Steve felt wrong last night. Hell, even the water in that shower felt wrong.

Time to get out before I take the fall.

The other thing cats do is push things until they fall.

If you can’t beat a Feline…join ‘em.

It’s a quarter to nine when I stroll up to the Murphy spot in a new blazer and pencil skirt. My makeup is light this morning, I was in a rush. A good disguise is more about walk and attitude anyway. People see what they want to see.

The sky is clear but access to Papa Murphy is not.

Gillian O’Shaughnessy, the one who plays like a moll but watches like a vulture, is leaning against the wall outside Murphy’s haunt with two no-necks on a short leash.

Watching me walk up like I’m roadkill.

I’ve been trying to keep an eye on her, she’s slippery–always skirting the periphery. That usually means someone is important somehow.

Why is she taking point now?

Does it matter?

Let’s find out. Slippery hates direct.

“Taking the dogs out for a walk, Gillian?” I ask.

She doesn’t react but her boys crack their knuckles and step out wider on either side of me. I almost wish I was wearing something more distracting, but this woman is too smart for that. She might even make me.

I got to keep her guessing.

I shake out my overcoat and step forward offering a hand. The goons freeze. Gillian smirks around an unlit cigarette between her teeth and straightens off the wall. Her baggy overalls and knee-high boots don’t hide the fact that she’s got a killer figure and the sway of her hips shows that she knows it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the two men’s heads swivel slightly.

Ok, girl. You do the distracting this time.

“About time you showed up, Megan. Some of us are starting to wonder where you been running off to…or maybe who you been running off to.”

I drop the hand she’s ignoring and shrug.

“Papa Murphy asked me to take care of some loose ends.”

I step closer and to the side. Now one of the men is behind me and Gillian is between me and the other man. One sight line to manage. I pin the two of them with a glare.

“Which one of you would like to explain to him why he’s waiting for me to tell him it’s taken care of?”

Gillian squares her body with me and starts a snarl, but then…sneezes. The chewed cigarette flies over my shoulder. She shoves me. I stumble back against the muscle and hear him grunt in my ear.

She drags a loose sleeve across her nose. I can see her eyes watering.

“I have eyes and ears inside the fuzz too.” Her finger stabs in my direction. “You didn’t take care of anyone. Something screwy got to the Sarduci lad, not you. He’s not even dead. He’s just in lock-up!”

The man’s rough hands lock around my biceps. His voice grates in my ear, “You’re gonna report, alright. And it better be good.”

Gillian marches through the sliding door suspended from an overhead track waving for them to bring me along–still rubbing her eyes. She doesn’t bother to knock on the office door that’s just inside the warehouse.

The Murphy looks up from his desk scowling. A twenty flutters off a stack of bills, driven by the wind from our entrance. Gillian slips behind him and bends her lips to his ear.

“Be careful with this one, Boss,” she warns.

He holds up a hand and Gillian retreats. He crosses his legs and leans back. The wooden swivel chair groans under his weight as it reclines.

“Explain,” he grunts.

“Can I have my arms back first?” I flick my head back toward the man bruising my shoulders.

Murphy waves and I catch my full weight without stumbling. One step and a turn lets me see the whole room. A second wave and the door closes behind the goons back. Gillian doesn’t follow.

“Explain,” he says again.

I clear my throat and make a show of smoothing my skirt. I glance at the woman behind him. She looks awfully proud of herself.

“What’s to explain? Jimmy is neutralized. No reason for me to get involved.”

Murphy leans forward. The chair protests again. That sound is starting to get into my skull.

“Neutralized is not dead. Neutralized is temporary. Dead is not. We agreed on dead.”

An image of a black and white cat flashes through my head and I almost blurt out, “Are you sure about that?”

Instead, I bite my tongue and return his stare.

“I’m more useful to you if I’m not covering tracks that I don’t need to cover. He’s pegged as a cop-killer. I was in the room with the cops that took him down. They aren’t letting him off.”

“You are more useful to me when you follow my orders, woman.”

I see Gillian hide a smile behind her hand and lean back against the wall.

Yeah, laugh it up, bitch!

The room is as still as a morgue at midnight for what feels like an eternity.

“Fine. If that’s what will get our plan back on track…” I straighten my collar when I feel my throat tighten up. “I’ll take care of it.”

Now, I lean forward. Murphy grins but doesn’t pull back.

“If I do this thing, though.” I purr, nodding to Gillian still gloating behind him. “I don’t want any more static from that one. She can be your lap dog, just keep her from barking up my tree.”

Where’d your smile go, moll?

Murphy chews on his lower lip once and then barks, “Done.”

I see Gillian stiffen, jaw dropping but I don’t take time to enjoy it. I slap the desk lightly and walk.

They don’t get to see the tear at the corner of my right eye.

What have I become?

—Blackmason Medical, 2022—

“3… 2… 1… Zero!”

A jet of water shot twenty feet into the air, paused for a fraction of a second, then curved into an arch and fell into the pool held by rough-cut granite blocks. Small spotlights danced across the fountain to the beat of electronic dance music. The crowd of hosts and invited guests cheered.

Servers dispersed into the area around the fountain carrying trays of drinks and appetizers. White draped tables clustered on the cut granite flagstones under a clear, late-spring night. If anything passed overhead to block the glittering stars, it could easily be taken for a cloud. Nobody would give it a second thought.

A petite woman in a classic tiny black dress waited behind a microphone. Her jet-black hair fell to the middle of her back in a dark curtain. A pink ribbon tied off a thick lock of hair at her right temple.

A pair of men in expensive tuxes stood behind her. The senior of the men pulled the others into a quick huddle. The younger man barely listened. The dark circles around his eyes pinched narrower in a frown but he only nodded and waved the woman toward the mic.

She took the cue and stepped forward as the music faded.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she announced. A squeal of feedback caused her to draw back with a smile and an “oh” on her lips. She coughed behind her hand and looked to the DJ. A long-haired kid behind the turntables adjusted a slider and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began again, this time indicating the men behind her. “The Blackburne and Mason families welcome you to a night of music and charity to support this community’s women and their wellbeing. I’m Sarah and if you have any questions about the new wing here at BlackMason…”

She dropped a shallow curtsy.

“I will be happy to answer.”

A smattering of applause and lifted wine glasses greeted her in response. She stepped down from the low stage and began mingling.

Regis Walker tried to track her path through the crowd.

“This is the second one of these the company has sent people to this summer,” the man at his side said. “The goodwill we get on recruiting drives alone makes it worth it.”

“Mm, hmm. Great idea, Mr. Thompson.” Regis nodded without looking at his boss. “I wonder if she’s single.”

“Who? The announcer? I don’t know, but if you talk to her… can you get her to mention BlueNote Aerospace from the platform at some point? Accounting says we can donate ten grand but don’t promise it all upfront,” he replied, turning away to shake the hand of another well-dressed attendee.

Regis wandered off, weaving through tables and knots of conversing strangers. The music changed from dance standard to slow groove. He spotted his objective—two tables over—in a group.

He stopped, one finger tapping on the nearest table.

I like the way she carries herself. That’s a lot of guys around her though.

His head dipped a fraction, one bent finger scratching across the light stubble on his upper lip.

Fair amount of grey hair in that group. Not unusual, these things attract old money.

He ran his fingers through his own hair.

His head swiveled and stopped with the DJ booth centered in his vision. The hand at his mouth dropped, pushed off the table, and set his feet in motion. He fished a twenty from his wallet and laid it across the nearer turntable.

“Buddy!” he stage-whispered, “do me a favor and place something fast, loud and bassy.”

He couldn’t see the DJ’s eyes behind the unnecessary sunglasses, but the bill disappeared, the kid nodded and pushed a couple of buttons. The lights strobed and the black domes pulsed at the center of the big speakers mounted on tripods to either side of him.

He turned to see if the desired effect had been produced.

Yes! They’re scattering to the back of the crowd. And… she’s not following.

The black bow tie at his throat jumped once for every step he took until he found himself facing her, hand out. His lips moved but he couldn’t even hear himself over the music.

She smiled and accepted the offered hand. They moved onto the dance floor. Neither of them saw the younger of the two men on the stage tracking their path with his eyes. He turned to the other man, said something, and left his side when they started to dance.

Regis smiled awkwardly, his feet failing to keep time with the beat.

Crap! What was I thinking? I can’t dance. She can though!

They moved around the floor, joining the other dancers in an impromptu Harlem Slide. Just as everyone was syncing up, she stepped out of line. Regis followed her to a seat at the edge of the circle. Her face was flushed but she waved away his offer of support with a smile.

He jumped over to a server carrying a tray loaded with cups of water and grabbed two. On his way back, the song ended. He eased into the chair next to her, glass extended. Her color already looked much better.

