Immigrant Gods: A Hallows Man Novel

Twenty-One

PROLOGUE

"Do ye hear the children…They are weeping bitterly!

In the playtime of the others, in the country of the free.

They look up with pale, and sunken faces,

And their look is dread to see,

How long will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,

Our blood splashes upward, and its purple shows your path!

But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper

Than the strong man in his wrath."

-The Cry of the Children by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How could you refuse a child who asks you to find her killer?

The answer’s simple: you didn’t.

You couldn’t investigate a child’s murder and keep it from getting under your skin. Every cop with this kind of case worked at it with a personal level of zeal most bad guys found terrifying. Just try to look at those big tearful eyes and not be moved. We understood better than most just how fragile and vulnerable the young and innocent were. And for someone or something to exploit that earned our unrelenting enmity. The irritating shit sitting across from me right now was catching a glimpse of it. Abel Trautman, Headmaster of the Orphanage of Saint Jerome Emiliani, was a spindly, sallow skinned man. His body was angular and gaunt, with the kind of harsh hatchet-faced features that had likely served him well in keeping the kids in line. He didn’t strike me as a kindly or patient man, if the cricket paddle on the wall behind his desk was any indication. He was taller than me, but I’d found all petty tyrants were small on the inside.

He was equally unhappy with me; his disproportionate sense of self-importance taking a gut check when I barged into his office without an appointment and unannounced. I’d run the gauntlet of indignant nuns and staff, holding my Night Warden badge out in front of me like a battering ram, and hadn’t stopped until I’d found his office. Now that same badge, little more than a piece of brass molded into the image of an old hand lantern, sat on his desk between us with all the subtlety of a grenade. I’m sorry, ah…Mr. Hain, is it-?

-Night Warden Hain, yes, I corrected him. I did try to be polite earlier.

Or did I?

Night Warden, of course, Trautman amended, a bit defensively. But I really don’t have any more information regarding the child in question that I hadn’t already given the local police. There was a Newton’s Cradle on his desk and he set one of the metal balls in motion to tap rhythmically against the others. It was meant to be an unconscious act, of course, but it was also his subtle way of telling me the seconds were ticking down to the end of this interview. I let the moment stretch, taking in the polished mahogany desk, Trautman’s plush leather armchair, his fancy wristwatch. Individually, maybe not a big deal. Together, a bit out of place for an obviously underfunded institution like this, if what I’ve seen of this dismal place so far was any indication.

Sarah Appleton, I replied, pinning him with an unfriendly look.

Pardon me?

The child in question, I said, slowly. She has a name. It is Sarah. Sarah Appleton. Three days after the ghost of my wife Llewellen had appeared to me back in Central Park, I still remembered the peace that gripped me instead of the usual soul numbing grief whenever thoughts of her simmered to the surface. The ghost of a little girl had been with her, and I let their images sear through my retinas into my memory as the world stopped around me. I could have stood there on that patch of grass for the rest of my life and died happy. When I could pull myself together and will my limbs to move again I borrowed a computer at the New York office of the Federal Department of Preternatural Affairs. It took a lot of digging, but I’d get hit with a faint whiff of night blooming jasmine, my wife’s favorite scent, when I was getting warm, almost like she was leaning over my shoulder and guiding me. It was pure heartache, but it narrowed the search and I was relentless, finally finding a match amidst the vast Missing Children’s Bulletin. Sarah Appleton had disappeared over a year ago from this orphanage here in Pittsburgh and I rode out to try and find a trail. I didn’t care why Llewellen was appearing to me only now, five years after she’d passed away. It only mattered that she was, and that this was something she wanted me to look into.

I was not going to deny my sweetheart anything. Ever.

The experience had left me raw and more than a little prickly. That this officious prick couldn’t even refer to the girl by her given name was naturally nudging me towards a dark place I hadn’t been to in a long while. Some hunts were far more personal than others, and this one was already promising to get deep under my skin. …And no, I went on. I don’t think I will.

He blinked at me, Will…what?

Pardon you, I replied, letting my anger rise to the occasion and warm me up all cozy inside. "I find your indifference toward a child who disappeared under your watch kind of disturbing and even offensive. In fact, now that I think about it, I’m starting to get downright suspicious here."

