone buzzed with an address.

He'd had a feeling they'd end up back at The Butterfly Room sooner or later, but the text confirming it made his gut knot nonetheless. He could still clearly remember the last time they'd been there. The same image of Lena's pale, sweaty face flashed to mind. How much trouble was she in this time?

He refused to dwell on it.

Cyrus led them through a labyrinthine back hallway to the garage. He hopped into the driver's seat, his face hard. MacMillian climbed into the passenger seat. Emil and Puzzle piled into the back without a word.

The Caprice flew towards North Beach at breakneck speed. MacMillian braced his cane across his knees and retreated into his own head. He'd long ago learned the best way to deal with times like these was to mentally prepare for what was ahead.

But try as he might, he couldn't quiet his racing thoughts. What was happening to Lena while they navigated the four-way stops, waited for the red lights to change? Every second in the car was a second too long. What if they couldn't reach her in time?

"Hey."

MacMillian looked at Cyrus. The other man was staring straight ahead, his hand wrapped around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. "Yeah?"

"That nightmare you mentioned." Cyrus cleared his throat. "Did Lena say what it was about?"

MacMillian shook his head. "No, and I didn't ask." He lowered his voice. "Why?"

Cyrus gave his head a solid shake. "It's probably nothing. Just... we used to have an older sister."

_Used to._ MacMillian faced forward again. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." Cyrus's voice was rough. He cleared his throat again. "Anyway, after she... you know... Lena used to have these nightmares. She's..."

MacMillian didn't look at him. "We'll get her."

"Yeah." Cyrus sounded harsh. "I'm just not sure what we'll find when we do."

They drove past the extraction site without stopping. Cyrus took a sharp left at the corner, and pulled into the restaurant parking lot next door. The four of them climbed out. Emil turned to MacMillian. "You've been here before, right? How do we get past the construction workers?"

Puzzle cracked his knuckles. "Leave that to me."

MacMillian started to speak. A voice behind them beat him to it.

"I've already made arrangements."

MacMillian turned to find Durbin striding towards them. Puzzle stepped forward, his body coiled to attack. "Who the fuck is he?"

Cyrus groaned. "Jesus. This is who you called?"

MacMillian ignored them both. He grabbed Durbin's arm and hauled him to the side. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Durbin shook him off. "Hey, you called me, remember? If you think I'm going to just sit on my ass while Lena's in trouble—"

"Who said Lena's in trouble?"

"Please." Durbin gave him a withering look. "You don't just ask to trace someone's cell unless they're in trouble. What's going on?"

Cyrus, Emil, and Puzzle shifted behind them, their collective impatience palpable. MacMillian ground his teeth. "Damn it, Durbin. You're in over your head."

"Fuck you. Let's get moving. We're wasting time."

MacMillian sighed. He couldn't argue with that.

Durbin led the way to the extraction site. The chain link gate was already open. A grizzled man in a neon vest and hard hat stepped forward as they walked through. Durbin waved his badge at him. "They're with me."

They reached the edge of the shaft, and Cyrus started down first, Emil right behind him. MacMillian hung back. He reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers dusted the bottle of Van Van oil still inside. He clenched his jaw, turned and pulled it out. "Time to see if you really work," he muttered.

"What did you say?"

MacMillian glanced back over his shoulder. Durbin was looking at him, forehead drawn. Puzzle was rapidly disappearing down the ladder.

MacMillian waved his cane. "Nothing. Go ahead. I'll be right behind you."

Durbin gave a short nod and swung onto the ladder. MacMillian turned back to the Van Van oil. He unscrewed the lid. A faint citrusy aroma wafted out. He plugged the opening with one finger and upturned the bottle.

He turned it right-side up again and replaced the cap. A small sheen of fragrant oil coated the pad of his finger. He gritted his teeth. "This is ridiculous."

He hastily dabbed it onto his forehead and slipped the bottle back in his pocket.

His four companions were clustered around the outside of the tunnel when he finally reached the bottom of the shaft. Emil turned to Puzzle and Cyrus. "Are you both warded?"

Durbin looked at MacMillian. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Cyrus pulled a small chunk of black stone out of his pocket and lifted a silver saints medal from under his shirt. Puzzle reached under his collar and pulled out a handful of clinking medallions. MacMillian recognized a few of them: a cross, a _hamsa_ , an ornate _milagro_. Several others he'd never seen before.

Durbin groaned. "Are they serious?"

Emil turned to him. "Do you have protection?"

"Sure do." Durbin flipped up his jacket to reveal the M9 in his shoulder holster. "You people can keep your superstitious mumbo-jumbo. I have all the protection I need."

Emil shook his head, but didn't press the matter. Instead he shifted his attention to MacMillian. "What about you?"

MacMillian shook his head. "Thanks. I'm good."

"Seriously." Emil started to remove a medal from around his neck. "Take this. Take something. You can't go in there without—"

Puzzle sniffed. "Does anybody else smell lemons?"

MacMillian coughed. Emil gave him a hard look. MacMillian kept his eyes forward. "Let's just get this over with."

Cyrus blew out a breath and slipped the stone back into his pocket. "Guess this is your show now. Lead the way."

MacMillian caught Durbin's eye. Face hard, the other man nodded. MacMillian gripped his cane tighter and started into the tunnel. "Come on."

The door seemed farther than he remembered. MacMillian stood to the side and nodded to Durbin. "Want to do the honors?"

"Hell yes." Durbin planted his back leg and kicked. The door groaned, but held firm. Durbin braced for another kick.

Cyrus came up beside MacMillian. "Hey," he murmured. When MacMillian looked at him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the black stone.

MacMillian started to shake his head. "Really, I don't—"

"Just take it, would you? I have another one. Besides, Lena would never forgive me if I let something happen to you."

MacMillian hesitated, then took the stone and slipped it into his pocket next to the Van Van oil. "Thanks."

Cyrus jerked his head in a nod and stepped away just as Durbin finally kicked the door in.

A nauseating aroma immediately flooded the tunnel. Durbin swore, bent over and planted his hands on his knees. Puzzle snarled something in a language MacMillian didn't recognize, and Emil fell back several steps, one hand over his mouth.

Cyrus covered his nose. "What _is_ that?"

No one answered. After a few minutes, Durbin straightened. He reached under his jacket and pulled out the M9, traded glances with MacMillian. MacMillian nodded. Durbin raised the gun and released the safety. He started forward, MacMillian right behind him.

Inside was a scene straight out of a horror movie.

The room was small, with no ventilation to speak of. Piled against the walls were at least twenty bodies, all in various stages of decay. The stench was overwhelming. MacMillian blinked hard.

Durbin grimaced, then a professional mask dropped over his face. He approached one of the bodies and peered closer. "This one looks like it was involved in some sort of ritual."

Puzzle looked up from the body he'd been examining. "So does this one."

Durbin straightened and blew out a breath. "Fucking hell, MacMillian, what did you get me into?"

MacMillian shot him a pointed look. "You really want to know?"

Durbin shook his head. "No. No, I don't. Let's keep moving. I want to find Lena and get the fuck out of here."

No one objected.

At the far end of the room was what appeared to be the entrance to another tunnel. MacMillian nodded towards it. "Was that in the blueprints?"

"No." Durbin's face was set in stone. "It wasn't."