“Sarah, right? Are you okay?” he asked.

“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” She breathed deep, forehead furrowed and took a sip of the water. “I don’t usually accept drinks from strangers, though.”

“Oh, sorry. I heard you announce your name from the stage. I’m Regis Walker, BlueNote Aerospace,” he said. He lifted a hand to shield his mouth, “I’m supposed to offer you ten thousand dollars.”

“Really?” Her eyes went wide and the back of her hand touched her forehead. “So much money for a silly dance that my lungs wouldn’t let me finish?”

Regis scanned the crowd again and adjusted his tie.

Man, that ribbon really sets off all that black hair.

“Yeah, sorry. That was just me trying to sound more impressive than I really am,” he admitted. “I just wanted to meet the woman who put all this together.”

She took a longer drink of water, eyes reading him above the rim of the cup. She sighed and set the drink down. She waved at the crowd.

“This wasn’t all me. I don’t have the stamina for that. Occupational hazard of being a nurse during the pandemic—plus a couple of kids at home…” She shrugged. “I had help.”

Over her shoulder, Regis spotted Mr. Thompson making a bee-line for them.

“Even more impressive, honestly.” He fished his business card out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’d love to take you to dinner this weekend.”

He pointed discreetly with his nose at the approaching boss.

“And if you could do me a favor… We’re discussing a company sponsorship. I only offered you five thousand.”

* * *

Later, after everyone had left, one man stayed behind. The music gear had been packed up. The chairs were turned over on table tops. Only the walkway lights and the spill-over from the windows of the clinic behind him lit the area. The fountain was off for the night.

The Mason half of BlackMason Medical stood fountainside. He unpinned a name tag on his chest that read: “Nick Mason, CEO”. He spun it between his fingers and stared into the shallow water. The dark circles around his eyes were sunken copies of the fountain’s dark basin.

Something rippled the calm surface of the water. A breeze rustled some discarded papers, skittering them across the granite flagstones with a sound like dry laughter. Nick flinched at the sound and stepped back from the edge. The badge made one more rotation through his fingers.

“I’m done with this,” he muttered.

He tossed the badge into the pool and walked into the night, away from the building.

The plastic rectangle floated for a second then dipped into the water and disappeared.

If you choose “Not my genre”, I would greatly appreciate if you would drop a comment below with what genre you think the story fits into. Thank You!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 -

Chapter 3 -

Chapter 4 -

Chapter 5 -

Chapter 6 -

Chapter 7 -

The End

–Grrr. What did that monster do to me? My head feels like a block of wood.–

–Wake your ass up, girl!—

–The depravity he admitted to! That violence must be repaid with violence.–

–Lupa hasn’t followed your black soul for this long to let you get away.–

–Why does our mouth taste like ice?–

–Wait…our mouth?? What is this?–

“I…I…I’m still alive? Where am I?”

“Layla?”

“Tammy?”

I’m back on the floor. The floor I thought I was sliding off of, sharp edges of glass digging into my side. There’s a motionless German shepherd lying next to me.

Scrambling away from it draws fresh blood to mingle with the crusting slashes on my chest.

The dog looks strangely familiar, but there’s no hint of habanero.

–Look inside, monster–

Wait—who said that?

Then I taste it. The hate, the self-righteousness, the burn.

“Oh, shit.”

She’s in my head.

There’s an eerie silence, other than the conversation in my head. It’s not an empty silence. In place of sound…there’s a flavor—ice melting into chamomile.

That tastes familiar.

It hurts to turn my head. I want it to turn left, Lupa wants it to go right.

It’s my head, damn it! We’re going left.

Tammy stands a safe distance away, behind the couch. She’s holding Layla in a protective embrace. The chamomile is coming from the kid.

Thank God, she’s ok!

–What do you care, monster? Didn’t you have enough fun with her already?–

“I didn’t touch her, bitch!”

Tammy and the voice in my head sound in unison, “Who are you calling a bitch?”

Oops. I said that out loud.

“Sorry. I hit my head. I didn’t mean to say that, boss lady.” I hope my apologetic smile is convincing.

I get the unsettling feeling of someone sniffing through memories.

–Unbelievable! You are clean. Whatever…you would have done it if we hadn’t burst in when we did–

You know that’s not true. Look at the memories yourself.

Just because I could imagine it when I fed it back to you, doesn’t mean I liked it. It was rotting my soul.

Face it. You’ve had me wrong from the beginning.

–Yeah, but not ALL wrong. I see some other stuff in here–

“Nobody’s perfect!”

“Fine, but that’s no excuse to call me a bitch—in my own house,” Tammy grumbles.

Damn, again. I gotta learn to keep my inside voices straight from my outside voice.

“You have some questions you need to start answering, Nathan. Like yesterday!” Tammy’s shock is fading; boss mode is re-engaging.

“Is she dead?” Layla chirps from out of Tammy’s shadow. Tangy hope spikes zest across the sofa separating them from us.

Tammy is nodding hard. “Yeah, is she dead? How did she turn into a dog? How do you know her?” Her boss voice doesn’t sound like “fun boss” anymore. “Most importantly…Who or what are you?”

Hmm, maybe she has a mouthy bitch inside her head, too.

Thin smile.

–Grrrr–

Habanero.

“Are you laughing at me, Nathan? You aren’t the only one with magical powers. I can turn that suspension into a termination and an arrest warrant.”

“Look. The dog is dead. Lupa, the woman, is not,” I sigh, hanging my head. “As for where she is and what I am…It’s been a hard week, and I’m really, really not feeling like giving you a lore dump right now.”

My phone beeps under the couch. It must have fallen down there in the fight.

“Is there any way I can get you to just trust me that everything will be okay? Just for now?” I maintain eye contact with her, bend down to fish out my phone.

Good God. A text from Shayna?

Sigh, perfect…

“Are you serious, Nathan? This was not just a mah-jong night gone wrong! This is next level. If you think…” Her face is flushed and the curry spice is strong.

I’m about to reflect all the calm, trusting vibes I can muster.

–It gets a little easier to slide down that slope every time, doesn’t it, monster?–

Layla gives Tammy a quick squeeze in their shared embrace. “Go easy maybe? He did save me from her. I trust him.”

Tammy blows out a breath, suspicion dropping a notch. The curry turns to paprika.

Huh! The kid doesn’t have reflections or fangs. Being real with people actually works?

“I need to check this message.”

Tammy waves me away with an eye roll.

I walk to the hallway between the living area and the back rooms. There’s a full-length mirror showing my tattered profile. The phone screen lights up.

Shayna:

<Hey, Nathan. I wanted to thank you for getting me out of the house the other night.>

<I didn’t want to ghost you, but I think it’s better if we don’t take things any further.>

<I just need to figure out who I am, what I need, and be the best mom for Isaac. I hope you understand.>

–I knew she smelled smart when I met her back in the club. She ain’t the only one who needs to figure out who they are.–

I text back “k”. Because—well you know.

–Why the long face, monster?–

Memory sniffing…

–Oh. My. God. That’s what you were planning on doing if I hadn’t interrupted?–

Hey! Stay out of my memories! My head is my house. You stay in the yard.

I look in the mirror and reflect an image of myself whistling and throwing a Frisbee over the head of a comically eager dog. My own right arm swings up and punches me in the ear. It’s really uncoordinated, more of a shock than actual damage.

–Keep messing with me, jerk. I’m learning new tricks by the second.–

I’m about to lose it. I can feel it coming. I’m wondering if the mirror will let me fang myself to death. A hand on my arm brings me back from the edge. Layla’s null quiets both our voices.

“She’s in there, isn’t she?” Layla taps my temple.

I just nod, afraid to meet her eyes, not trusting whose voice might answer.

“Who is in there? Lupa?” Tammy walks over, crossing her arms over her chest. “Wow! Talk about literal ‘you are what you eat.’”

She bites her lower lip; I can taste the bitter coffee grounds grinding between her gears. “I don’t think I can have you around here or at work. Not until you figure out how to get along with yourself.”

“You can’t just kick him, I mean…them out!” Layla’s voice almost hits a frequency that makes our fur stand on end.

The kid is sweet, but Tammy’s right. I need to either find a way to get rid of the mutt… or learn to play nice–together.

–I don’t want to spend any more time in this twisted dump than I have to either. Trust me.–

Options?

–Put yourself in a coma?–

No.

–Well, I don’t want the girl around you 24/7, nulling you out like a blonde pacifier.–

Me neither.

–Hey! Did we just agree on something?–

…

…

Yeah, not perfect.

–No kidding. So…hold on to that tiny agreement, find help, don’t be a monster. Sound good?–

I barely stop myself from slamming my face into the mirror.

I guess it will have to be good enough for now.