Trautman’s eyes narrowed, but I noticed a thin bead of sweat suddenly form across his brow. There is no call to be insulting Mr. Hain, he said in an amazingly steady voice. You have no possible idea what I feel when I lose a child. Runaways are a sad fact for this institution and every other in the nation. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to hold back a growing headache, Too many times I’ve seen children with such promise, such hope, only to find they had run away during the night. I’d search for them on my own, of course, outside the efforts of the police, and always turned up empty handed. Sometimes I would learn the fate of a few, months or even years later, when I would get a call from the coroner’s office to come down and identify a body. It was the same story every time, Mr. Hain: Prostitution, gangs, drugs, porn or usually some combination thereof, and death by overdose, gunshot or at the hands of a pimp. The pitfalls and predators are right outside the door, and you dare to sit there and call me indifferent. He practically hissed those last words.

The Newton’s Cradle continued its tap-tap-tap between us.

Well, it was an impressive little speech. It should have been; it was well practiced and probably the same one he’d delivered to the local PD. The stones on this guy; to try and twist things around to make himself look like a victim in all this. Now I was genuinely pissed. So, this has happened here before, I said, leaning forward. "And how many times has a five-year-old run away from you, in the middle of the night? I bobbed my head toward the paddle behind him, Anything to do with that ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ philosophy you’re obviously working here?"

The Headmaster’s face went blank and I felt him close up completely, becoming even more distant, cold and impassive, if such a thing were possible. Any further information is confidential, Mr. Hain, he said flatly. Which requires a court order for release. The same is also required before you interview any of the children here. Have you obtained one?

No, I haven’t, I admitted, standing up. Not yet anyway. I’ll be in touch. I had to leave Trautman alone in his tiny kingdom for now. There was only so much I could do since I wasn’t exactly here on official business. As I left Trautman’s office and headed down the bleak hallways toward the front door, I found it highly suspicious of him not to even ask me if I actually was on official business, or if there was a new development to reopen Sarah’s case. I had a gut feeling that the Headmaster was not simply complacent in her disappearance, but somehow directly involved. And I didn’t believe it was just his sunny disposition compelling her to run away. Small children typically don’t run; they hide. But whether he was the aggressor or an accessory I didn’t know yet. This hunt was going to take a bit of finessing to get answers.

And yes, I do actually know how to finesse when I need to, believe it or not. It’s just not a skill I use all that often.

I paused by the front door and pulled out my cell phone, taking a quick snapshot of Trautman’s portrait on the wall. He was a bit younger when it was taken, but he looked no friendlier then than he did now. The nuns and the rest of the staff were also displayed in black and white glossies below, with the nuns looking stern and put upon by the inglorious assignment their church had given them. At least that’s how they looked to me, but nuns had always creeped me the fuck out, so I was probably biased.

Once out the door and on the dingy sidewalk I took another assessment of the neighborhood. It had seen better years, slowly declining from working middle class to working poor. The once bright red bricks of the surrounding tenements were now a dirty rust color that matched the weather-beaten fire escapes and security bars. I think an agent at the local office told me this area was called Elliot. Not being all that familiar with the Burgh, I had to take his word for it. My motorcycle, Road Witch, sat parked along the curb, quiet and pensive. I wasn’t too worried about anyone messing with her, even in this rough part of town. She could take care of herself, and I wouldn’t even try to save any idiot stupid enough to try. As far as I knew she was one of a kind, a living machine built by the Niebelung of Beowulf Motorworks in Detroit. Why they built her in the first place, as well as the name and fate of her original owner remained a mystery. Now she was mine, and we’d gotten along well enough for the last twenty years.

St. Jerome’s and its sparse grounds sat on one of three cracked asphalt streets that surrounded a sad little weed-choked park. Clearly it had dodged the Federal Reform Acts that had been sweeping across the country the last two decades, otherwise shamans and other sundry healer practitioners would be running the place now, like they were for most other orphanages and senior citizen rest homes. Or maybe the Catholic Church was digging in its heels on this one, refusing to give up any more of its turf. The park itself had clearly been taken over by small-time drug dealers, crackheads and the homeless.

Presiding over the tiny lot stood a heavily oxidized bronze statue, dressed 1700s style…and headless.

Some founder or crusader of some such or another, I was sure. Curious, I crossed the street for a closer look. I pulled out my cigarette case, drew a hand rolled Turkish and sparked it. The nicotine helped ease the anger a bit, but not by much. On closer examination, I saw that the head hadn’t been broken off; it’d been taken by a clean cut. A rather mean-spirited act of vandalism in and of itself, and if it happened around the time of Sarah Appleton’s disappearance, your average PD investigator wouldn’t think the two were related. But it was two ghosts who put me on this case, convincing me there was supernatural involvement. And that put a different perspective on everything.