"Then that's where we're going." MacMillian started forward. "Everyone watch where you step."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

#

She felt like she'd been struck by lightning.

Lena drifted between consciousness and shadow. During Jimmy's treatments, Zintchio had dragged the other table out of the corner. It now sat just a few feet from her, in all its retch-inducing glory. The stench from the corpse coated her nasal passages, the inside of her mouth, lodged deep in her throat.

Zintchio flitted back and forth between the table and a rolling cart loaded with supplies, muttering the entire time. "Can you believe it, Mehil? We're finally doing it. This is the moment we've been preparing for."

He turned and retrieved something from the cart. When he turned back, he was holding what looked like a massive pair of bolt cutters. He leaned over the corpse.

"Forgive me, Mehil. This is the only way."

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Lena shut her eyes as tightly as she could. She didn't need to see to know what that noise was.

Ribs.

The sickening sound seemed to go on forever. At last, it stopped. She looked back in time to see Zintchio set the cutters aside. Sweat dotted his forehead. Thick, viscous fluid coated his hands. He came around to stand between the two tables, and looked down at her. "It is time."

Lena started to shake her head. "Wait. You can't—"

Zintchio started to chant. It was an incantation she'd never heard before, words she suspected no human was ever meant to know.

Pain hit again, more intense than any time before. Lena writhed against the table, no longer in control of her muscles. Her hands clenched and unclenched. Her head pounded. Her stomach cramped.

And deep inside her, something finally broke.

Zintchio's voice dimmed, drowned out by a strange rushing in her ears. Lena closed her eyes and sank into herself. The pain receded under a warm, dark blanket. Achingly grateful, she let it fold around her. Awareness faded. She drifted, blissfully numb.

We've been waiting for you.

She was too relieved to be afraid. The pain was gone, Zintchio was gone, even that abhorrent smell was gone. All she wanted was to stay here, isolated, safe.

No, not quite _safe_. A faint burning sensation razed the outer corners of her consciousness. Jimmy. Lena frowned.

Now something was reaching for her. She'd been running from it long enough to recognize what it was. A shadow. But unlike the shadows from her dreams, this one didn't want to hurt her. It wanted to help her.

You know what you have to do.

Lena let out a breath, at the same time released her last tattered shreds of resistance. She'd been resisting for so long, she almost didn't know how to let go. The shadow didn't hesitate. It surged forward, poured itself into her like water into a cup.

Lena gasped. She felt whole now, in a way she never had before. She was free. She was powerful.

It was time take back control.

←↑↓→

Just how long was that tunnel? MacMillian squinted into the endless dark ahead. "So, what are we looking for, exactly?"

Emil's voice filtered up from the back. "According to the tablet, the spirit familiar is bound by a physical spell. The original recipe calls for specially-prepared goat-skin, but we're probably looking for some kind of paper scroll."

Durbin groaned. "Spells? Jesus..."

MacMillian ignored him. "Did the tablet say how we break the spell?"

"The same way you break any spell." Emil paused to catch his breath. "You have to unmake the scroll."

MacMillian nodded. "Bonfire. Got it."

They continued onward. Just up ahead, the darkness dampened. MacMillian could only just make out a larger room. He quickened his pace. "I think there's something up here."

Sure enough, the tunnel opened up into a junction. Filtered light forced its way through a grate in the ceiling. Water trickled along the floor. More tunnel entrances yawned in front of them.

MacMillian stopped in his tracks. Durbin came up beside him. "How do we know which one to take?"

MacMillian opened his mouth. Before he could speak, a bone-chilling scream echoed from one of the openings.

Emil sucked in a breath. "Was that who I think it was?"

Cyrus swore. "Lena."

"She must be close." MacMillian started down the new tunnel at an awkward jog-hop. "Come on!"

The tunnel quickly plunged back into darkness. Their footsteps echoed eerily as they headed down what felt like a continuous arc. They rounded a final turn, and found themselves in an enormous chamber.

Durbin looked around. "What the hell is this place?"

"Looks like a natural cave." Emil stepped forward cautiously. "The bedrock under San Francisco is peppered with them."

Durbin let out a low whistle. "I'll be damned."

The sound echoed off the walls, the ceiling, back down the tunnel. MacMillian stiffened. "Does anyone else feel that?"

Durbin hovered over his shoulder. "Feel wha—"

A sudden gust of what felt like a hundred bats blew past MacMillian's head. Puzzle shouted a warning. Cyrus and Emil dove to the side. MacMillian threw his arm up over his face, but whatever it was kept moving past him.

Durbin let out a yell. MacMillian whirled in time to see him drop to the floor, the M9 clattering to the stone beside him. Eyes wild, he doubled over and threw up. Then he collapsed.

MacMillian swore. "What the—"

"It's the familiars!" Emil ripped one of the talismans from around his neck and held it upward. Beside him, Puzzle was doing the same thing. Emil jabbed a finger at a small passageway carved into the far side of the cave. "Hurry! We'll hold them here as long as we can. Find the spells!"

Cyrus pulled something from his pocket. He caught MacMillian's eye and tossed it to him. A lighter. "Go build us a bonfire." He jerked his chin towards Durbin's prone form. "We'll look after him. Find Lena!"

MacMillian palmed the lighter and broke for the passageway. Noncorporeal fingers brushed his cheeks, his shoulders, the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth and pressed forward. The spirits ceased their grasping, as though repelled by an invisible barrier.

MacMillian blew out an incredulous laugh. "What do you know? The hoodoo man was right."

←↑↓→

Lena relaxed as the shadow pulled her deeper.

They came to her placid lake, the quiet place in her mind she had always retreated to. The shadow didn't stop. It dragged her below the surface of the water, deeper into her consciousness than she'd ever been able to venture on her own.

It was as if the very universe opened up before her eyes. She struggled to take it all in. It was energy, pure energy. Planets, galaxies, stardust. She could see everything, could feel it vibrating deep inside her.

And there, in the midst of it all, was Jimmy.

Thin tendrils of energy licked from his etheric body, each one sunk deep into her essence. At the shadow's gentle insistence, Lena summoned forth the pain he'd inflicted. Even as a memory, it was agony. She took a deep breath and pulled it closer. Gradually, it morphed into something else.

Rage.

She reached out, and Jimmy looked up. His eyes widened.

Suddenly, she was back in the cold room. Zintchio was still standing over her, still chanting. He swayed dangerously, his voice at fever pitch. The candles around the room started to flicker.

Jimmy erupted from her body with a shriek. "What the fuck? There's something in there!"

Zintchio screeched out a final, blasphemous word and seized her hand, at the same time laid his other hand on the corpse beside them. Lena howled as energy surged through her. The wheeled cart tipped over. Its contents spilled across the floor.

Zintchio yanked his hand back like she'd burned him. He clutched it to his chest and stared down at her, eyes wide. "What _are_ you?"

Lena felt her lips twist as the shadow inside her smiled.

←↑↓→

The passage grew steadily narrower, opening into a second cave further up. Candlelight flickered from inside it.

MacMillian squeezed his shoulders in tight and wedged himself the last few feet. He burst into the cave with a relieved grunt and looked around. Melted, unlit candles lined the walls. Light flickered through a gap between them; another doorway. Piled in the center of the floor was a small mound of... something. It certainly didn't look like paper.