I hope you enjoyed this story. I would love to hear what worked. Even more I want to hear what didn’t work. I have more stories from Nathan’s world floating in my head and your suggestions will help make them better.

For now, have a great day. Whatever day that is for you.

“Thank God it’s Friday!”

I wish that was true. More accurate to say, “At least I made it through Thursday.”

Let’s take stock of the situation:

I went a little off the rails yesterday—understandable, but not sustainable.

I’m trying to lie low.

I need to sleep off a fanging hangover.

Heh, heh… a fang-over.

Focus!

Not trying to get murdered by a pissed off watchdog from my past.

Also important.

The atmosphere in this apartment is…complicated.

Layla’s a good girl. At least I think she is…

But then—what would I know about that?

I couldn’t make sense of the flavor jambalaya in the room, so I basically hid from the girl all day, yesterday.

The wintergreen flavor that followed her around—as she followed me around—masks almost everything else. Normally I would drink up that gratitude all day long, but I can’t sense Lupa coming if she howled at the top of her lungs and marked the whole hallway.

Plus, it’s not just the mint. The reflections that ambush me when I accidentally meet Layla’s gaze are—how do the kids say?—cringe?

The apartment is small but it’s not that small. She doesn’t have to brush past my arm as I pace from one window to the other, on the lookout for that steel-grey, furred silhouette.

Does she?

Pretty sure she doesn’t. She stops all that and keeps to herself when Tammy comes home.

I don’t remember fifteen, but I’m pretty sure that’s technically still a kid. I’ve got enough karma hunting me right now.

Keep your reflections and your touchy-feely to yourself, missy.

Now it’s Friday morning—Tammy’s gone to work again—and I’m caught between Huff-n-Puff outside and Double-Trouble inside.

I’m never eating Tex-Mex or chewing gum ever again.

I’m flexing my fingers into fists and releasing them over and over again. My feet trace the same 10 feet between windows. My nerves are screaming for even a gas station coffee in a cheap styrofoam cup.

A voice, not a flavor, snaps my head around.

“Thank you,” she says. Simple and vulnerable, like a mint gummy.

Uh, what? Please, do NOT be throwing real, genuine feels at me right now.

I’m looking at everything but her eyes. If I was jumping at shadows before, now I’m trying to merge with them.

But of, course, she can’t leave it there.

“Rivera was a monster. I’m not even sure he was my dad, my mom died when I was young. I don’t know what you did to him, but thank you.”

“Don’t thank me kid, I didn’t do anything and it didn’t have anything to do with you.” I’m only half listening to Layla.

I see Tammy, on street level, walk around the corner of Prospect Street. It’s later than I would have thought, the sky is already purple going to black.

As I watch, a wiry figure in a short skirt and a long, black jacket approaches her. They exchange handshakes and Tammy waves them across the street to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Both disappear inside.

What are you doing woman?! Stop hanging out with strangers and get up here!

“I saw something when you grabbed Rivera. Your eyes looked weird, like little movies of the things he did to us.” The minty gratitude is still there but it’s colder now, like chewing on ice cubes. Some spice too, not like the were-dog burn, but detectable.

I flinch before I can lock down.

She saw that? She’s not repulsed?

She’s…

Thankful, scared, and a bit angry.

That’s it?

I don’t need this distraction. The wolf is out there somewhere, and it’s getting dark. No way she just gave up.

“You should be more scared and angry!” I bark at her. I’m not using reflections on her. There might still be a chance to convince her that she imagined it.

Damage control!

“Gratitude will get you hurt!” I’m a little proud of my ‘scary voice’ right there.

It must have hit right. Her mouth hangs open. The mint, the ice, the jalapeno…it all goes in a blender.

“You can tell what I’m feeling?” She taps her platinum bangs. “In my head?”

It’s making me dizzy. Fifteen or not, I’m about to send the fangs in to make it stop. Just to drain off the excess.

My fingers dig into Layla’s shoulders and…

A steel curtain slams down. Somebody cut the cord on the blender. The blades might still be spinning, but it’s dead silent.

She went null again!

Uh.

Hmm.

Well.

The quiet, the calm, the flavorlessness…is glorious. And disorienting.

Thankfully, there’s a couch under me when I go down. Layla plops down next to me, leans her back against my shoulder, feet up.

“Didn’t know I could do that, did ya?” A smile is in her voice. I’m looking at the floor.

“It’s a trick I learned with Rivera. He would still—you know—but it wasn’t as fun for him.” She shrugs. “It felt easier that way.”

Why is my face leaking? The fangs have never done that before…

Her head drops back, lands on my chest, looking up at me. My eyes snap shut…she’s too close.

“Aww, I didn’t mean to make Mr. Scary Voice cry.”

Of course, that would be the exact moment that the door knob rattles…turns…opens.

Tammy walks in–wiry stranger in tow.

“The fu—!”

That’s Tammy.

“MONSTER!”

And that’s Lupa, short skirt—long jacket…full on blazing, habanero, pepper spray.

You could be the purest creature on God’s little blue jewel and your face is still going to look like mine—feline with canary feathers between the teeth.

A gentle shove, and Layla hits the floor.

Why bother with explanations? Fangs out.

I find out immediately, that Lupa–on two feet–is just as dangerous as her four-paw persona. Her black jacket hangs in the air like an abandoned shadow. It hits the ground at the same time she hits me. Red-painted nails claw for my face. The other shoulder slams into my gut.

Oof! That would have hurt more if I needed to breathe.

We both go down, tangled up together. I’m trying to protect my eyes and lock reflections with her at the same time.

She smells musky up close, not at all like a wet dog.

Not important! Get your head in the game.

I have the fingers of both hands twisted up in her dark hair, desperate to bring her eyes to mine.

The reflections have to give me something—anything. I can’t match her physically!

A lamp smashes, somebody screams. Tammy..Layla? Me?

Lupa’s clawing at my chest, ripping through shirt and skin. There’s blood. Its normal metallic scent mingling with sweat–hers and mine.

Lupa’s teeth find my shoulder. Now I’m sure it’s me screaming. I have to let go of her hair and push against her chest, fighting for space. Buttons fly off her silky blouse like popcorn.

I don’t usually hit women. Hell, I don’t hit anyone. I’m not a fighter.

She’s trying to seriously injure me. Maybe kill me.

I’m not sure I can actually die that way.

Not taking chances.

My fist connects with her left ear, once—twice. Her jaw releases and I push hard.

Her head hits the glass coffee table. It stuns her as it shatters.

Scrambling backwards on all fours, my shirt in tatters, I try to weigh options for damage control.

Tammy is edging around the room towards Layla. A string of curses flows from her lips.

Layla is still getting up from where I dumped her off the couch, shards of glass showering out of her hair. Her null is fragmented; concern etched on her features.

There are so many emotions. I can’t separate them. The mashed potatoes and gravy have spread into the green beans.

I look at the open door.

I could run.

A hair-raising howl yanks me back to the room. Lupa’s shaking off the blackout and trying to come at me. Her burning hatred cuts through the haze. My eyes water.

Layla jumps her from behind, trying to hold her back.

She’s like 110 pounds!

She’s not a fighter either. What is she doing?

The wolf woman stands and shifts her shoulders. The girl flies off, Lupa’s buttonless shirt clutched in her hands.

“The bastard has already defiled you, hasn’t he?” She has one bloodstained hand pinning Layla to the couch by the throat. “He can make it feel like loyalty. It’s a lie! Don’t make me finish you too!”

No more running. I didn’t intentionally save the girl from Rivera. But I didn’t take advantage of her either. I am not the monster here.

“LUPA!”

My fangs hover halfway across the distance between us. The yell gets her attention. Her head turns. I finally lock on some reflections.

Everything she imagines that I did to Layla assaults my eyes. My stomach heaves…coats my tongue in bile.

Nothing I say or do here is going to mean a thing to her.

The fangs strike home. I reflect back everything she imagines, doubled. A high pitched whine trembles from both our throats. Pushing that poison back on her is corroding—rancid.

She drinks in the fangs that feed her prejudice. They go as deep as they ever did with the old man or Rivera—then break through and go deeper. She’s been carrying this hate around for a lot of years.

My body moves physically closer as the fangs drill down. Naked chest to naked chest, our bodies vibrate with the frequency of the shared whine.

I can feel Lupa slipping into darkness.

I’m slipping with her.

–Goodbye, monster!–

A slender pair of arms goes around my shoulders. Layla’s forehead against the back of my neck—her null wrapping me in cool oblivion.

Everything goes black.

Next Chapter

After I dropped Shayna off at her place, things got really fuzzy. There was an awkward goodbye that I’d like to forget. Then six to eight hours of habanero-haunted alley crawl. That’s all a blur.

The last two decent feeds I had were Rivera and Steve. The sweet balancer that I hoped would cap the evening with Isaac’s mom got knocked sideways by this were-dog Lupa woman.