The head was nowhere to be found, not that I really expected it to be otherwise, so I took another hard look at the buildings around me. Most of them had that tooth-like dentil trim around the rooftops, cast in concrete, along with cherub faces and grotesques molded into the rain gutters and frames of doorways and windows. Every one I could see had been smashed. Actually, they looked like they’d been shot out.

That’s when I noticed the conspicuous absence of gargoyles. The stonies were drawn to buildings of earlier architectural styles, no matter how crackhead the neighborhood. But there wasn’t one nosey, gossip-mongering bird fisher in sight, and that was just plain eerie.

A certainty settled into bone and muscle like an old friend: that I was hunting something of pure fucking evil that got off on murdering children, and we were headed for a toe-to-toe to-the-death throw down. It got me feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

I also took no small amount of satisfaction that I’d be working this alone even if it became an official Lighthouse case. There’d be no one else for me to worry about, unlike New York where a few people got seriously hurt on my watch when we took on an ancient and thoroughly pissed off winter spirit called a windigo.

And how could I, in clear conscience, hoard all this righteous ass whupping for myself? In my defense, the local Federal Department of Preternatural Affairs, called Lighthouse by pretty much everyone, had its hands full with another bit of messy business. Grabbing Pittsburgh’s headlines at the moment was a brand new local chapter of Los Lobos Carnales, a vicious werewolf street pack originally out of Mexico. The LCs had been spreading across the Border States for the last five years, ripping their way through the territories claimed by other street packs and human gangs. Areas of San Diego, Los Angeles and Phoenix had gotten particularly violent and bloody. Now these street furries were trying to push up through the Midwest and were butting heads with the Old Vampire Families. Most would not consider this terribly bright, except that Intelligence Division suspected they were backed by some serious mystical muscle from somewhere in South America. Intel also had it that they were here trying to secure a corridor to the Canadian border with no alliances to cut into the drug business profits. Nobody was having a good time right now.

Lighthouse Pittsburgh was currently putting every available agent on a gangland style attack on an upscale vampire club, one that happened to be owned by the ruling Vanderghest Family. Witnesses reported that two vans pulled up out front and eight masked gunmen spilled out with military rifles, going full auto with steel-jacketed silver on the crowd in front of the club. Three humans and two vampires were killed and a dozen or so of both were wounded. Surviving fangers reported they smelled werewolves and that the heat patterns of the gunmen were too warm for humans. At least the moon mutts weren’t stupid enough to use incendiaries. All well and good for the vamp gangsters to use them on each other, but the Gods help anyone else who did. If that happened the Families would immediately set aside their differences and go to war. Fire was considered a sacred weapon for vampires amongst themselves.

Vampires and sanctity…go figure.

As I was standing here I knew field agents were leaning on every street contact they had for an address for these furries. Somehow, I didn’t think they’d have to work that hard at it; I’m sure the local night folk were just as thrilled about a new street pack coming into town as the Feds were. But as soon as an address was had, you could bet your ass a Lighthouse Response Team was going to rock and roll with a search warrant for weapons.

When I rolled into town, I had to first report in to the Director of the Pittsburgh office, one Ms. Corrine Nesbitt, before I could do anything on Sarah’s case. She didn’t seem all that thrilled with me traipsing through her jurisdiction on unrelated business, probably thinking of me less as an asset to her situation and more as potential ethanol on the fire. But I had no doubts she’d be pulling me into this mess once the Response Team had a target. First, because someone like her wasn’t comfortable with someone like me running loose in her city unsupervised. Second, I’d flushed out a den of Los Lobos Carnales werewolves three years before on an arrest warrant in New Mexico. One of my better bits of work; every one of them was delivered to the courts and not one lethal shooting. My case file as a Night Warden was a matter of Departmental record, and Nesbitt had to have reviewed that arrest file before coming at me with a shitload of questions on the rabid fucks, like I was some kind of expert on their MO.

Now, for me, I’d say just leave the gangbanger moon mutts to the fanger Mob and call it a night. But maybe I was just feeling grouchy.

As if on cue, my cell phone buzzed. I pulled it and read the text: REPORT TO HQ IMMEDIATELY-DIRECTOR NESBITT. I sighed and stashed the phone back in my pocket.

Yep, pretty much called that one.

