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I

Whenever somebody brought up the subject of death during conversation, Dianne Walsh would politely change the topic, or make an excuse to walk away. To Dianne, death was an event that belonged within the confinements of crime fiction. It was a conclusion to novelized lives, a fate reserved for the old and the terminally ill - or for ­disease-ridden foreigners in dusty countries she had never seen. Death was an unsettling notion that could be kept at bay at the touch of a remote control or the closing of a book.

She didn't write about death either. True, she let Angelina McFairlane inherit a Scottish castle in "The Heiress of Dunblaine." But apart from that one slip, her romance novels were brimming with love and weddings, Windsor ties, betrayal and broken hearts. So when Dianne sat down, and lit the one Pall Mall she allowed herself every night after work, she was blissfully unaware that its ten-minute lifespan would outlast her own.

She was a thin woman -some would say skinny. At thirty seven she had a premature worried look in brown eyes that darted like she was chasing invisible butterflies, and always avoiding eye contact that lasted more than a second. Cigarette loosely clenched between lime-balm flavored lips, she eased into her favorite reading chair and unwrapped a proof-copy of her latest novel:

Hearts of Amber - the NEW best-selling romance by Diane Walsh.

With two minutes left to live, Dianne Walsh sighed, There's two N's to my name! She took a puff from her cigarette and studied the cover blurb.

Through a career spanning ten years and eleven best-selling novels, including the award-winning "High-range Romance" and "Love at 8000 ft." Diane Walsh has secured her position as the leading writer of modern romance.

There it was again - Diane with a solitary "N". Had the publishers made a typo, or were they trying to annoy her? She checked her watch, a Lanco mechanical she'd found in an antique shop. It came with a green faux leather strap, silver dial, and time stamped in roman numerals. It was remarkably precise for a fifty year old watch. With exactly one minute and sixteen seconds left, Dianne decided it was too late and too impolite to call her agent and complain about a missing "N". A faint mewing interrupted her thoughts and she looked down to meet the green stare of Mr. Morris, a marmalade cat with three legs. She had discovered him in a Spokane back alley during the promotion tour for _Bride of the Moon,_and Mr. Morris was now her flatmate, her sole companion and her closest next of kin.

"YOU would know how to spell my name?"

Mr Morris mewed to make it clear he'd add any number of N's, if she'd only fill his feeding bowl. Dianne Walsh turned on the twin lamp next to her couch and re-checked the spelling of her name. The bulb flickered a few times, stroboscope illuminating a small pile of dust that graced the surface of the mahogany table on which it stood.

Bulb's about to blow.

Dianne tested the minute speck of dust with her fingertip before wiping it off with a muslin serviette. Furniture beetles, she thought. Mindless creatures that tunnel aimlessly through old wood to ruin its value. Once you discover the dust, the damage has already been done, the beetle has long flown, leaving behind only excrement and a black bore-hole. The mahogany stand was another antique bought at the Oakenford market. At hundred and fifty bucks, the vendor had argued it was the bargain of a lifetime. Now, she wasn't so sure anymore.

Dianne was about to stub out her cigarette when a deafening explosion lifted her off her feet and flung her across the living room. She slammed into the wall with a sickening thud and slumped to the floor like a fleshy rag-doll, before she realized she was no longer in her favorite chair. Her ears rang with a hissing sound that fought to drown out her thoughts, the room was dark and filling with a thick smoke that choked her lungs and stung her eyes. Only a thin wedge of light pouring in from the kitchen illuminated the charred remains of the desk where her lamp had once stood. Twisted scraps of brass littered the floor and decorated the walls where they had embedded themselves like a strange metallic installation. Dianne Walsh wanted to flee, to escape into the kitchen, but as she attempted to crawl, her legs gave out and she sprawled helplessly on the floor. Hurt,_she thought. _Something wrong with my face. She put her hand to her cheek, but to her surprise, her fingers probed only raw flesh and teeth. Half her face had been blown clean off and her hand came away, smeared in blood and a gray, greasy substance. Brain? She realized with difficulty, her world reduced to monosyllables.

"No fair!" she rasped at Mr. Morris.

"There are two N's to my name."

---

II

"Carter?!"

"Mmm!"

"Pass me a towel, would'ya?"