My mental state was…

Let’s put it this way. Try saying “Mosfernauyu blue balls” ten times, really fast.

Yeah, I am that twisted up.

At some point, I must have gotten on the train.

‘Cause now I’m in Brooklyn Heights, at a random cafe in the Clark Street Station, drinking a pitch-black espresso with uncontrollably shaky hands.

I’m also feeling a little bloated.

Why won’t the aftertaste of insanely hot chile peppers go away?

The whole night…block after miserable block of it…that bite stayed on my tongue. I could feel Lupa.

Just around a random corner.

Out of sight.

Taunting me.

Only one bright spot—I think it’s a bright spot anyway—last night, in the blues joint, I reflected her. Actual human thoughts and emotions.

Maybe I can use that.

Who am I kidding? She’s only half human.

While I was staggering from one toxic feed to the next in the grimiest corners of lower Manhattan, her flavor profile stayed static.

Spicy, bitter, and umami.

Yeah, don’t ask what that is. I don’t know either. I think it’s vindictive superiority, but it could be the leftover coating of Fireball and Mad Dog on the fangs.

Ugh.

Sunrise changed things. Just as I regained some sense of self, coffee in hand, I tasted a shift. The maddening, calculating hunt faltered—morphed into something less focused–more feral–closer to the ground.

Daylight makes her wolf out? Interesting.

But not safer. Not for me.

The paper cup crushes in my hand. Hot coffee spills in my lap.

She can’t be running around the city as a dog, alone. Animal control would pick her up in no time. She has to have a human “walking” her.

Going back across the river on the same train isn’t my best option. There’s a subway map in a glass case on the wall just outside the coffee shop. Just a short walk through a grassy park I can grab a different line.

It’s public and open. It should be safe.

The two blocks from St. George tower to the park are nerve-wracking. Scents spill from every corner—every open shop door. The difference between Indian curry and were-dog spice isn’t obvious enough to let me relax.

I do NOT remember there being so many dogs in the city before. Every stray bark makes me jump.

The park is worse. There are dogs everywhere. Too many people are wearing sunglasses.

Adapt or die, right?

A man, walking a poodle, cuts in front of me. He says nothing. Not even a fake “sorry”.

Wait! What’s that spice?

It’s not the eye-watering habanero from last night, but spicy enough…

Lupa could have calmed down watching me gorge on wino fast food. It was a long night. She’s not undead, she could just be tired.

I swivel on my heel and crouch to get a closer look at the poodle.

“Who’s a good girl?” A scratch behind the ears keeps my hands right where I can grab said ears.

There’s nothing behind the poodle’s eyes. No habanero…no wild chaos…no reflection.

“HANDS OFF THE DOG!” Poodle Boy has a vein about to split apart his forehead. I am in a mood to assist that. I straighten to face him. We both take off our shades.

Ah, that’s where the spice is coming from!

The reflections reveal visions of a beaten man. Out of work, unsure of his identity, and now forced to walk a poodle in public while his woman goes out to bring home the bread. I feed him back a string of images of his partner wearing a shiny, black vinyl cat suit, cracking a whip. The poodle watches from the couch while Poodle Boy scratches at the collar around his neck.

His self-loathing ramps to ten. It tastes like…

Candy corn…seriously, bro? Nasty.

The fangs jerk back reflexively from that flavor. His eyes cross a little. I beat a retreat into the park before he recovers.

More dogs, great.

Corgi, freshly groomed. No spice.

Pomeranian, frizzy haired and playful. No way, not in a million.

I’ve made it halfway across the grassy space. One careful eye on a Dobermann splits my attention enough that I trip over a huge St. Bernard.

“Oh my god! Are you OK?” A perky blonde with short curly hair helps me to my feet. Her boyfriend is straining to hold the leash tied to the growling brute I stepped on. I sneak a peek at her reflections.

Whoa. Clean, washed Romaine lettuce.

I don’t hold the connection. Big boyfriend with a bigger dog is literally one step away. He’s unreadable behind mirrored Aviators.

I can’t take chances in public. But wait…

Reflections of reflections. I see her eyes mirrored in his glasses and the reflections in them are—pure cotton candy—these two are smitten. That irritates me for some reason. I try to shift the reflections to something more in line with my recent track record.

Ugh! It’s like trying to punch Oobleck.

I hate you two.

Exactly the kind of couple a lonely were-dog, missing her bereaved former master would hook up with. The bitch is growling like a gravel-throated banshee. The taste of Mexican hot peppers dances across my tongue.

I whip around with my fangs at the ready and glare at the St. Bernard. Two quick, pre-emptive strikes later…

Not Lupa.

And now my fangs are dripping with drool.

Damn it!

The burning salsa is coming from me, not the dog.

I gotta get off the street.

I stumble away, fingers massaging my temples. The curly blonde is asking if I’m sure I’m okay. I flip her a middle finger over my shoulder.

It must have been the right response. She and the dog both shut up.

Then I remember…Tammy lives on the other side of the park—in the DUMBO district. She makes a lot more than I do. Ask me later about that episode with Dr. Childers, our boss. I’m not jealous about her salary.

Not a bit.

Head down, fangs tucked tight, I power walk out of the park, under the bridge, and into the lobby of Tammy’s building.

An array of intercom buttons mocks me by swimming in my vision. The one marked “WONG” in capital letters is dancing Zumba. I mash it with my palm.

“Who is it! Make it quick, I’m late for work.”

I hit the right button!

“Tammy, it’s me, Nathan. I need a place to crash for the day. Be a super, duper fun boss and buzz me in.”

“Nathan? You got to be kidding. I don’t have time for this…” her voice trails off but the buzzer sounds and I’m through the door. I swear I hear a bark just as the door closes.

I take the stairs two at a time. Her door, 4F. A Dragonball Z sticker wraps around the peephole.

She checks her visitors by looking out through Goku’s butthole…perfect.

I rap on the door in one unbroken beat for a solid 60 seconds…until the door flies open.

“Of all the ass backward, unprofessional, inconsiderate… do you have any idea how this would look if anyone sees you here?” Tammy is not amused.

I break my own rule. Pissing in my own pool, starting…now.

I drop the shades, looking for the right reflections.

You want to be the fun boss? The one everyone likes? Here’s your chance—Don’t blow it.

Now, in her eyes, it’s kinda her fault that I look like a zombie (as if!) at 8am on a beautiful Thursday morning. I have every right to be pounding on her door, asking to couch surf while she’s at the job she suspended me from.

Something in the back of my head twitches. I know I’m crossing a line that I can’t uncross. I squash that twitch. Full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes.

“I…I…ok, look. This is just the worst idea, but it’s good you showed up.” The twitch flares when she says that. “I have to work, but I can’t leave Layla here alone.”

“Uh, you know, maybe I have another friend I can call…”

“Seriously! It makes perfect sense now. She and I have talked a lot since the episode at work.” Her head is nodding. I can’t track the reflections. What do jumping jacks taste like?

No, no, no!

“For some reason, she trusts you. Actually feels grateful to you. Maybe I get that, all things considered.” She grabs an umbrella and her stainless-steel coffee mug and squeezes past me.

“You’ll be fine. She knows the password to the Wi-Fi. You probably won’t even see her all day.”

She turns and closes the door behind her. The reflections turn off. Her voice echoes in the hallway outside, “BYEEEEE!”

I turn around.

There’s a fifteen-year-old, blonde girl standing there in an oversize hoodie and jean shorts. All mouthwash minty and smiling.

Hell no!

NOT PERFECT!

Next Chapter

Something’s in the air, I can sense it. But I can’t taste it. Kind of like that feeling you get when you haven’t showered. You know you reek but you can’t smell it yourself.

Like that.

I’ve been pacing all night. That’s not really a problem, mostly undead like me don’t need sleep. It’s more of a symptom than the disease.

Radio news says Steve survived the dog attack. She-shepherd loped off shortly after I kicked and ran. It doesn’t want police attention either, I guess.

Where do I go from here?

I come back to that coffee shop on 7th. I tell myself it’s just because of the garlic bagels. That works until I open my book. I want to read, lose myself in someone else’s life. But there is Shayna’s number.

That was the last “normal” moment.

I want to get back to that. I want control again. My fingers trace the title of the book. So solid, the ending is set…done.

I’m kinda jealous. I feel like someone else is still writing my story and hasn’t decided how it ends yet.

Do I even have a choice?

Ugh. No!

I am not turning into one of those vamps. Always with the tortured redemption story and the moping about their lost humanity.

I’m calling her. She was simple. Tasted like southern sweet tea, with a squeeze of lemon.

I’m sure Isaac’s forgotten me by now.

Quick reality check. I can’t use the reflections over the phone. It’ll be just me. I haven’t had to do that in…well…maybe ever.