CHAPTER ONE

Just to reiterate, I’m Sam Hain, Night Warden. That’s a fancy title for court sanctioned bounty hunter and assassin. I guess the lawmakers felt the need to sugar coat what I do; I sure don’t. I was one of six currently carrying the lantern in America who came calling when a member of the supernatural community got a wild hair up the ass and needed to be brought before a judge, or sent to the boneyard. I found I had a talent for it; my high collar and kill count made me something of a celebrity, admired by some and hated by a lot more. But the job had cost me, in friends, lovers and no small amount of my own tattered soul. Five years ago, I’d hung up the badge, blades and guns, in the hopes that my wife, Llewellen, and I could heal that wounded soul. I’d been ready to let go of the horror and rage that fueled me for longer than I cared to remember. But everything changed in an instant with a blowout on a stormy coastal highway. I awoke from a three-week coma, a widower with no shadow, reflection or aura. I no longer registered on any electronic device, and I carried no scent or heat signature, which wigged out the furries and fangers respectively. All forms of magic and possession didn’t mean a damn thing anymore either, but the juju slingers never liked me all that much to begin with, so no great loss there.

I was set apart from this world further than I’d ever been. Which suited me just fine, since I wanted nothing to do with it anymore. You’d think taking up the badge again should have taken care of that, but every monster I faced so far couldn’t hit the mark. Any ‘nighter who got off on killing so much should have been able to grant a simple death wish for a little ol’ mortal like me, but nooo…

Yeah, it sounds like whining to me too, sometimes.

I wasn’t holding out a whole lot of death-wishful thinking for my present situation, either. Even if I was about to rock and roll with the Burgh’s Elite against the crazy-ass werewolf gangbangers of Los Lobos Carnales.

Night Wardens trained and operated regularly with Lighthouse Response Teams, as well as with Federal and local SWAT teams. That’s what allowed Director Nesbitt to drop my ass second in a line of ten team members right now, about to gatecrash some shithole tenement on the fringe of the Pittsburgh Barrows in Esplen. I was dressed to the tactical nines: black fatigues, boots, body armor, ski mask, goggles, gloves and helmet. A full MOLLE rig was strapped over the armor. None of it fit quite right as it was borrowed, since I left my own Response gear at home. I didn’t think I needed it, considering this whole death wish thing I had happening made folks a tad reluctant to work with me. Not too many warrants or writs of execution came my way either for the same reason, but Nesbitt wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to keep me under close supervision. I’m sure she felt it was for my own good.

So here I was, armed with a shotgun and bandolier loaded with shells of crystallized silver iodide, with a Taser ramped up for night folks mounted side by side with a flashlight under the barrel. A second Taser was in a drop holster down my left thigh next to Darlin’, which was loaded with silver 00 buckshot. Her twin, Babe, was in a drop holster on the right with iron 00 buckshot, because my 410-guage revolvers went on every hunt and operation with me, and after New York I learned to carry both loads. They both had small mounted flashlights. I also carried my 1916 Colt .45, loaded with steel-jacketed silver in a cross-draw holster. The lethal ammo was just in case somebody’s mood took a turn for the worse and a deadly attitude adjustment was needed to deal with it. My troll blade, given the lame-assed name of Lodur’s Sword by its maker, ran down my back in an upside-down sheath, so I could draw it with either hand. A shortsword that could kill damn near anything came in pretty handy in my line of work; that is, except when every troll within ten miles wasn’t trying to kill me for it.

A dozen heavy-duty plastic cinch cuffs lined with film-coated silver were secured to my MOLLE rig at the small of my back. Trans-dermal patches of DMSO-laced liquid silver iodide were crammed in a pouch on my belt. Standard kit, really, for taking down Were suspects alive and keeping them under control. Silver iodide was the Were equivalent of rock salt; it hurt like hell when you were shot with it, of course, but there was nothing better for forcing an immediate Change back to human form without being lethal. The cinch cuffs wouldn’t burn, so long as the Were didn’t struggle and kept the film intact. A trans-dermal patch slapped against a major artery kept them in human form. A bit on the mean side, granted, but the measures went a long way toward keeping everyone who was moon-called from nutting up. And that helped keep them alive. Three other agents in Squad One were armed with the same, joining me in the task of detaining the moon mutts while the rest of the team in Squad Two carried out the search warrant for weapons. They had AR-15s loaded with steel-jacketed silver bullets in the event somebody ignored our friendly efforts and granted us instant authorization for lethal force. If we found any ballistics matches connected to the drive-by shooting on the vamp club the other night, I’d be working the other end of my trade.

The bronze golem patiently waiting in front of us had seen a lot of action in this city, judging by all the bullet impacts, scorch marks and scores from the claws of Gods knew what over its dull surface. It stood tall and resolute, like an old seasoned tank ready to roll into another battle. FDPA was painted in reflective yellow across its wide shoulders, but right below, someone had crudely chiseled in ‘Bubba.’ I quietly asked the mage standing in front of me about it.