MacMillian drew closer. He snorted in disbelief. "Seriously? Who the fuck has actual goat-skin lying around?"

He picked one up between two fingers. A strange symbol had been painted on it—with what, he didn't want to know. MacMillian wrinkled his nose and tossed it back onto the pile. He readied his grip on Cyrus's lighter. "One bonfire, coming up."

An unearthly howl boomed out of the other doorway. MacMillian froze. It sounded nothing like Lena. Hell, it didn't even sound human. The hairs on his arms prickled, and a chill ran down his back. He shook it off and struck the lighter.

Nothing.

"God damn it Cyrus, you did _not_ give me a used-up lighter."

Another scream echoed through the doorway. MacMillian's head jerked up. That one had definitely sounded like Lena. He took a step towards the doorway, hesitated and looked down at the pile of spells.

Another scream. MacMillian swore and tossed the useless lighter aside. Then he gripped his cane like a sword and half-ran, half-limped through the door.

←↑↓→

The corpse had moved.

Lena twisted against her ropes. Not even her shadow friend could keep the panic at bay this time. The nylon bit into her wrists, and something wet trickled down her arms.

The corpse moved again. Lena screamed until her voice broke.

Zintchio had long since forgotten about her. He hovered over the creature, a beatific expression on his face. "Mehil?" He uttered the name like a prayer. "Is that you?"

A raspy, wheezing sound whistled through the corpse's rotted lips. "Papa..."

Lena's head spun. She blinked hard. She wouldn't faint. She couldn't faint...

"My boy!" Zintchio picked up the creature's hand, seemingly unaware how the skin slipped in his grasp. "We did it! The ritual worked!"

The creature ignored him. Mottled eyes sought out Lena's. Its blotched face darkened. "What have you done?"

Lena shrank back. "I didn't want to, I swear! He made me!"

Zintchio patted the hand still in his. Tears streamed down his weathered cheeks. "Mehil? What is wrong, my son?"

"What's wrong?" The creature struggled to sit up. "I was gone. What am I doing here? Why am I back?"

Zintchio beamed. "It's all right! It is true, you were gone, but I saved you. I brought you back." He reached out and touched the creature's matted hair.

It pulled away with a snarl. "Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Zintchio blinked. "What I've... But don't you see? Now we have time. We can make things right between us."

The creature let out a bone-chilling howl. "I don't want _time_! I want to _rest_!"

Lena pulled as hard as she could. Unbelievably, the rope securing her left wrist snapped. She strained against the other.

MacMillian's voice echoed behind her. "Lena? Are you in here?"

"Yes!" She struggled harder. "Yes, I'm here! But I'm not—"

Before she could say _alone_ , MacMillian barreled into the room. Relief flooded his face when he saw her, then he noticed the necromancer's son. He stopped in his tracks. "Jesus! What the fuck is that?"

Zintchio stared at them for a heartbeat without moving. Then his face twisted. "Jimmy! Where are you?"

MacMillian ignored him and rushed to Lena's side. He set to work on the remaining ropes. "Let's get you out of here. Jesus, fuck, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Later," Lena ground out.

She glanced back at the creature. It had hauled itself to its feet and was attempting to stagger around the table. Zintchio clung to its tattered jacket. "Mehil! What are you doing?"

Lena returned her attention to MacMillian. He was nearly done with the rope around her other wrist. Her gaze drifted upwards, and the blood drained from her face. Jimmy had rematerialized up near the ceiling. He caught her eye.

Then he disappeared.

MacMillian jerked. "What the...?" He grunted and doubled over, his face gray.

Lena tightened her jaw. "I don't think so."

She splayed her free hand over his chest. MacMillian gasped. His muscles twitched against her palm. Lena retreated into herself until she found the shadow again, hovering just outside her conscious thoughts, silent, waiting. She beckoned it forward. It came immediately.

She turned her focus back to MacMillian. His energy hummed around her, oddly calm, despite Jimmy's invasion. With the shadow whispering instructions, she eased her way through it. MacMillian jerked again. His breath strangled.

Lena gritted her teeth and pressed into his subconscious. One by one, his thoughts and feelings bared themselves to her. His anger about the accident. His grief over his brother's death. His frustration with his leg. Tears filled her eyes. Her throat tightened.

The shadow urged her onward. Lena steeled herself and started to search. Soon she found the first telltale tendril. It was faint, weaker than she would have expected. Somehow, MacMillian was fighting it.

She seized it and followed it back to its source. Jimmy saw her coming. His jaw dropped. Lena and the shadow smiled. "Hey, Jimmy. Remember me?"

He tried to run. Lena just laughed. She caught him and pulled him into a tight hug. "Time to go."

Next thing she knew, she was lying on the table. Mehil and Zintchio were still struggling n the corner. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen.

MacMillian's face was drenched in sweat. He stared down at her. "What the fuck did you just do to me?"

Before Lena could answer, Mehil let out a feral screech. "Don't you understand? I don't want this! Please, just let me rest!"

Lena sat up. MacMillian finished with the ropes. "Time to go."

"Wait."

"Damn it, Lena..."

She fixed her eyes on his face. "When you came in, what was in the other room?"

MacMillian shifted. "Spells. Emil said they need to be burned, but your brother's lighter was a dud."

Lena nodded at one of the candles on the floor. "Take that. Go now. I'll be fine." She met his gaze. "Trust me."

MacMillian's jaw ticked, but he nodded, grabbed one of the candles and retreated back the way he'd come.

Lena waited until he was gone, then turned back to Zintchio and his son. "Mehil."

The creature looked up at her with one eye. The other lolled downward.

Lena suppressed a shudder. "Would you like to move on?"

Hope flared in its good eye. "Yes," it breathed.

Zintchio clutched its arm. "No! Mehil..."

The creature gave its arm a solid shake. Zintchio flew backwards, landed in a heap in the corner. A sob rasped his throat.

Lena forced herself to remain still as the creature crept towards her. It extended a hand. Skin hung loosely from its bones. Lena swallowed hard, reached out and touched its fingertips. She stared into its eyes and allowed her intent to flow between them.

The creature drew a deep breath, released it again with a hollow rattle. Its eye turned to glass. Without warning or ceremony, the creature dropped to the floor.

An anguished scream came from the corner. Zintchio clawed his way to his feet and staggered towards Lena, his face red, a murderous look in his eyes.

Something whispered behind her, a sound like a strong breeze. Zintchio heard it too. He stopped.

Lena crossed her arms. "Do you know what that is, Mr. Zintchio? That means my partner has just set your spells on fire. Your slaves are free." She raised an eyebrow. "Now tell me, who do you think they'll be coming for first?"

Zintchio blanched.

"I can help you." Lena reached out a hand. "Give me the vessel holding Jimmy's child, and I'll make sure they all move on quietly."

Zintchio's eyes flicked from his son's body to the doorway. The approaching sound grew louder.

"You're running out of time. Make your decision."

Zintchio's mouth worked. Finally, he reached into his vest and pulled out the brazen vessel, tossed it to Lena.

She caught it and cradled it close. "Hey, little one. Your parents will be glad to have you back." She turned.

"Wait!"

She paused, looked back. "Yes?"

Zintchio's face was so pale, he looked like a ghost himself. "What about me?"