I don’t remember being a teenager. I must have been at some point, my ID says I’m 37. Obviously, I look much younger. 29…tops.

But I’ve relied on the reflections for what? Twelve years…

That’s nothing I can’t handle.

Phone rings…

And rings…

“Hello you’ve reached Shayna and Isaac! We are obviously out, living the dream. Leave your number. We will call back. Unless it’s you, Tyson, don’t leave your number– just send our child support check with at least five digits. You’re behind again.”

BEEEEP!

Oh, crap! I’m not ready.

“Uh, hey Shayna, it’s Nathan. From the coffee shop…on 7th. I…umm, you know the one? It’s the place around the corner from the 2-line station. Yeah, anyway, I hate talking to these things. I liked talking to you Sunday. You seemed…”

What do I say here? I can’t see what she’s feeling to know which way to go…

Full-on flirt, or apologetic?

I laugh awkwardly.

The fangs are not amused.

“You seemed…interesting.”

Good one, Kato!

“Look, I know it’s Wednesday, and I said I was going to call Monday. Life has been…interesting. Did I just say interesting again? I’m dying here.”

I try to channel Tammy Wong.

“Anywho, there’s a groovy little blues club down off of Canal, The Wednesday Evening. If you haven’t heard of it, just ask. Everybody in Chinatown knows about it.”

“I’m rambling. I’m going to be there. Listening. To music. I mean, obviously. If you want, it’d be fabulous if you could join me. My treat. Don’t bring Isaac, it’s a 21-and-over club. I mean, not like you’re thinking… It’s just because of the alcohol. I’d love to see him again, just not in the club. I mean, I’ll see you there if you want to come. If not, that’s totally cool. If you text me your address, I’ll come by and get you around 9 o’clock. Thanks, bye.”

I swipe the “HANG UP” slider with a finger that hates me.

Not perfect.

Not even good.

Nobody likes talking to voicemail…right?

Hopefully I didn’t sound too creepy. I’ve had the worst luck lately with random targets. Give me a chance to get back on my game with a sure thing. A safe bet…That’s what this is about. I feel good about Isaac’s mom.

I check my watch.

Eleven hours to kill.

I need some new clothes. There’s still a couple drops of Steve on my shirt.

On the way out the door, an older man drops his hat at my feet.

I bend faster than he does.

Perfect!

He’s smiling at me as I rise. Eyes beaming chamomile, mint, and Earl Grey tea. I almost get sucked in.

NO! No more snacking on randoms.

I’m not sure how that shows up on my face, but the geezer’s mouth scrunches up. “Thanks, son…I think.”

Just give him his hat and go!

I have never been happier to go looking for a thrift store in my undead life.

It’s pretty quiet in the dark, trendy consignment shop. I keep a safe distance from everyone. Keep my shades tight. Get a plain white t-shirt and plaid button-down.

Phone buzzes.

Not a call? Just a text…

<Who is this?>

…? She doesn’t remember me? Oh, hell no!

My fingers fly, words slap onto the chat.

<I’m Nathan.>

<Sunday morning…coffee shop…?>

<Isaac loved me…any bells ringing?>

I’m stretching it, saying “Isaac loved me.” She probably didn’t ask him for his opinion. Hopefully

Marketing is everything.

<Message alert>

<I know. Just kidding. ;)>

<257 Church St. Meet me outside. Babysitter can’t be here ‘til 9:30. Sounds fun!>

YES! I mean…

Perfect.

I met Shayna outside her building that evening. I won’t bore you with the details. I was smooth and charming. I didn’t use the fangs or reflections at all. It was fun. It’ll be more fun later.

Seriously.

What? You don’t believe me?

The reflections are good for ramping up emotions quickly, if I’m in a hurry to feed. The fangs can help with that too. But…

It’s like cooking in a microwave.

Building a mood right. Naturally?

That’s a beef brisket on slow boil in a crock pot. Even at the curb, she was already on simmer.

Say it with me…Perfect.

The Wednesday Evening Blues: growling guitars and two-pack-a-day voices. Nobody does Hump day like Wednesday’s. Nobody is trying to outdress anybody. Everybody is trying to out scowl Howlin’ Wolf.

We drop in with bourbons in hand, mine with a splash of Kahlua.

Shayna sways to the minor fifths like a smoky willow in a rainstorm. I’m half watching, half head-bobbing, half keeping a lid on the fangs. Just half though…shallow waves of honey barbecue rolling across the table keep me on my toes.

We haven’t said a word since we got here, but her smile says this kind of easy peace has been a long time coming.

The barbecue layers in a hopeful tang. Hands in my lap curl up in the fabric of my jeans to keep them away from my sunglasses.

It’s a beautiful thing. She gets an oxytocin fix, maybe a bit of healing, and I get a gourmet entree.

Everybody wins. Well, almost.

I’ll get what I’m after. Who knows…maybe she will something too.

But that hope that’s swelling?

Not gonna happen. Remember… the plumbing?

The song ends, lights come up, chairs shuffle.

Why are my eyes burning?

Oh, crap. Habanero!

Where?

I lower the shades just enough to scan but not enough to draw suspicion. Flickers of flavors ping off my eyes. There’s a lot of sad, anxious people in the world. The blues draws ‘em, grounds them, brings them home.

I taste their bitterness mixed with hope—like a bite of lemon, right through the rind.

Then I spot her. By the door. A single, burning chile on the edge of a human bowl of stir-fry. The blue eyes give her away. No reflections at this distance but I still recognize her.

I see you with your black hair streaked with grey…Staring me down like I had tossed a frisbee and then disappeared when you went to fetch it.

“Earth to Nathan. Hello!” Shayna’s finger taps my forehead.

I almost slap her hand away from my face. I’m that keyed up.

Breathe, man! If I want to enjoy this, she needs to enjoy this.

“Sorry, girl, something reminded me of a dog I saw in the park yesterday.” Her hand drops. I catch it, dust a kiss across her knuckles. “Do you like dogs?”

There’s that blush again.

Perfect.

She lights up. “Isaac loves puppies! Our lease doesn’t allow animals, though. You have a dog?”

Her enthusiasm is contagious. My glass knocks against the table quietly. I’m shaking with the effort to restrain myself. Sweat and gravity start sliding the Wayfarers down my nose.

There it is again! Chocolate and cinnamon.

The band starts back up—a slow John Lee Hooker number, the house theme song.

The night’s barely got started. But she’s giving me really, really good stuff!

Deep breaths, bro. Control the reflections.

“Maybe we could dance?” I start to stand. She smiles–takes my hand.

Another hand with very long, sharp nails comes down on my shoulder. A voice barks in my ear, “Going somewhere, monster?”

Spinning around with that hand on my shoulder, in the face of the blazing spice coming off her, is harder than I expected. She’s taller than I am, with the lean musculature of her canine self.

“Sweetheart, this one is not what he appears to be.” The words fly over my shoulder. The swirled flavor of Shayna’s confusion drifts back. “Trust Lupa on this. He is much better at taking than giving.”

That’s it!

The kid gloves, or in this case, the kid glasses are coming off. I drop them. Fangs at the ready.

I expect more of the same wild, chaotic images from the reflections in her eyes. The unreadable static from the park is gone. I get something completely different.

Not only am I not controlling the reflections–I’m remembering…

Ten years ago…young and lost. I had no memory of my childhood, of who I might have been, or where I came from. The fangs and reflections gave me power though. Why look inward or backward, when you can take what you need from others?

It’s not like I wasn’t giving them something in return.

The bored housewife with dreams of a handsome young stranger, the one who’d whisk her away to frolic in the waters of the Aegean. A mailman who just wanted a fishing buddy to drink beer with, while they sit catching nothing.

I made all that feel real, until it wasn’t.

And then…the old man with the dog.

He’d lost his wife recently, I didn’t bother to find out how recently. The grief and melancholy was so tender and deep…

It pulled me in, threatened to drown me even as the fangs drank their fill. I could feel his mind slipping away, right there on his front porch swing. Even so…the last flavor, his final reflection was pure, clean mint.

Gratitude.

Apparently, his dog—Lupa—wasn’t so thankful.

So here we are…

Now. In a blues club on the edge of Chinatown…Karma’s a bitch.

“Ummm, Nathan? Who is this?” Shayna’s looking between Lupa and I, like a diabetic flipping from the front of the cake box to the nutrition facts on the back.

“I’ve never met this human before in my life,” I say. The words are technically true but even I can taste the dishonesty on them. She’s reaching for her purse. I try to reflect calm back to her, but my eyes are still watered up from the habanero fumes.

Yeah, that’s it.

Lupa’s growl is low, only for me. “You stole his future. He could have recovered. You took that from us. Now I’m taking something from you.”