Agent Hank Cohen, Squad One’s leader, glanced over his shoulder at me, Not my doing. He then flashed a dark look over me to the rest of the team, But when I find out who did… He obviously didn’t find it as funny as I did, but luckily, my ski mask hid my grin.

The building around the corner across the street was dark and silent with no movement, according to our spotters. Thermal and sound monitors weren’t picking up anything from the inside, but that didn’t exactly mean anything. Lighthouse Intelligence said that Los Lobos Carnales wasn’t actually run by an Alpha, but rather by two sorcerers somewhere in South America. A juju slinger of talent could cast an illusion over the place and make it appear uninhabited. The trouble was, I had a knack for seeing magic at work and even feeling it when its energies laced the air around an affected area; it registered in different colors and as a tingling across the skin. Right now, I wasn’t seeing or feeling anything of a magical nature.

What I was feeling, though, was that there was something about this whole situation that was…off.

While our sharpshooters moved into position, I shifted my feet and something scrunched under my boots. Glancing down I noticed tiny bits of broken concrete and grit. It gleamed white and new against the grimy sidewalk. I glanced around, and then up, training the light of my weapon above me. The building our team staged up behind had seen better years, but that could be said about the whole neighborhood. It was a two-story brick job with Baroque and Classical highlights molded out of concrete. Four grotesques supported the rain gutter along the roof at the corners. They’d been shot out, just like in Elliot. Not the whole thing, just the faces. Recently too, I was thinking, since the broken concrete gleamed pale and newly exposed to the elements in contrast to the rest of the dingy gray surfaces.

In my trade, there was no such thing as coincidence. Maybe my hunt wasn’t on hold after all.

All units in position, Fuentes whispered in our com links. Our team commander and leader of Squad Two was nearly a full head shorter than me; coffee and cream skin, curly black hair and blues eyes under all that tactical gear suggested mixed Puerto Rican and white parentage. She emanated confidence and calm authority. One tough lady by my personal estimation, if going on her third year as team commander was any indication. We are Go. Cohen, take us in.

The mage murmured a command in Hebrew. The golem lurched forward, and then instantly picked up its pace, striding around the corner and across the empty street, its oversized feet making dull clunking noises on the concrete and asphalt. The big guy sounded hollow. We followed in tight column right behind it, free hand on the shoulder of the team member in front, trigger fingers alongside the guards in the safety position.

Before Llewellen died, adrenaline would be spiking through my system as an operation like this kicked off. It was just another one of those lovely perks of the job that kept me coming back for more, being the shameless thrill junkie I once was. These days I was as hollow as the chunk of animated metal I now followed, feeling nothing but a numbing sorrow powerful enough to poison my blood against the vampires. My body moved by reflex and years of training and experience, but with the same emotional investment I shared with brushing my teeth. Tonight, I would live and continue searching for Sarah’s killers, or I’d finally get killed myself and join my wife in the Summer Lands.

Fucking hooray for win-win situations.

We approached the front door, a wide metal thing on heavy hinges. The golem was five steps from it when Fuentes bellowed, Federal agents! We have a warrant! Bubba knocked down the door with its battering ram of a fist and kept going. We all rushed in behind it amidst a tramping of heavy boots. Gun-mounted flashlights stabbed into the murky dark as we swept in and spread out in a line, every sense stretched as tight as a garrote wire.

A mausoleum-like stillness greeted us.

Fuentes signaled and we moved forward, sweeping one room after another behind the golem. We stepped carefully over discarded bullets and spent casings that were strewn about everywhere. The acrid tang of cordite hung heavy in the air from a very recent fight, and the walls were riddled with bullet holes of various calibers. Pistols, assault rifles and shotguns were scattered here and there, the usual collection when you wanted to start a turf war. It was looking like they were dropped where they’d been fired, and the shooting had been in all directions. Cheap hand-me-down apartment furniture had been shot up and tossed around. A small TV on a milk crate and a boom box hadn’t survived the carnage either.

But there were no bodies and no blood, not even stains on the furniture. The place wasn’t just clean; it felt almost…sterile. I’d been on my fair share of crime scenes but had never felt anything like this before. I muttered a general-purpose curse in Chief Nesbitt’s honor, knowing beyond doubt that this shit she pulled me into was only going to get even more weird before all was said and done. Call it another happy hunch.

Her case and mine fucking better be connected, goddamnit.

Cohen, being a Magi and more magically oriented in his observations, was the first to notice that what few mirrors were in the place had been smashed to tiny pieces, as was anything else with a reflective surface. Even the remaining windows had been blown out. Someone didn’t want a divination done after they’d gone, he said.