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

If the reader is unfamiliar with my past exploits, you might wonder why the scientific branch of National Intelligence would have a beef with a skinny, 26 year old jazz guitar player. My condition is unremarkable, and I chain smoke cigarettes in order to keep my schizophrenia under control. If I had finished high-school, my entry in the year-book would read Classmate least likely to be hunted down by secret agents. But it's not my human form that gets me into trouble. It's my OTHER form that has created a tense situation between myself and the MI-16.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's Quinn," she said quietly.

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

Inspector Quinn is never the one to make casual calls. While other friends may call you up with a "Hey buddy, did you watch the game last night?" Quinn calls only when he is stuck on a case, he calls when we're working together, and he calls -but only one time - when we've solved the case. He's always straight to the point: "I've got a case, there's money in it for you... oh, and it might drive you insane or get you killed."

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

Inspector Quinn has been with the Oakenford police for more than twenty years. He's a top detective and in remarkably good shape for someone homing in on fifty. But he's got a trick up his sleeve: Quinn is a werewolf - at least, that is what he tells me. Let's put one thing straight, right off the bat: I've never seen him shift_,_so I have to take his word for it. But I can't blame him for keeping it private. Maybe he's just better at controlling his shifts than I am, because I change form every time I get into trouble. When that happens - that's when people start dying in messy ways.

Quinn is a man of excellent taste, the sharpest dresser I've met, and a sworn connoisseur of fine coffee. He claims it's because of his nose. When you have a sense of smell, five hundred times that of a human, a cup of shitty coffee tastes like five hundred times of shit in a mug. He gets grumpy every other Monday when he's spent the weekend in the Farvale forests, running on all fours, howling and doing... whatever it is that werewolves do - they never invite me to their parties. Quinn is also the closest thing to a friend I've ever had, which tells you something about my social life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rubies?" I yanked the paper out of Kamryn's hand, sweating profoundly. Irene nudged my shoulder, and I rested my head against her arm and panted.

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

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

The field of my vision narrowed and blood thundered in my ears as I studied the paper. But to my relief, the news-flash made no mention of rubies, monsters or people getting ripped to pieces. It didn't mention shooting either. The article only described how some mob-related Barsini family had been clubbed to death in Palermo in "a sadistic orgy of brutality, by assailants still unconfirmed."

"Carter, are you OK?"

I nodded. "I'm staying clear of strange cases. And that goes for anything relating to Inspector Quinn and the MI-16. If they want to duke it out with creatures from the abyss, they're on their own."

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

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

---

III

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

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

He had been on a winning streak all night, until he'd grown too confident and lost everything to Gilberto Lorenzo and his four deuces. Bernie Clemens pounded the wall with his fist until it bled.It wasn't fair, not fair at all. But tomorrow was another game.

Bernie checked his wallet. He knew it was coasting on fumes, but maybe - just maybe, a fiver had hidden itself between the wad of racing stubs. He threw it away in disgust when he found nothing. He needed money bad; money for drink, money for gas... money for winning everything back. Oh, and for food. To Bernie Clemens, food had become a distant memory. He ate out of habit, sooner than pleasure. A tin of tomato, uncooked Campbell's, corned beef or dog food. All tasted the same when you were aching for playing that next hand.

He reached for a tin of tuna he had trash-dived from a dumpster on ninth, when it slipped out of his hand. The tin rolled across the floor where it came to a rest against the empty book case. His stomach was tight from frustration and hunger. The tuna could take care of the hunger; revenge would have to wait until morning. He scurried around in the dark, until his hand brushed against something hard; a mid eighties twin lamp, made from brass and glass. Bernie sat up and wiped the dust off the shades, his mind wandering back ten years.

The lamp was the only thing he took with him when he moved out of his parent's home. He had sold or hocked every piece of furniture whenever he was broke, but this lamp was different. The brass lamp had seen him through good times and hard times. Lately, there had been more hard times than good times. It was a work of beauty, with minute ornamentations and artisan crafted details. Dad had been reluctant to letting him take it, but he softened when Bernie swore he would follow in his father's footsteps and become a psychiatrist, and how he would need the light to study by. "I'll make you proud," he'd sworn back then. Now Bernie estimated he could pawn it for thirty, maybe forty bucks down at Hock-o-Bell.

"Time for us to part."

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

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

---

IV

"This place is a bloody deathtrap!"