She releases my shoulder, nods once at Shayna and stalks out through the crowd.

“Well, that was weird.” I straighten the glasses again and smile my best “where were we before my crazy ex dropped by” smile.

The moment is gone. It tastes like a warm, flat Coke.

“Isaac has pre-school tomorrow. I should be there to make sure he gets to sleep. Let’s call it a night,” Shayna says.

I try a last flicker of reflected hope.

Damage control?

“Can I at least walk you home?”

We both know this night isn’t going anywhere, but she nods reluctantly. Gives me that, at least.

I think I just became a cat person.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Look at me…big, bad Mosfernauyu slouched on a park bench next to a children’s playground, trying to catch innocent feels and nursing a two-week suspension.

Squeals of laughter, breezes of vanilla and chocolate, it’s like Yoo-Hoo for the human side of my soul. I don’t want to drink it, but a bit of contact high helps calm the storm.

Little bits of Rivera keep coming back up, like bad chili. He got what he deserved, I got indigestion.

And a big, fat spotlight that I definitely don’t need. Yeah, it was a juicy rush, but it almost went too far.

OK, maybe it DID go too far. But here we are.

Tammy, handing me a temporary pink slip and telling me she took custody of Layla in the same breath…

That’s just diabolical.

A big fat pigeon hops over and gives me side-eye.

I guess I’m not the only one bread-crumbing it today.

A stray blob of rage-bile backs up in my skull. I chuck the rest of my espresso macchiato at it. It was cold anyway. The caffeine doesn’t do anything for my nerves either. One bird with two shots of java.

Head in hands, I try to pull myself together.

Stray sky rats are not your problem here, bro.

Getting sloppy makes everyone nervous. Nervous is dangerous and tastes like Pop Rocks in cigarette ash. I can’t love that.

“Timmy! Share with your brother!”

There’s a mom hovering over a pair of toddlers by the sandbox. Close enough to grab the shovel if they start eating sand but not close enough to get her white Adidas runners dirty.

Ugh. She tastes like tofu.

An equally spotless man walks over and gives her a peck on the cheek.

Kiwi-Strawberry, for sure. Claims to be both, tastes like neither.

She’s too focused on the kids to see him hunting tail. I doubt I can learn anything from his technique but at least this should be fun to watch.

There are… maybe… ten other kids scampering between slides, swings, and jungle gym. The adults range from a couple of soccer moms, a guy walking a big German Shepherd, and three older ladies alternating between chatting, watching their grandkids, and throwing suspicious looks my way.

I guess that’s fair. I’m not into hurting kids, but they don’t know that.

Damage control.

I check my shades and stand up.

Kiwi-strawberry looks my way. I throw him a nod.

Time to make friends, I guess.

As I walk up, I subtly point his attention to one of the soccer moms. She’s bending over to check her girl’s skinned knee. From our vantage point, her lavender leggings stretch just right.

Quick smile. Chin point.

The kiwi evaporates. More like over-ripe peaches now. Too sweet, too thick…and fuzzy.

Perfect.

Even better, I’ve almost forgotten about Rivera.

This is fun.

Cheeky smile.

Maybe I am a monster.

“I love being in nature, don’t you?” I hold out a fist and get the bump I’m asking for. “Nathan Price, you?”

“Steve,” he responds.

Because… of course it is.

I know I shouldn’t… this soon after Rivera, but I need a palate cleanser. This is too tempting a snack to pass up.

I drop the glasses, just a tad, our eyes connect. My fangs are a bit raw. But I’m looking for a sip; not a Big Gulp.

He sees himself reflected in my eyes.

Good lord, Steve! I underestimated you. Where do you hide all that mojo when you ain’t ballin’? Does Tofu ever get any of that?

Not that I care…Just curious.

I’m taking baby sips of Steve’s emotional peach tea and making small talk–weather, the Knicks, I don’t even know what, it’s automatic.

We all do it. Right?

The German Shepherd barks. It tastes like habanero.

Wait…what?

I can’t taste animals. Not that they don’t have feelings. Not that I don’t have feelings about them. But that’s not how my fangs work.

Something’s not right. Did I hurt myself that bad in the morgue?

I let Steve go. Unfortunately, I’m too shook to enjoy his amusingly terrified look at Tofu. I’m scanning for threats.

The dog looks normal. Her owner looks normal. The leash looks normal.

Maybe I imagined it…maybe Tofu knows more than she lets on. It must have come from her…

GRRRRR…

Eye watering, mouth scorching, capsaicin. It’s definitely the dog.

How do I get close enough to reflect it?

The question turns out to be academic.

She isn’t looking at me…

The slightly grizzled snout is pointed rigidly at Steve. He’s only just processed the fact that Tofu is still oblivious.

Minty!

I snort.

He thinks he’s off the hook.

He registers the she-shepherd’s naked aggression.

Metallic, Cry Baby jawbreakers.

Different girl, different hook.

Sucks to be you, Steve!

Furry shoulders bunch, canine knees straighten and the leash jolts from the dog-walker’s hand. Two powerful bounds and she’s on him, teeth snapping for his throat. Blood pours from Steve’s forearm and hands. He tries to protect himself.

Tofu is already on the other side of the jungle gym, sheltering their toddlers and screaming for help. One of the grandmothers is on the phone, gesturing wildly. I don’t see any of the other kids.

Thank God. They must be hiding.

“Steve! Hold her jaw closed! Dog’s jaws are weaker that way.”

Come on, Steve. Hold her.

Hands clenched around the dog’s muzzle, Steve whimpers. Her claws shred his shirt and the skin beneath it.

One chance…If I can taste her emotions, then maybe…

Circling around by Steve’s head, I pull off the sunglasses. The dog’s eyes are a shocking blue. There are reflections, but they are so alien, so wild.

All I can get out of them is one clear thought, laced with spice.

—You showed me who you both really are. You’re next, monster.—

Sirens, too loud, too close. Blood, barking, someone screaming.

I can’t help him or, more importantly, myself by staying here.

“Who are you calling a monster, bitch?”

A swift kick in the dog’s ribs and I’m gone.

Today was supposed to be a breather! How did I mess that up?

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

My copy of “Death of a Salesman” thuds impotently on my morbidly grey metal desk.

Cover flips open to the flyleaf, reminding me of yesterday.

Shayna— (212) 555–7153.

All prime numbers.

Perfect.

A little too perfect, actually.

Good thing I keep an extra pair of Dockers in my locker.

Being mostly undead has weird rules. My plumbing no longer responds to physical stimuli but still does its thing when I feed.

So not perfect.

“Happy Morgue Monday, Nathan!”

A Styrofoam vessel of bitter, black, liquid death appears under my nose.

Tammy Wong… cheeriest assistant coroner ever to tag a toe. Also, improbably attractive for the job description.

Shades on, trooper. No pissing in your own pool, remember?

“Creepy vibe, bro! What’s up with those sunglasses? Afraid someone’s gonna catch ya throwing pervy glances at the stiffs?”

“Ha, heh…” My hand shakes a touch, combing through my hair. “Nah girl, you’re just so freaking bright. I gotta wear shades!”

I make a finger gun, shoot her in between the eyes.

A hint of sugar tints the air between us. The fangs twitch.

Down, boys. She’s off limits.

Tammy clears her throat.

“Yeah… real bright. Anyway, boss says you have to run the victim ID visits today. No weirdness this time! Capeesh?”

I turn the finger gun on my own chest. “Who, me?” I ask.

“Come on, Nathan. I wanna be the fun boss. I don’t know what happened between you and our actual boss. But Dr. Stefan ‘effin’ Childers, M.E. refuses to be in the same room as you. So now I have to play bad cop. Promise me!”

I drop the sunglasses to the tip of my nose, look over the top. Fangs sheathed, reflections calm.

“I promise.”

One breath… two breaths.

She blinks first.

“Right! First one in twenty minutes.” She wags an index finger. “No weirdness!”

A head shake and she’s gone.

Fun boss. She’s in charge of watching me. Dangerous combo. I like that.

Can’t have it… but I like it.

I pick up the forgotten Styrofoam cup and take a sip with a grimace as I head to receiving.

“Gah! You trying to kill me?” I yell to the empty corridor. Cup goes in the screaming yellow trash barrel outside the waiting room. A dark splash runs down the rusty interior.

I like getting to the waiting room before the next-of-kin gets there. I can usually taste the uncertainty and dread spiraling off them, acidic and almost chewy.

I can feed on it, but it’s not my favorite. My favorite is the tangy little garnish of hope that comes with it.

Which will it be this time? The hope that John Doe isn’t their guy?

Or the hope that he is?

I flip a coin.

Tails.

So… tails mean that I wait until I pull back the sheet before I let them see their reflections.

Delayed gratification, it is.

A man slouches through the other door in the waiting area.