I think we definitely missed the party, I muttered. Cohen put the golem on standby in the main room, the dull yellow lanterns that served as its eyes glowing bleakly in the gloom.

I’m not smelling anything but cordite, said an agent, Carlson according to the name patch on his ballistic-ward vest. He sucked in air, tasting it. How about you, Ryan?

Nothing, said another agent, Ryan most likely.

Their ‘nighter status, if not their names, had jumped out at me as the team was prepping for the raid. Both could control their respective natures pretty well; their eyes didn’t even color out with the weirdness of the situation. There were probably less than ten vampires like Carlson on the entire force, given the obvious scheduling problems that came with the lethality of sunlight. Only Sun Gazers could withstand the day relatively unscathed. But the ones I knew would consider law enforcement work beneath them. Way beneath them. The fact that Carlson was an agent and had made the Response Team said much about the man, and of Lighthouse’s growing acceptance. Furries like Ryan however made up nearly twenty-five percent of most law enforcement agencies across the States, local and Federal alike. Like centaurs, werewolves had a natural talent for the work, given a host of senses that were perfect for pinching the bad guys and their innate adherence to the chain of command. Things didn’t get as squirrelly in a big city on the full moon as you might think. Weres were in full power on those three nights, and some of them not only wore badges, they chose to be on duty. Albeit on four legs. I’m sure they’ve heard all the K-9 jokes. Most of the bad guys simply went to ground at that time, the smart ones anyway.

I’m not seeing anything either, Ryan added.

Nothing warm in here but us, commander, Carlson said. I didn’t need to see the fanger’s eyes to know that his irises washed reflective to sense and track body heat. Cohen dug out something from a thigh pocket on his black fatigues and held it up for Commander Maria Fuentes to see in the flashlights. It looked like a monocle the size of a silver dollar, suspended from a gold chain. I think I made out a stylized eye pattern etched in the glass. Or more likely it was made of crystal. Fuentes nodded, Do it.

"Cruor In Lucem," the mage murmured, twisting the chain back and forth. The lens twirled and began to glow blue. From what I remembered of Latin, I think the amulet was supposed to reveal any remnants of an unnatural or messy death. Even a thorough magical cleaning wouldn’t lift every particle of blood that seeped into floors and walls. If the amulet was strong enough, we’d see something.

But it gave up nothing under the mystical light.

What gives? someone asked. That thing’s always worked before, right?

Not always, Fuentes countered softly.

Not again… murmured someone else. I didn’t know who said it, but from everyone’s pensive stance, the feeling was clearly mutual.

You’ve seen this before, I said, not making it a question.

Yes. Patricia Vanderghest is the Matriarch of Pittsburgh, and she controls the Underworld here, said Fuentes. The Family has a talent for having an iron-clad alibi while certain enemies conveniently disappear without a trace, just like this. Her angry gaze swept the room, If this follows the same MO, we won’t even lift a psychic imprint.

I never heard of this, I said, even with my access to the Federal database.

We never put it out, Fuentes replied. The Directors all agreed we didn’t need other Families asking the Matriarch for favors along this line. The Vampire Mob is slippery enough already. No arguing that logic.

Some people think maybe Patricia’s sister, Katerynne, is behind this, said Carlson. Latest reports still have her living in San Diego, where you’re from, Warden Hain. Any insights?

I know the Lady Katerynne, sure, I admitted. "And I’m telling you right now she would have nothing to do with any of this. It’d be a good idea to squash those rumors. She left the Family prior to their association with the Underworld because she found the whole Mob business contemptible; she has a code of honor I can only describe as unyielding." I didn’t volunteer anything else, knowing that both Vanderghest sisters had been something else besides human before they were Turned as Sun Gazer vampires, however long ago that was, but historians didn’t know exactly what. While Patricia was feared and respected by the area Families, and wooed as a rare breed of vampire who could withstand sunlight, Katerynne was feared and respected throughout the world, and not just by vampires. The only reason she wasn’t Matriarch of the Family and of Pittsburgh was because she simply didn’t want it.

You sound pretty sure of yourself, said Fuentes.

I am, I replied. Trust me, Katerynne barely tolerates her sister’s side of the Family. And that’s more from vampire politics than anything else. I picked up a casing, 9mm pistol round, and a favorite submachine gun size with Special Forces because it was easily quieted with a silencer. This site certainly had the clean precision found in a Spec Ops-style wet work for sure. But the Vampire Families who handled their disputes Old School usually left a calling card involving a bit more blood and carnage, all the better to scare the shit out of their enemies. This was too clean for them. It also wasn’t like any Family to hire outside help to eliminate a rival. That old vampire pride, you know?