Lena studied him dispassionately. "What about you?"

"You said you would help me!"

She shrugged. "I lied."

She turned back around just as the first of the newly-freed familiars blasted through the doorway. Behind her, Zintchio screamed.

Lena didn't look back.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

#

Flames from the burning spells cast MacMillian's face in sharp relief.

Lena studied him as he stared into the fire. He hadn't flinched at the screams that followed her from the other room. He hadn't looked at her, or looked up at all, for that matter. He simply watched while the goat-skins sparked and curled, and slowly disintegrated into ash. Gradually the screams died away, and an unearthly silence settled over the tunnels.

The embers were beginning to die down when Emil and Cyrus burst into the room. They paused briefly when they saw the pile of charred spells, then their attention settled squarely on Lena.

Cyrus reached her first. He pulled her into a hug and buried his face in her neck. "You're okay. Thank god."

He pulled away, and Emil stepped in. He hugged her gently, then took both her hands and held up her wrists for examination. His forehead furrowed. "You're hurt."

"None the worse for wear." Lena forced a smile. She didn't look at MacMillian.

Cyrus walked over to him and held out his hand. "Thank you."

MacMillian shook it. "No problem." He visibly pulled himself together and looked around. "What about Durbin?"

Emil spoke up. "Puzzle's with him. They're on their way back to the surface."

Lena stiffened. "Mark was here?"

Cyrus gave her a strange look, then winced. "He insisted. Got jumped the second we reached the big cave back there. I did a full cleanse, but, well, you know how most mundanes take to those things."

"Yeah." Lena finally looked at MacMillian. He didn't meet her eyes.

Something gusted against the back of her neck. Cyrus and Emil jumped back. Lena didn't have to see it to know what they saw.

She turned. "Hey, Jimmy."

He stood in the doorway of the other room, hands in his pockets, Tree beside him. He lifted his chin. "Hey, Lena."

He didn't offer an apology, and she didn't ask for one. He looked her square in the eye. "You know why we're here."

"Yeah. Pretty sure I do."

Cyrus looked from her to the two spirits, then back to her. "What's he talking about?"

"This." Lena pulled the brazen vessel from under her arm. "Zintchio was keeping this from them."

Emil leaned in for a closer look. "What is it?"

"Their baby."

Emil jerked back. He traded glances with Cyrus, then held out a hand. "Mind if I have a look?"

Lena glanced at Jimmy. He nodded. She pressed the little box into Emil's palm, and he turned it over several times. A knot formed between his eyes. Lena watched his face. A parallel knot formed in her stomach. "What is it?"

Emil traced a finger over several rough etchings in the metal. "See these wards? They're rudimentary, but effective. Only the caster can break through them."

MacMillian spoke up. "That's not going to be possible."

Lena's stomach lurched, but he didn't say anything else. Still, he didn't look at her.

Panic shimmered over Jimmy's face. "Lena? What's going on? What does this mean?"

"It's okay, Jimmy." Lena turned back to Emil. "There has to be something you can do."

Emil glanced at Jimmy and Tree. His expression softened. He nodded. "I do know a few overrides. One of them should work."

He held the box up. Annunciating carefully, he spoke one word after another. Lena twisted her hands. Cyrus moved to her side and put an arm around her. MacMillian watched silently.

Emil blew out a breath. "Okay. Time for the big guns." He leaned closer to the box. " _Patû_."

Tumblers clicked inside the lock. Emil leaned back again, a pleased look on his face. MacMillian raised an eyebrow. "That must have been some override."

Emil's lips curved. "The Akkadian word for 'open'." He passed the box to Lena.

She cradled it gently. She could feel the soul inside, pulsing gently in her hands. Her chest tightened. It was so innocent, so clean. Had her soul started out that way, too? She couldn't bear to imagine what it must look like now.

Jimmy and Tree watched her expectantly. Lena bit back a sigh, and opened the box.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Tree stepped forward. "Are you sure it's in there?"

At the sound of Tree's voice, the energy in the box started to hum. A tiny, bluish-white light slowly rose from inside it. Lena caught her breath. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, like the heart of a fledgling star.

It hesitated for another moment, then started forward. Tree clapped her hands over her mouth. Jimmy came up to stand beside her, his face slack with wonder. The light drew closer, and they reached out in tandem.

It touched their fingers, and Tree choked back a cry. She stared at it, enthralled. Jimmy looked over at Lena. Tears glistened on his cheeks. His voice echoed in her head, so deep in her consciousness she was sure only she heard it.

Thank you.

She nodded, the lump in her throat too tight to answer. He turned back to his family and wrapped his arms around them.

Without another word, the three of them flickered out.

←↑↓→

MacMillian leaned back in his desk chair, disregarding the protesting spring. In the corner of the office, the dusty old television played the news. He'd been ignoring it since Darius turned it on, but the next headline made him sit up and pay attention.

"The city's most vulnerable residents are resting a little easier this evening after a daring raid in North Beach."

A familiar image flashed onscreen. It was The Butterfly Room. The lot was enclosed in bright yellow crime scene tape, teeming with police and fire trucks. The camera zoomed in to show covered stretchers being hoisted from the extraction shaft.

The news anchor's voice played over the footage. "Earlier today, the San Francisco Police Department revealed an ongoing investigation into several disappearances in the Tenderloin district."

Another video clip came onscreen. This time it was Durbin, standing in front of a row of microphones. "My team and I were notified via anonymous tip that someone might be targeting residents of the Tenderloin. My office has been looking into these allegations quietly, and with the help of several concerned citizens, we confirmed the threat to be genuine."

MacMillian snorted.

The news anchor returned. "Early this morning, Inspector Durbin and a small team raided the suspect's hideout, located in an off-shaft of the city's future Downtown Subway system. The suspect, longtime community icon Gershon Zintchio, is believed to have perished during the standoff."

MacMillian crossed his arms.

The anchor continued. "Now for how all this will affect the Downtown Subway project, we go to Cindy Nguyen, live in North Beach. Cindy?"

MacMillian turned the television off just as Darius walked in. Darius humphed. "Nice try, but I've already seen it. It's been playing all day." He rolled his eyes. "Sure was sweet of your boyfriend to give credit where it's due."

MacMillian shrugged. "Probably for the best. What would we do with that kind of publicity?"

Darius stopped halfway to his office door, turned, and fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Who are you, and what have you done with my partner? Seriously, did something happen to you down there?"

MacMillian sighed. "You don't know the half of it." He leaned back. "I was out of my league again, Darius. You know I don't like that."

"The Van Van oil-"

"Helped, but not enough." MacMillian stared at a nonexistent speck on the wall.

Darius watched him. "So, what now?"

MacMillian shook his head. "Hell, I don't know. I have a lot of catching up to do." He slid Darius a sidelong glance. "I could use some help."

Darius's brow furrowed. He started to say something.

The phone on MacMillian's desk cut him off. MacMillian sighed again and picked it up. "MacMillian and deCompostela. MacMillian speaking."

A tentative voice piped over the line. "This is MacMillian, the _rom baro_?"

MacMillian closed his eyes. He covered the mouthpiece and looked up at Darius. "I have to take this."

Darius's brow stayed furrowed. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah." MacMillian bit the inside of his cheek. "Family business."