Yeah, that’s him. So acidic, it’s almost metallic.

Wow, that’ll put hair on your chest.

Wait… there’s two of them.

I can only taste the tall one. The shorter one, a girl—maybe fifteen—is invisible.

An emotional null. That’s… disappointing.

There’s no garnish. Neither flavor of hope, from either of them. Not even a little.

What the actual hell is this?

I try to keep an eye on them and fish their folder out of the bin at the same time.

“Rivera? Follow me, please.”

The tall man gently nudges the girl forward as they fall in behind me. Her being physically closer doesn’t give me any answers.

He’s a fire hose. She’s a black hole.

I won’t even need to show him his reflection to get fed for the week.

But the girl… I’m holding out for whatever she’s managing to hide.

The anticipation and intrigue have me so off-balance I don’t even notice the knot of moody melodrama drifting the other way. It’s like licorice and Tums, and not the good, fruity ones either.

A homicide detective, in a black leather jacket and a frumpy button-down, lowers his sunglasses as he passes.

“Nick,” I spit the name like the four-letter word it is.

“Nate,” he says, slipping his shades back on when I don’t lower mine.

“I told you not to call me that, Nick.”

I open the freezer room door and hold it for my charges.

Normie vamp. Sheesh. The ’90s called. They want their vibe back.

I close the door in his face and turn to my visitors.

“Mr. Rivera, you reported a Mickey Rivera as missing…” I check the file from the folder. “…a week ago?”

He nods, his eyes fixed on the wall of 3x3 doors.

“Ok, we have a John Doe we believe may be Mickey. I’m going to ask the minor to stay by the door when I pull the table out.”

“It’s her uncle.” Rivera’s lips are the only part of him moving, but the metallic bite coming off him locks down like his hands on the shoulders of the girl.

“She needs to see this.”

The flavor profile I’m getting off him turns oily. It’s enticing in its intensity, but a little nauseating at the same time.

What is going on with this guy?

I fidget with the temple of my Ray Bans but stop short of pulling them off.

I have to respect the coin toss. Not yet!

The latch on the door scrapes and squeaks but the heavy, insulated door opens easily. I pull the sheet draped table until it stops with a clunk.

I glance again at the girl over the top of the shades.

Screw the coin toss. Doesn’t count.

Still nothing. This is starting to make me itch.

Rivera is tired of waiting. He steps forward pushing the girl in front of him. He pulls back the sheet.

I’m expecting a storm.

It’s barely a drizzle.

Rivera tastes a little oilier. But the girl…

The girl finally gives me something. Just a drop. Distant, like a breeze from the Indian place down the block and across the street.

What the…? Chamomile and sriracha?

Relief and… envy?

Oh, crap…

It’s a trauma response.

She needs to see this? He already knew Mickey was dead. It’s a warning to her, isn’t it?

The ancient fluorescent tubes crackle and flicker twice.

“You bastard.” I state it like he’d just asked what time it was.

The sound of my voice yanks Rivera out of whatever fever dreams he’s gone to. Bloodshot eyes lift to seek mine behind the tinted lenses… just before they hit the floor.

I could have been feasting on some grade-A grief right now. Except this sicko is too twisted and the girl’s too damaged.

The reflections in his eyes rage like a river of battery acid across a greasy, rusting car hood. He sees his violence mirrored back at him and pulls the fangs so deep it feels like a violation.

My bone-white knuckles pull screeching fingernails across the stainless-steel table.

There’s no coherence to the mad rush of images…

Only drugs, violence, and blunt force trauma.

The girl has more than a few cameos in the horror show.

Her name’s Layla. The junkie’s voice makes it sound like an unholy prayer.

The taste of power is addicting. The raw force of it is colonizing my willpower.

I can’t lose it now!

I lose it.

“You like the show, Rivera?”

I reach across the dead uncle.

Lock my knotted fist in dirty dreadlocks.

Pull his forehead against mine.

My lips are stretched tight against my gums. His part into a comically perfect O.

The fangs bottom out in his shallow, black soul.

I’ve only pulled this deep once before. Years ago.

As far as I know… that guy’s still in a coma.

The last dregs siphon from him and he drops to the freezing cold terrazzo, one foot twitching.

“Heh… heh… heh.” The breath rasps in and out of me.

He went down too quick. I’m not done yet.

The fangs retract, preparing to find another target.

Layla squeaks. Covers it quickly.

It gets my attention. Not in a good way.

My glasses are still on the floor. Our eyes meet as I round the table. The faintest flicker of a reflection sparks in their depths. My fangs orient on it.

The smooth notes of chamomile splash against the wall of borrowed rage in my skull.

That’s the taste of relief.

As the fangs touch that spark, the reflections stabilize and strengthen. I’m still not free of the bloodlust, but I find my human voice.

Cheek to cheek, I grate into her ear, “Scream for me, Layla.”

A heartbeat later, I whisper, “Please!”

Her piercing wail, so close to my ear, snaps me back a pace. I stumble over her father’s limp form and go down on one knee.

I’m still shaking the crimson fog from my head when the door crashes open.

“Help him!” I hear Layla plead. “My Dad… saw Uncle Mickey. He passed out… hit his head on the table. Please!”

I’m in an awkward position but my head swivels to see Tammy Wong, in full boss lady mode, hugging Layla and scowling down at me.

The reflections show me on my knees, desperate to help an unconscious, grief-stricken man.

The fangs brush lightly to reinforce that idea.

Tammy’s lips disappear in a tight, thin line. The reflections fracture. I hear her voice from the recent past.

No weirdness this time!

She turns to guide Layla out of the room.

“Stay with him. I’ll call the EMS.”

The girl looks back, eyes brighter now.

What is that flavor? Minty?

Is that…

Gratitude? What do I do with that?

The two disappear around the corner.

I am so screwed.

Thin smile.

But still not a monster.

Next Chapter

Coffee shop on 7th Avenue, just above Houston.

I love watching people. I love it even more when they watch back. I’m Nathan, a Mos-fer-nau-yu. I’m mostly undead. My fangs are in my eyes.

They bite deeper when you sink them yourself.

I’m at a corner table, right against the front window. Full sun. The last thing people expect. A vampire with a tan and a fuzzy reflection in the heavy, plate glass. Drinking a chai mocha latte. Reading a book. Eating an everything bagel dripping with garlic butter.

A skinny blonde aims her blue eyes down her nose, spraying apathy across the seating area. Her gaze touches mine and skitters off, like a drunken butterfly.

Not what I’m craving today.

As she turns away, she stumbles over a small boy playing with a tiny plastic fighter jet. She clutches her coffee to her chest, squeezing the wax paper cup. A tiny drop of Java makes a leap of faith to blossom as a stain on her blouse. She shrieks just loud enough to carry throughout the room.

A short, black woman struggles through the morning crowd with a coffee, a diaper bag, and an apology on her lips. The young guys hanging outside around the crosswalk had called her “thick” as she hurried in.

“Isaac! Please pay attention!” Her eyes flick from the Karen’s face to her son to random faces in the crowd, as if looking for allies. Her brown irises lock with mine and stick. She sees me, seeing her.

Yeah, that’s the stuff.

I smile in just that right way that says, “I’m not laughing at you. I want to help.”

The fangs bite… just the tips.

The seat across from me is the only free one in the shop.

Do I have to tell you that was intentional?

She barely hesitates before lifting Isaac and sitting him in the tall chair. Bag and coffee, reeking of cinnamon, land on the table almost tumbling my cup.

“So sorry. Can you please watch these while I take care of this?” She doesn’t really wait for an answer. Her eyes still haven’t left mine and she sees my reply clearly.

“Thank you!” She sighs and takes a paper napkin from the wire rack and returns to help the other woman.

I watch her walk away.

Yeah, like that.

Isaac watches me watch his mom.

I like that, too.

“Where’s your dad, Isaac?” My voice sounds like I’m asking if he likes gummy bears. He shrugs.

Perfect.

“Oh, God. You’re just making it worse!” Karen huffs, pushes the napkin away, and storms out the swinging glass door. A tiny speaker rings tinny bell sounds.

Perfect.

I stand and offer her my seat and a handshake. “That was hard to watch. I’m Nathan. Does Isaac’s mom have a name?”

Sitting on the narrow ledge of the window frame puts our eyes nearly level.

Perfect.

The fangs sink a tiny bit more.

“Shayna.” A grateful smile curves her lips. “Isaac’s mom works too.” She grimaces at the group of young guys outside. “Anything besides, ‘Hey, shorty.’”

“Shayna, I like that. There used to be a woman at church named Shayna. She was beautiful too.”

That gets me a little blush.

Perfect.

“Momma, can we go home now?” Isaac’s question forces me to look away. My eyes would give me away.