The fire inspector fumed and poked the ceiling mounted sprinkler valve with the pointy end of his screwdriver. "This type of system went out of use in the eighties." He sent us a suspicious glance.

"How did you EVER pass the previous fire inspections?"

"Err," I explained, "We've only recently taken over the place."

This much was true. The Phantom Cat had been under our ownership for six months, but what I didn't tell the inspector was how the previous official had been a pushover for Irene's suggestive powers.

He shot me a disgusted look and scribbled some comments in a ring bound notebook. "Worst thing I've ever seen," he sneered. He walked towards the kitchen, commenting on our complete failure to fire proof the club.

"Fire extinguishers: none."

"Fire blankets.... None."

"Fire exit - blocked by upright piano."

"Hallway sprinkler ..."

"Oh!" The fire inspector made a brief stop in front of a framed photograph of Oscar Peterson sitting by the piano, wiping his forehead with a hankie.

I thought I knew most of the photos that decorated the walls of the_Phantom Cat_, but I didn't remember having seen this one before.

"Peterson played here?"

"Sure," interrupted Irene. "In 1983, with Joe Pass and... whatshisname?"

"Oersted on bass," added the inspector. "I caught their act in Toronto."

The fire inspector turned his attention to Irene, ignoring me and I had the feeling Irene was working this guy over, but I remained clueless as to how she did it.

Where was his weak spot? Sex? Guilt? Nostalgia? Irene knows how to wiggle her way into people's emotions and butter them up, until they cave in. Kamryn appeared from the office, carrying a framed color print. The ink was barely dry. "Move it," she grinned, pushing me aside. She quickly glanced at the fire inspector and swapped Champion Jack Dupree for Joni Mitchell.

"Are you out of your mind?" I hissed. "Joni never played here. It's not even jazz."

"Go make coffee or something, and let the girls get to work." Kamryn laughed.

Since Kamryn joined us, she and Irene have become best friends. We work well as a team and the place was looking better than ever. But I often get the feeling the two girls share a special bond that I don't understand. Their connection makes me uneasy. Irene and I have our issues with reality, as does Quinn. But Kamryn was innocent. I didn't want her to get caught up with our troubled world, and the network of government agents that can't decide whether to kill us, lock us up - or simply pay us off in cash.

"Irene's about to unleash on him, isn't she?" I hissed. "She swore never to use her powers again."

"You'd rather see this place get shut down?" Kamryn whispered back and ushered me out of the door.

"Now, shoo!"

I sighed and turned on the espresso machine. It sure didn't take a lot to make Irene back down from her promise. I knew she would do anything to keep this place, but she seemed too eager, too happy to break her oath. It felt like she was only looking for an excuse.

Moments later, the two girls arrived in the kitchen, where the fire inspector filled out a number of forms.

"Alright," he said. "Just make sure things are in order next time."

"Deal," said Irene and shook hands.

With the fire inspector out of the way, I gave the girls the meanest look I can muster in my human form, which isn't much and makes me look nearsighted.

"Okay...How?" I asked.

"Nostalgia," replied Irene. "He's from Toronto, so we went with the Canadian theme. Heck, if we had any frames left, we'd hang up "RUSH" next to Charlie Parker."

I sighed. "But you promised."

"Don't be such a sourpuss," laughed Kamryn. "We're off the hook for another six months ."

Quietly, Irene studied the low roof. "He's right though. This place IS a firetrap. We need a new sprinkler system before the next check."

Kamryn kicked a bar stool across the floor. "That will set us back thousands. Money we don't have."

Irene shrugged. "We gave it a shot. Maybe the circus will take me back. With my powers, I can make even Pippo the clown look funny to the audience. " She laughed, but her laugh was hollow and we stared at each other in silence, until the sound of my ringing phone broke it.

"It's him again," I said.

"Answer it," replied both girls.

I closed my eyes and felt the answer button throb with every beat of my pulse. I swear, Quinn can sniff money trouble from across the city.

"Carter Wolf."

"Hey, buddy! I got a case for you," Quinn sounded excited, like a sparrow that has just found a ripe horse plop.

"Wonderful; it's just what i need," I replied, struggling to keep my sarcasm under lid. "So, whaddaya got?"

"A triple homicide." he beamed. "And a messy one at that. You're gonna love it!"

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TO BE CONTINUED

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