Darius's eyebrows went up. He nodded and continued into his office.

MacMillian waited until he was gone, then removed his hand from the mouthpiece. "Hey. You still there? Yeah, you've reached him. What do you need?"

←↑↓→

She couldn't avoid her bedroom forever.

Lena stared at the closed door over yet another mug of tea. She hadn't gone in since arriving home. She couldn't bring herself to. The memories were still too fresh: the blacked-out mirror, the shadows in the closet, the inky liquid she'd heaved onto her floor. She'd reminded herself it was a dream too many times to count. She was almost to the point where she believed it.

Almost.

She took a long sip of tea. Before she could run the events over in her head yet again, the door buzzed. "Thank god," she muttered. Something to distract her. She set down her mug and trotted down the hall, plastered a smile on her face before hitting the two-way on the intercom. "You're early."

MacMillian's voice rumbled through the speaker. "Didn't realize you were expecting me."

Lena's eyes widened. "MacMillian. Hey. Sorry." She took a deep breath. "Come on up."

She hit the buzzer, and waited impatiently for the knock on her door. She opened it to find MacMillian leaning against his cane, one eyebrow arched. "I take it we didn't have some appointment I'd forgotten about."

Lena debated lying, quickly decided against it. "Mark's coming by to pick me up in a bit."

His expression didn't change. "Mark."

"Yeah." Lena shifted. "We're, ah, heading up the coast for the weekend."

MacMillian's dark eyes bored into her face. "Seems like you two are taking things kind of fast."

"Why not? We're both adults." Lena shrugged and looked away. "Besides, we both need to get out of town for a bit."

MacMillian nodded and looked away too. "I can understand that." He cleared his throat. "That's why I'm here, actually." He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, passed it to her. "Your brother loaned me this the other day."

Lena took it. "Black amber. Nice, Cyrus."

MacMillian rested a hand against her doorframe. "He never did say what it was for. Care to enlighten me?"

Lena rubbed the glossy surface. "It's your basic protection stone. Absorbs negative energy, guards against psychic attack and general evil." She studied it. "I wondered how you managed to hold Jimmy off the way you did."

"Yeah. That must have been it." There was something else in his voice, but he changed the subject before she could press the matter. "Anyway, I'm on my way out of town too. I figured I should get it back to you guys before I left."

Lena jerked her head up. "You're leaving?"

"Not for good. Just some family business I have to take care of."

"Oh. Of course." Relief coursed through her veins. She didn't allow herself to examine it too closely. Instead, she forced a light smile. "I guess a king's work is never done, right?"

MacMillian ducked his head, but not before she caught the quick grin that flashed over his face. "Something like that."

Lena tried to tear her eyes away. Couldn't. It was the first real smile she'd ever seen from him. He looked up again. Their eyes locked.

Flustered, she did the only thing she could think of and shoved the amber back at him. "Here. You should hold onto this."

His eyebrows lifted.

She gave what she hoped might pass for a casual shrug. "I mean, who knows, right? You might need it someday."

MacMillian cleared his throat. "No offense, but my world is crazy enough without adding ghosts, zombies, and necromancers to the mix."

Lena humphed.

MacMillian searched her face. She didn't know what he saw on it, but his expression changed, softened in a way she couldn't describe if she tried. He held out his hand. "However, since this is a gift, I accept. Thank you."

Lena placed the chunk of amber back into his palm. He let it sit there for a moment, then made a fist around it and slipped it back into his pocket. He met her eyes again. "There's something I need to ask you."

His voice was serious. Lena leaned against the door. "Okay. Shoot."

"You were in my head."

The bluntness of the statement momentarily threw her. She opened her mouth. "Ah..."

MacMillian held up a hand. "Don't try to deny it. I felt you there. I just need to know... how much did you see?"

Lena forced herself to hold his gaze. "Everything."

His cheeks darkened. "Everything, as in...?"

"As in everything." A sudden shiver trickled down her spine. Lena rubbed her arms. "I'm sorry, Jes. It was the only way to get Jimmy out of—"

"Jes." MacMillian looked at her strangely. "My brother used to call me that. He was the only person who ever did."

Lena finally looked down. "I know. I'm sorry, I—it just seemed to fit. I promise I won't—"

"No."

She looked back up, surprised. MacMillian stared past her. Emotions warred over his face, abruptly vanished behind his usual stoic mask. "It's okay. I've... missed it."

Her chest ached. "I know."

His eyes briefly connected with hers, then he looked away and backed down onto the first step. "I should get going," he muttered. "I'm supposed to be in Barvale by tomorrow afternoon."

"Sure." Lena swallowed. "Have a safe trip."

"Yeah. You too." He hesitated. "Thanks again for the amber." He glanced up at her again like he wanted to say something else. Then he nodded once, and headed down the stairs.

Lena shut the door and leaned against it. It was several minutes before she finally straightened again. Before she could overthink it, she forced her legs to carry her down the hallway to the closed door at the end. She only wavered a moment, then she turned the knob and pushed it open.

The sight inside made her stomach lurch all over again. Everything was exactly as she'd left it. Her bed was rumpled and unmade. Her purse was in the chair. The top drawer of her dresser was still open, and socks and underwear littered the floor.

Lena took a deep breath, then another. Just a dream. The whole thing had just been a long, terrible dream. She bent over and started picking up her things.

The more she cleaned, the better she felt. So she'd had a nightmare and freaked out a little. It hadn't been real. Of course it hadn't. Maybe her encounter with the "shadow" hadn't been real, either. She was hardly the first person to hallucinate strange things during times of stress. Comforted, she deposited an armful of clothes on her bed, dropped to her knees and plucked a fuzzy blue sock off the floor.

Instantly, she froze. Bile burned the back of her throat.

On the carpet, just underneath where the sock had lain, was a large black stain.

# _After_

A Few Weeks Later...

#

It was good to be home.

Lena Alan sank back in her chair and soaked in the comfortable bustle of the underground sushi restaurant. Ryoko's had a distinctly laid-back vibe, like a trendy version of a Japanese izakaya. She and Georgia had showed up early and managed to snag a private table just before the crowds descended.

They hadn't been there long, but already a line stretched up the stairs and out onto Taylor Street. Servers bearing loaded platters of fresh, glistening sushi wove expertly through the groups of would-be patrons. A DJ was setting up his gear atop a piano wedged in the corner.

Lena couldn't help but smile. Oh yeah. It was very good to be home.

Georgia leaned across the table to refill her thimble-sized cup of sake, waited while Lena reciprocated. She lifted her cup in a cheer, and grinned. "To sex."

Lena laughed, and clinked their cups together. "To sex."

They drank, and she sighed happily. The sake was hot—the way she liked—smooth and faintly yeasty. It slid down her throat and warmed her belly.

Georgia leaned forward again, eyes glittering. "So, spill. Spill everything. I want to hear all about your raunchy fuck-fest with your cop boyfriend. Tell me the truth. Is he a freak?"

Lena giggled. Her cheeks warmed, though that could have been the sake. "I think you're the freak, Georgia Clare. What do you want, a play-by-play?"

Georgia sniffed. "I'm just trying to figure out what inspired you to run away with this guy after knowing him, what, a week? Two? He must have some serious moves, that's all I'm saying."