Fuentes keyed her mike, Papa Bravo Two to Mobile Command.

This is Mobile Command, go, our radios buzzed quietly.

We need a Reader on our location, over.

Copy Papa Bravo Two, stand by.

Fuentes glanced at us, Just in case somebody missed something this time. Papa Bravo was the nationwide call sign for Lighthouse Pittsburgh, with Fuentes second in command to Director Nesbitt. Us Night Wardens all went by the call sign Zulu; I was Zulu Niner. Not that I used it much these days.

Before the psychic got here, we were going to have try and figure out what happened on our own. The spent casings and bullet holes were enough for me to get a general idea, since we’d been careful not to kick them around in our initial sweep. Hain, your take? asked Fuentes.

Most of the fighting was done in these rooms here, I said. There was a group, maybe ten or so, shooting everywhere, in all directions.

Like they were ambushed, said Fuentes. And no one outside heard a thing.

One powerful spell of silence I should think, I replied, more than a little skeptical. No one had picked up any signs of residual energy, inside or out. But what else could it be? The gun battle that played out here was the sort of thing that cleared out neighborhoods. It should have lit up the 911-dispatch board like a Yule tree.

Three team members returned from their search of the back area. I think we found a basement, one of them said.

Take us there, said Fuentes. We put rifle butts to shoulders and moved down a narrow corridor in column, with Cohen behind the golem on point. I bumped down to third position behind one of the agents who found the basement. We ended up by a concrete stairwell, going down into an even deeper darkness. Those of us in front carefully peered over the edge. You mind if I take point from here, commander? I asked.

I don’t trust them stairs to hold the golem, ma’am, Cohen added.

What’re you thinking, Hain? Fuentes asked.

If a spell of silence kept all this quiet to the outside, I’m thinking there might be glamours or concealment spells, I explained. And none of those work on me.

The good commander really didn’t need to think too much on that one, Take us down.

The tension in the air ramped up a few notches, as if the sphincter factor wasn’t in double digits already. Everyone knew the score; as well armed as we were, a basement was still a very bad place to go, because it was a very good place for the monsters to set up an ambush. They knew the layout down below and we didn’t.

This was where and when every person behind a badge earned their paycheck, going into the danger while everyone else ran away. And hell no, it wasn’t worth it, except now maybe for me. We all did it anyway because someone had to. I had the added bonus of maybe clocking out permanently, and that always put me in my happy place.

I moved to the front of the group and took the stairs into the dark, my gun barrel with its mounted flashlight sweeping down. There was the familiar smell of musty damp earth, concrete and stale urine from the years of homeless and crackheads that flopped down here before the gang Weres. It evoked memories from the trenches of the Great War. All that was missing was the underlying odor of blood and fear-sweat, not that I needed them to remember the constant shelling and the hellish hand-to-hand fighting knee-deep in the mud. It never took much to bring it all back in Technicolor and stereo. Some things I just couldn’t forget, despite my long convalescence with the faeries. They did much to heal my mind as they had my body, but there were scars that would never fade. I came out all those decades later more functional than others, but you never survived the horror of war unchanged; a piece of me would always remain lost in France, in the trenches, towns and forests. And under them.

The beams from our flashlights pierced the gloom, pointing like dead fingers pale and cold. Concrete and brick continued to reveal nothing under the blue light of Cohen’s amulet. We entered a low vaulted basement, and even the stench of cordite was absent. It felt even more like a tomb down here than it did upstairs. We spread out and advanced in a line slowly, muzzles sweeping and covering all points. I squinted my eyes but could see no magical energy of any kind. I’d never even heard of such a thorough scrubbing before, and I still had a friend or two affiliated with government Black Ops. If they were involved in this, I’d like to think someone would have given me a heads up.

Something caught my eye along the back wall. There was an odd way our lights played off the bricks, as though the texture was all wrong. Stepping closer, I drew my trench knife and gently poked at it. My blade sank in with no more resistance than from soft-packed earth. Chunks of brick fell loose and crumbled to dust. The wall had definitely been magicked, and there was only one way I knew that could change its density like this. A familiar stillness settled over me, an instinctive reflex that kicked in when the danger was immediate. Nothing was making any sense, but certain facts right in front of me were chillingly clear. I quickly slung the shotgun and drew Babe from its drop holster strapped to my thigh, the one 410-gauge revolver I had loaded with iron 00 shot.

What have you got, Hain? asked Fuentes, coming up behind me.