Lena struggled to keep her smile in place. "It's like I told everyone before I left: I needed some time away. Mark was my excuse."

And what an excuse he'd been. She could almost still feel his short, wiry hair sliding through her fingers. His taste still lingered in her mouth. There were places deep inside her that still ached oh-so-sweetly.

Not to mention the fiery case of whisker burn that still blanketed her chest.

She snorted her next sip of sake.

Georgia rolled her eyes. "I take it back. I don't want to know." She took another sip, too. "You planning on seeing him again?"

Lena hesitated. That was the question, wasn't it? On paper, she and Mark Durbin were a match made in trickster hell. He was a mundane who readily admitted Casper the Friendly Ghost had given him the heebie jeebies as a kid. She was the freaking Ghost Whisperer.

She paused. Her thoughts drifted back to the last time someone had called her that.

Maybe you get some people with this whole "Ghost Whisperer" routine, but it's not going to work on me.

Jesper MacMillian. She hadn't thought about him since...since...

Who was she kidding? She'd thought about him every day since the last time he'd showed up at her apartment. He'd been on his way out of town, too; "family business." Had he come back yet? Maybe she should dust off his number, give him a—

Georgia cleared her throat loudly, and Lena jerked back to present. Her cheeks flamed. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Your boy toy." Georgia's eyes were a little too perceptive. "Think you'll see him again?"

Lena shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, why not, right?" It wasn't as if she didn't like Mark. She did like Mark. A lot. Things were easy with him. Simple. In her life, "simple" didn't come along very often.

Georgia picked up a bottle of soy sauce and poured a generous measure into a small bowl in the corner of the table. "He knows what you do, right?"

Lena blinked. "Of course, he does."

Georgia's eyes narrowed. "He knows _everything_ you do?"

Lena grimaced. Before she had time to come up with an answer, however, their sushi arrived. The smiling server set two massive platters on the table. Lena's eyes locked on the artistic assortment of jewel-toned morsels. Vaguely, she heard the server recite the names: Tahoe roll, Volcano roll, hamachi nigiri, toro nigiri.

Lena glanced up. By the looks of it, Georgia was salivating over their impending feast just as much as she was. They restrained themselves until the server left, then snatched up their chopsticks.

Lena went for the Tahoe roll first. She set a piece on her plate, painstakingly applied a dab of wasabi and a slice of pickled ginger. Carefully, she lifted her concoction and popped it into her mouth.

Creamy avocado, salty fish roe, and the tuna was as fresh as any she'd ever had: deep, ruby red and as silky as butter. The ginger made the insides of her cheeks sweat pleasantly. The wasabi sent a streak of fire through her sinuses before fading away.

Lena groaned. "Forget sex. Give me sushi any day of the week."

"And twice on Sunday." Georgia had a piece of hamachi trapped in her chopsticks. She moved the bowl of soy sauce into the center of the table and submerged the nigiri completely. Then she raised it back out and shoved it, still dripping, into her mouth.

Lena seized the opportunity and changed the subject. "So, you and Darius deCompostela." She gestured to the small silver medallion around Georgia's neck. "Someday you're going to have to tell me exactly how that went down."

Georgia snorted around her mouthful of food. "Trust me, you wouldn't believe me if I did." A wicked glint lit her eyes. "You know, his business partner just got back into town."

Lena's face heated again. She opened her mouth.

A loud buzzing from the back of her chair rescued her. She set her chopsticks down and turned to fish her cell phone out of her purse. The caller ID lit up the screen. "It's Cyrus. I should probably get this."

Georgia gave her a meaningful look, but settled back to enjoy the sushi.

Lena tapped the screen to answer. "Hey. What's going on? Is everything—"

Her brother's voice cut her off. "Where are you right now?"

His tone set off alarm bells in her head. Her chest tightened. "Lower Nob, with Georgia. Did something happen? What's wrong?"

He said something she couldn't make out.

"Hang on, it's too loud in here. Let me get outside."

Georgia looked up at that. She raised both eyebrows.

Lena lowered her phone. "I'm so sorry. I have to..."

"Go. I've got this." Georgia jabbed her chopsticks at her. "But you're treating next time."

"Deal. You're the best."

Lena blew her a kiss, then snatched her purse and maneuvered through the crowd. She edged past the line of people on the staircase and burst onto Taylor Street in a rush of accumulated body-heat. "Okay, I'm back. What did you say?"

"I said, I got a call." Cyrus paused. "From Seneca Lynch."

Lena's grip tightened around her phone. "Seneca Lynch? As in—"

"Yeah. As in the vampire." Cyrus sounded grim. "There's been an... incident. You still have the number for that mundane detective? MacMillian?"

Lena's pulse started to gallop. "Of course. But what-"

"You'd better call him." Cyrus didn't wait for her to finish. "You'd better call him right now. We're going to need his help."

# ←* ↑* ↓*→

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Keep reading for short excerpts from THE DEVIL'S DISEASE, PTOLEMY'S TABLET, AND SEASON OF THE WITCH...

#### Excerpt from _The Devil's Disease_ (Shades Below, #2)

Psychic medium Lena Alan always sticks to what she knows, and she knows dead people. When her brother Cyrus agrees to look into a troubling massacre for local vampire Seneca Lynch, Lena is in unfamiliar territory. Once again, she turns to private investigator Jesper MacMillian for help, and they are soon drawn into a part of the demimonde where folklore is real and nightmares are born.

_This time, there are more than just ghosts walking the streets of San Francisco._ _There are monsters, too._

"We need to hurry. Lena can't keep that detective busy forever."

MacMillian cast a final glance out over the first floor, then motioned Lynch through a doorway next to the stairs. They found themselves in another room. The previous night's excitement apparently hadn't made it up here. The room was empty and dark, shrouded in the kind of quiet usually reserved for cemeteries. There was a second, smaller dance floor, along with yet another bar and what looked like a snack counter.

Lynch scanned the space briefly. "That was good, you know."

MacMillian peered behind the snack counter. "What?"

"That nice little trick where Ms. Alan distracted the detective so we could come up here. However did you two work that out?"

MacMillian shrugged. "We've done this before."

Lynch snorted. "Apparently." He paused. "I'm impressed."

"Whatever." MacMillian moved over to the bar, and searched behind it as well.

"Looking for something?"

MacMillian made his way over to the banquettes on the far wall. "Not sure yet." Something on the ground caught his eye. He leaned forward for a closer look. "Guess I'll know when I find it."

The back of his neck prickled. He straightened again, and turned. Lynch was right behind him.

"What is it?"

MacMillian's palms felt slick. He gripped his cane a little tighter. "Step back, please."

Lynch cocked his head. His gray eyes seemed a shade paler than usual. He took one deliberate step back, then another. "Better?"

MacMillian released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Yes." He shifted out of the way, and pointed down at what had struck his attention. "So tell me, what does that look like to you?"

Lynch glanced at him, then bent over and squinted where he was pointing. His brows drew together. He reached out and dragged a finger through the suspicious blot on one of the banquette cushions, then stuck it in his mouth and sucked it clean. MacMillian cringed.

Lynch looked back up at him. "Blood."

"That's what I thought." MacMillian swept his eyes around the room again. "No one died up here, or there would be more. I'm thinking..."

His gaze settled on a small door, nearly invisible behind one of the banquettes. He shut his mouth, and tilted his chin towards it. Lynch followed where he was looking. His lips thinned. He nodded.

The two of them started towards the door. They reached it, and Lynch held up a hand. MacMillian stopped. Lynch listened for a moment. His expression hardened. He opened the door.

MacMillian tried to see over his shoulder, without luck. "Well?"

Lynch hissed. "Well, I think I've found our missing bouncer."

He angled his body so MacMillian could past him. MacMillian glanced at him, then looked inside.

It was a storage room, by the looks of it. Lying in the center of the floor was a man. Raw, oozing ribbons of flesh made up what little remained of his neck. MacMillian swallowed hard. His stomach twisted. He took a deep breath, and forcibly cleared his head. There was a distinct lack of blood in the wound, and in the room itself. The man must have been killed elsewhere.

Hunched over him was a second man. He stared up at them, his eyes dark and feverish. Blood coated his mouth, was starting to dry on his clothes. After a second's examination, MacMillian determined it wasn't his.

Once again, he gripped his cane a little tighter. "Lynch."

"No need for concern, detective." Lynch's voice was low, soothing. "I believe I know this fellow." He stepped slowly into the room. "Ortega, isn't it?"

The blood-soaked man blinked, then nodded jerkily. "Andrés Ortega. I've seen you before."

Lynch inclined his head. "No doubt. Seneca Lynch. This is Mr. MacMillian."

Andrés nodded again. "Hey."

"Ah, hello." MacMillian caught Lynch's eye. "May I have a word with you?"

Lynch ignored him, reached down and offered Andrés a hand. "You look like you've had a rough night."

Andrés let out a weak laugh. He caught Lynch's hand and let the other man help him to his feet. "Tell me about it. I don't even remember most of it."

Lynch didn't release his hand right away. "Let's try and piece some of it together, shall we? What's the earliest thing you remember?"

Andrés thought for a moment. "I was back at the house—"

Lynch interrupted. "Which house?"

"Almas Perdidos, in The Mission." Andrés took a shaky breath.

Lynch gave him an encouraging smile. "Please, continue."

"I was at the house...hungry. I was hungry." Andrés grimaced. "Can't remember ever being hungry like that. And everything was so loud, so bright." He stopped.

Lynch prompted him. "So you left?"

"I left." Andres shook his head. "I had to, man. I had to get out of there. I had to find something to..." He trailed off. His too-bright eyes locked on the remains of the bouncer. "I had to find something to eat."

MacMillian swallowed the bile that rose up in the back of his throat. "Lynch."

Andrés' head jerked up at the sound of his voice. His nostrils flared. "You're human."

Lynch laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. "Andrés. Focus."

But it was as if Andrés couldn't hear him anymore. His gaze stayed locked on MacMillian. "You smell good." He licked some of the coagulated blood off his lips. "They all smelled good. So fucking good." As MacMillian watched, a set of sharp white fangs descended from his gums.

Lynch snapped his fingers in front of his face. Andrés blinked. The fangs quickly retracted. He looked from MacMillian to Lynch. There was fear in his eyes. "What's wrong with me, man?" Comprehension, then horror, suffused his expression. "Díos mio," he whispered. "How many did I kill?"

Lynch looked uncomfortable. "Doesn't matter." He swept an arm towards the door. "I'm here to help you. Let's get out of here."

MacMillian balked. Help him? After he'd murdered five people? He glanced at the bouncer, and mentally recalculated. Six people. And no telling what else he'd done that they didn't know about.

Andrés nodded, and started towards the door ahead of Lynch. Relief filled his face. "Thank you. Thank you."

MacMillian cleared his throat. "Lynch..."

He didn't have a chance to finish. Lynch closed the distance between himself and Andres. Without a word, he reached forward and neatly snapped the man's neck.

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#### Excerpt from _Ptolemy's Tablet_ (Shadownotes, #1)

Rev. Emil Stone and his bodyguard (and then some) Misha "Puzzle" Kaslov are doing what they do best: tracking down an artifact of mystical make and unknown power. Their assignment takes them to the shores of the Mediterranean, where they find themselves pitted against mercenaries, secret police...and each other.

_Will they be able to complete their mission, or_ _will personal feelings prove too much to overcome?_

Misha was taking too long.

Emil fiddled with his mug of sahlab and peered down the street. The Graeco-Roman Museum was just a few blocks from the coffee shop where he'd set up position. Misha had gone inside nearly forty-five minutes earlier. Normally, he would have been back by now.

Which meant something must have gone wrong.

Emil closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. It didn't help. A list ran through his head of everything that could have possibly happened. An over-vigilant guard, a particularly well-placed security camera, a tourist in the wrong place at the crucial moment... or perhaps someone had noticed their counterfeit.

He shook away that last possibility. No one had ever discovered one of his reproductions before. It was a source of pride, of personal satisfaction.

Too bad he couldn't brag to anyone.

Emil checked his watch. Forty-eight minutes. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He downed the last of his drink.

At that moment, a familiar figure strode through the doors of the museum. Emil let out a relieved breath. Misha slung his beat-up backpack over his shoulder and strolled down the sidewalk towards the tea shop. He caught Emil's eye, and kept walking past his table.

Shit. Something had gone wrong.

Emil stood and left twenty piastres next to the saucer. He fell into step behind Misha. "What happened?"

"Not sure. Mukhabarat, I think."

"Damn it." The last thing they needed was to end up on the radar of the secret police. Emil tamped down the tension rising in his chest. "Did you make the switch, at least?"

Misha slowed until they were walking side-by-side. He let the backpack slip off his shoulder and opened the zipper a crack. Emil peered inside. The corner of an ancient-looking tablet greeted him.

Emil gave a quick nod. Misha zipped the backpack shut again and slung it back over his shoulder. He looked behind them. Air hissed through his teeth.

Emil followed his gaze. A trio of men in nondescript, Western-style clothes were coming down the front steps. At first glance, they appeared just like everyone else on the street. A closer look, however, and their military bearing gave them away.

One of them, the apparent leader, broke away from the other two. He trotted between the museum's impressive columns to the sidewalk and scanned the street both ways. Emil didn't look away fast enough. Their eyes locked.

Emil quickly faced forward again. "Damn it."

Misha didn't look at him. "Run?"

Emil glanced back again. The three men were starting down the sidewalk behind them. He nodded. "Run."

Abruptly, Misha cut out into the busy street. A symphonic accompaniment of horn blasts filled the dusty air. Emil swallowed a curse and followed him into oncoming traffic. Tires squealed. Brakes screeched. He steeled his nerves and kept moving.

By some miracle, they reached the other side in one piece. Emil looked back once. The three men were already starting across the street after them.

Misha looked over his shoulder. His lips thinned. He jerked his head in a follow-me motion and sprinted into a narrow side street. Emil struggled to keep up. Weather-beaten buildings rose on both sides of them, plunging the street into sudden shade. The air cooled.

Footsteps echoed off the walls around them. Emil looked behind them, swore. How had the men caught up so quickly? He didn't have a chance to dwell on it. Misha ducked down another, narrower street. Emil followed.

They stumbled into the middle of an open-air souk. Tiny storefronts lined the dusty backstreet, packed to bursting with vibrant silks, antique furniture, glistening copper coffee pots and brass shisha pipes. The heavy smell of spices and animal dung filled the air. Misha plunged ahead into the attending crowds without breaking speed.