Goblins, I said quietly.

Everyone froze.

You sure? she asked.

‘Fraid so, I bobbed my head at the wall, still keeping my voice soft. Mining spell. That’s goblin magic. The commander was quick enough to realize the situation for what it was: the threat had changed and the rest of us suddenly didn’t have the right ammo to deal with it. Goblins were dark fae, and silver didn’t cut it with them. The thin steel jacketing of the bullets we had would only piss them off. Everyone pull back to the main room, she said quietly and then keyed her mike. Mobile Command, we need iron ammo. Now.

Copy, our coms buzzed. No questions, just acknowledgement and compliance. That was the fluid nature of working for Lighthouse; you rolled with the changes and worked out the rhyme and reason of it later.

Everyone kept their head and made a tactical retreat for the stairs. Once again, I was reminded of why I preferred working alone; there was no fear for my own safety these days, but for the team behind me. I swept the muzzle back and forth in front of me as I backed up and kept everyone behind me. My free hand pulled Darlin’ out and slid the muzzle into a strap on the MOLLE rig. This allowed me to pop the cylinder and reload my second mini-cannon with iron shells from my belt loop while keeping Babe pointed down-range. I learned a hard lesson back in New York and started carrying multiple types of ammo no matter what the case. A twist of my wrist and the breach snapped closed as I drew it. There were only eight shells of iron shot left in my belt to deal with whatever came at us before we could rearm.

The light beams from both guns stabbed the darkness in front of us.

I always appreciated how the nature of this business could instantly change a hundred rounds of sterling silver whup-ass to a measly handful of cartridges that might just buy me enough time to kiss my ass goodbye. Not that I had a real problem with that these days. For the last little bit, I’d been trying to use my job as the perfect excuse for joining Llewellen. The trouble was, every monster I’d hunted down and executed so far had made something of a liar out of me. Maybe the legacy of my name would finally come calling tonight, and the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead would be thin enough for me to pass through and stay this time.

I kissed Llewellen’s ring on my pinky; things were looking up.

You are not checking out on my watch, Night Warden Samuel Hain, Fuentes growled behind me.

Wow. Full name, formal title and everything, I guess she was serious. She and I reached the bottom of the stairs. The rest of the team was quickly making their way up and maintaining muzzle safety as they continued to sweep in all directions. No one got crossed despite the urgency, and I had to admire everyone’s professionalism. In times of crisis, the training simply took over. Don’t worry, commander, I replied, keeping my eyes and barrels forward as we followed them up. It so happens I promised to do something first.

Good, remember that. There was a metallic whisk sound behind me. I stole a quick glance over my shoulder, noticing that she was holding a tactical baton along her forearm. It was a neat little number that fit in the palm like a roll of quarters and telescoped out to a sweet twenty-one inches of attitude adjustment. Most of the ones I’d seen were steel. Let me guess, I said. Cold forged iron?

Yep.

I backed up the stairs, keeping the barrels pointed down range. …Very cool.

I’ll hook you up with my supplier if we get out of this, she promised.

We’ll get out of this just fine, commander, I said. My feet hit the top landing. …And I’ll take two of them. I fell back as far as the entryway between the main room and the corridor, standing guard as the rest of the team swapped out magazines passed in from the outside by other agents.

Goblins for the most part were mean vicious little bastards that just didn’t play well with others. This, of course, made them perfectly suited for the role of hired thug. They were fiercely clannish and shunned everybody except when doing business. Then, it didn’t matter who hired them or who they were paid to kill; everyone’s gold shined the same and the joy was in the slaughter. But clean and surgical wasn’t their style, mayhem and butchery was. The Underworld didn’t hire goblins to make enemies disappear, but to massacre them. They were called in to send a very messy message of terror. As you could imagine, the presence of goblins in any given city was an automatic red flag for the local authorities. It also meant that this case was continuing to make less and less sense. What the hell was really going on here?

Friendlies coming up behind you, Hain, called Fuentes. A team member named Carter came up on my left and covered the corridor as the commander handed me an AR-15 with three additional magazines of 5.56mm iron slugs. I holstered up Babe and Darlin’ and checked the breech and magazine out of habit. Perimeter units move in and secure the building, said Fuentes over the radio. Squads One and Two are with me back to the basement. Everyone methodically swept the rooms again before our group headed back down. We searched the basement and found nothing, not even when the mage Cohen reactivated his amulet.

He stashed it after the same results as before and glanced around with a critical eye, "Are you sure goblins are behind this, Hain? I never knew one not to show off his handiwork. You know,