It was all Emil could do to stick to his heels. Even with the backpack weighing him down, Misha was the faster runner. He wove through the hordes of people without breaking stride. The back of his head grew steadily smaller as he pulled farther and farther ahead.

Emil called to him, but his voice disappeared into the bustle. He looked back. He couldn't see all three men anymore. The face of the leader appeared in flashes through the marketgoers. Emil looked ahead again.

Misha was gone.

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#### Excerpt from _Season Of The Witch_ (Shadowlines, #1)

Georgia Clare needs help, and fast. As the lone survivor of her coven's brutal massacre, she's felt their killer hunting her. Unfortunately, there's just one man she can turn to, and he doesn't do witches. Private investigator Darius deCompostela has spent a lifetime avoiding the things that go bump in the night. When Georgia knocks on his door, however, he can't bring himself to turn her away.

_It's just one case, after all._ _It's not like it's going to change his life..._

It was her third night in a row of frozen pasta for dinner. Not that she was counting.

Georgia popped the top off yet another bottle of Corona and took a long draw. She leaned back against the counter. The microwave hummed behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the digital clock on the unused stove. Sighed.

Nearly six o'clock, and still no sign of deCompostela. The pang of disappointment in her chest chafed at her pride. She should have known better than to believe he would stop by. He'd already made it abundantly clear he thought she was out of her mind.

Truth be told, the possibility had occurred to her. It had been a week since the new moon, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of...it. Whatever it was. If not for the lingering scent of blood in her nostrils, she could almost believe she'd hallucinated the whole thing.

The microwave beeped. Georgia took one last drag of beer, then set her bottle down next to the two that had preceded it and opened the door. Fragrant steam rushed out; a heady blend of tomato, basil, and MSG.

Georgia reached in and grabbed the microwaveable plastic bowl, hissed and yanked her hand back again. She scanned the kitchen for something she could use as a potholder. Finally, she settled on a bunched-up paper towel.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she pulled out the pasta bowl. Georgia tensed, turned...

...Just in time to see her living room window explode inward in a hail of glass. She let out a startled shriek. A massive, dark creature suddenly occupied the space where her coffee table used to sit.

Everything else seemed to happen in slow-motion. The creature straightened, shaking shards of glass off its dull black fur. Its ears twitched towards her. Its lips peeled back from its razor-sharp teeth.

Georgia's chest seized. Recognition slammed through her. The creature snarled. Any lingering doubts she'd been harboring instantly evaporated.

It was here.

Georgia blindly hurled her steaming pasta bowl in the direction of the living room and bolted from the kitchen. She looked over in time to see it connect with a loud splat squarely between the intruder's eyes. The creature howled and clawed desperately at its face.

Georgia didn't wait for it to recover. Her altar. If she could just get to her altar, she could banish the ugly fucker and buy herself some time.

The creature was planted in the dead center of the straightest path across the living room. Georgia veered wide. She had almost cleared the front door when it flew open in a barrage of splinters. Someone barreled into her. They both sprawled to the ground.

The new intruder landed on top. Georgia hissed, bucked, clawed at anything she could reach. Her mystery assailant scrambled off her.

"Jesus Christ, would you calm down, you crazy—what the fuck?"

deCompostela. Georgia didn't let herself pause to feel relief. She rolled to her feet, grabbed his hand and dragged him after her. They dove behind her sagging couch just as the creature regained its bearings. It threw back its head and let out a roar that shook her remaining windows.

Darius sniffed. "Is that tomato sauce?"

Georgia didn't answer. Her focus was squarely on her altar again. It was still too far away. "Wait here."

"What—"

She leaped to her feet. The creature's eyes locked on her. Georgia swallowed the terror that welled in her chest and sprinted for the altar. She skidded to the floor in front of it like a baseball player sliding into home, yanked open one of the drawers and fumbled for the first items that came to mind.

The creature roared again. A blast of superheated air hit the back of her neck. Georgia braced for the feel of teeth around her throat.

"Right here, ugly!"

She turned in time to see Darius' massive fist catch the creature square in the nose. The creature yelped, then retaliated with a swipe of an even-more-massive paw. The blow swept Darius clear off his feet. He flew backwards and hit the wall with a dull crunch, then sagged to the ground with a wheeze. Flecks of paint and drywall fluttered to the floor around him.

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#### Playlist

### Listen for free on Spotify!

1. **Run Devil Run** – Jimbo Mathus and the Tri State Coalition

2. **White Rabbit** – Jefferson Airplane

3. **Romany Dagger** – All Them Witches

4. **Superstition** – Stevie Wonder

5. **Welcome To My World** – Depeche Mode

6. **This Town** – Firewater

7. **Jesus Gonna Be Here** – Tom Waits

8. **All The Lost Souls Welcome You To San Francisco** – American Music Club

9. **Worse Things** – Johnny Hollow

10. **Phantom Limb** – Alice In Chains

11. **Three Legged Dog** – Firewater

12. **This Is Where You Can Reach Me Now** – U2

13. **Run Devil Run** – Jenny Lewis

14. **It Will Come Back** – Hozier

15. **Drag The River** – Kate Mann

16. **Too Old To Die Young** – Brother Dege

17. **Adam Raised A Cain** – The Jeff Healey Band

18. **Your Heart To Haunt** – Glossary

19. **The Devil Within** – Digital Daggers

20. **Death Walks Behind You** – Atomic Rooster

#### Glossary

Romani Words

_Babko_ – grandmother

_Dále_ – father

_Gaje_ – a non-Roma person

_Gaji-kanó_ – the non-Romani world

_Kris_ – internal Romani court system

_Kumpania_ – a community of households, usually in business together

_Mamío_ – grandmother

_Mámo_ – mother

_Marime_ – "outside"; [ritually] polluted; unclean

_Papo_ – grandfather

_O Porajmos_ – lit. "The Devouring"; Romani term for the genocide perpetrated by the Nazis during World War II

_Raklí_ – a non-Roma woman

_Rom Baro_ – "big man"; Romani chief/leader; is expected to act as a mediator and civil servant within the community

_Ves'tacha_ – my love; beloved

Spanish Words

_Señora_ – ma'am

_Qué pena_ – too bad

#### Also by L.J.K. Oliva

Shades Below

A World Apart

The Devil's Disease

Ghost In The Machine

Shadowlines

Season Of The Witch

If You Were My Vampire

_Hellhound At The Gate_ (Coming Soon)

Shadownotes

Ptolemy's Tablet

Thicker Than Water

_The Patient Dervish_ (Coming Soon)

#### Bio

####

L.J.K Oliva writes urban fantasy and paranormal suspense, with a heavy dash of romance. She likes her whiskey strong, her chocolate dark, and her steak bloody. Most of all, L.J.K. likes monsters... and knows the darkest ones don't live in closets.

www.ljkolivabooks.com

Copyright © 2015 L.J.K. Oliva

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Thank you for supporting the hard work of the author

by not participating in or encouraging the piracy of copyrighted materials.

Cover design by: Laura Oliva

Printed in the United States of America

Smashwords Edition

First Printing, 2015

ASIN: B00UZSTN96

ljkolivabooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