My eyes reflect what I’m thinking. Sometimes I can control it—reflect back what a person wants or fears. But if my emotions, like irritation or anger, are strong enough?

Not so perfect.

The fangs work best when they can’t be seen.

Damage control.

“Isaac! Little man! You can’t leave now. I was just about to show you guys a magic trick.” There’s a wrapped lollipop in my blazer pocket. I don’t want the kid, but—you know—damage control. “Whoop! What’s that behind your ear?”

I look at Shayna, lift one eyebrow. I know she sees herself reflected in my eyes. She sees herself smiling and nodding.

The fangs sink deeper.

Perfect again.

Shayna clears her throat. “You know, most guys run the other way when they see a girl with a kid. What’s your angle?”

There’s an edge to her voice. The sweetness tastes slightly bitter.

It’s fine. I’ve been here before.

“Really? If I’m being honest, single moms are kinda my kryptonite.” I’m not even lying. She’s looking me straight in the eyes. She sees the reflections. She wants to believe them.

She sees herself in a cozy uptown apartment. The lights are low. A smoky voice croons softly. She sees herself taking off her sweater, unfastening her bra…

Gods! The desire…the longing!

Delicious!

She’s pulling the fangs deeper now. On her own. Willingly.

I can see her trying to look away, tiny shifts of her eyeballs, hands twisting a flying strand of hair. Nothing else exists, just us, the reflections…and the fangs.

I drink my fill, sigh deeply, and close my eyes. It tastes bittersweet. I’ll leave her drained, but I won’t finish her. The kid doesn’t deserve that. Besides, I may want more later.

The alarm on my cellphone rings.

“Damn! I’m late for work.” I scramble to grab my rapidly cooling coffee and book. I taste a bit of something salty. I see the reflections on the backside of my corneas.

Yes, I have a job, too.

“What? You’re leaving?” Confusion…bordering on desperation. “Can I call you?”

Oh, that’s sour! Do NOT let her see your eyes!

I flip open the cover of my book and hand her a pen.

“Write your number down. I’ll definitely call you tomorrow.”

I look at Isaac. He sees my eyes. His little mouth tightens.

Fangs fully retract.

Shayna sees the hint of something pass between me and her son. She hesitates then shrugs. Sighs. Jots down her number.

I told you I wouldn’t finish her.

I give her a hug and a peck on the cheek as I rush out the door.

I mean, I’m not a monster.

Next Chapter

Nick Mason looked in the mirror of his downtown studio. He smoothed the scattering of grey hair in his sideburns and listened to the echoes of the otherwise unoccupied apartment. It had been a long five years.

Nick dropped a stack of handwritten journal entries back into their shoe box. Each page documented the effects of Rachael’s step-by-step managing of his reality since.

Every dollar her father spent building BlackMason Medical and buying him to run it.

Every crisis that only he could handle.

Every guilt trip over the child that she eventually miscarried.

Every accusation of favoritism when Nick recruited Sarah to run the OB/Gyn ward.

Each one had a page. Some spread across multiple pages.

I made a mess of all of it. Sarah was never the same afterwards.

I just couldn’t make the pieces fit.

A bone chilling thread of laughter wound around the room. Nick dropped his head and hunched his shoulders. His eyes darted to the darkest corner of the room and back.

“What do you want? Did Rachael send you?” He closed the shoe box and slid it to the back of the closet.

Whispers filled the confined space. Nick shivered but stayed on his knees in front of the open closet.

“You took my life. CEO, husband, father…what else do you want?”

Hissed words formed from the static-like noise.

“Bring me to someone new.”

Nick stiffened—clenched his eyes shut. “No,” he spit out.

The laughter returned—colder now.

“Yes.”

“Eventually…you will.”

This is not a confession. Never that–there’s no statute of limitations on the crime of murder.

But honestly, I’ve gotten away with it for nearly eighty years. I need a little credit for that.

Now…full disclosure…I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. I was trying to film a commercial for the invention that was going to make me a millionaire.

The Indestructible Monomolecular Double-Dutchenator 3000.

Miss Short just had the misfortune of being the worst at jumping rope.

It was so sad. She had the work ethic to be a great actress. Even after she missed her mark on the first two takes, she dug deep and said, “Tis but a scratch! Have at you!”

Poor thing didn’t know the meaning of the word “quit”.

I couldn’t tell anyone what happened to her, but I could make sure her last words would be remembered. Every time I was around actors, directors, or comedians—those words were never far from my lips.

“Tis but a scratch! Have at you!”

I think Elizabeth would have liked the fact that they ended up in a comedy. The Black Knight and the Black Dahlia, together forever.

Again, this is not a confession…but now you all know.

took point on the project. You can find a step-by-step breakdown of the process on his account.

The group is currently putting another together for 2026.

I’ll leave this here for your perusal. Hopefully it will give you a taste for more.

IF LIFE DOESN’T GIVE YOU LEMONS

There is always a breeze and the scent of vanilla just before the portal opens. The animals sense it coming. The tones of the bird songs shift up tempo but minor key. The frogs choose silence. The pointy black rock remains intensely ambivalent.

A ripple spreads from the edge of the nearby lake. The size and frequency of the semicircles tell Jamie it’s a combo crossing this time.

Everything is ready. The picnic table is set. The mesquite chips are scattered across matte black charcoal briquettes in the grill. A box of matches waits to be lit.

Whoever or whatever comes through the portal cast in the shadow of the obelisk better bring food, or else become food.

Jamie is hungry.

The Kids Aren’t All Right

What I wouldn’t give to go back to backyard barbecues and tailgating, flame-kissed burgers and slow-roasted pork. He looks down at hands stained by the blood, guts and juices of the… various whatevers that have come walking, crawling, and flying out of the void.

“It’s never going back to the way it was before this two-meter, black stone anchor latched itself around my life,” Jamie thinks out loud. “Hitchhiking out here to throw a couple lures in the water was just the worst idea. Now I have no car and no idea if there’s anybody else left alive out there. Plus, if I wanna catch my next meal, I can’t just walk away from this granite DoorDasher from hell!”

He keeps his distance from the big black monolith. A perfect fishing day had turned into a six-month long nightmare. An innocent -POP- and there it stood, poisoning everything around it. He and his fishing buddies had found out pretty quickly that the fish in the lake, the frogs, the birds, even the plants were inedible. Even the ones they had caught the day before were no good.

Jeep and Tank were “lucky,” I guess. If that’s what you call having half your body disappear when a portal pops into existence and takes a bite out of you.

“But at least that was a quick death, not a week of explosive vomiting. ‘Cause everything, that should be edible, is toxic. At least it ain’t months of hoping someone will show up and tell you what’s going on.”

He comes back to the present when the vanilla breeze gusts for a moment.

POP… POP…POP

Yes. Lobster beetles!

Jamie has seen these before and they are delicious. They skitter out of the portal, disoriented. The dark hole in the air snaps shut again behind them. Three quick strikes with a fist-sized rock and he separates the grey heads from the shiny, black, chitinous bodies.

A rich, buttery scent hits him in the face. It was that smell —and soul-gnawing hunger— that convinced him to try to eat these ugly critters the first time they appeared several weeks ago.

“I wish the legs would quit moving, though.” He’s been alone long enough that talking to himself seems not only normal but required. “If those four nightmare pincers ever got a hold of me… wow! No bueno.”

With practiced precision, he separates the two halves of the thorax. The squelching, cracking sounds they make disgusted Jamie at first, but the buttery odor filling his nostrils is supremely soothing. He can already taste the tender, grilled flesh lingering on the tongue.

Slabs of beetle meat on plates; he grabs up the box of matches. He whistles contentedly as the flames catch and dance across the charcoal and char the bits of aromatic wood.

“This is going to be so good! There’s even a nice bit of wind to take the smoke away.” That thought takes a second to sink in. “Wait… breeze, vanilla…” Jamie glances at the lake, “Ripples! Another portal, already?”

POP!

“Oh my God! That’s a big one!” Jamie jumps back from the grill and scrambles for the rock he used to disassemble the smaller beetles.

A 6-foot-tall monster comes through the hole in the air. ‘Struts’ is the word that comes to Jamie’s mind. “It’s straight up swaggering. You wanna meet my leader? You’re looking at him!” He’s still talking to himself but whispering now.

Mandibles as long as Jamie’s leg click together like dark, living trimming shears.

SNAP, SNAP

Multiple eyes lock onto the lone human with the grilling tongs in one hand and a laughably small rock in the other. The scale-like armor on its midsection ripples with a muted buzz. Three quick steps and it’s right in front of him, one giant claw reaches out and locks around the tongs. Jamie barely keeps his bladder in check as it pulls the grilling utensil from his limp grip. Another lightning-fast step and the still oozing bits of meat from the table are placed carefully on the now smoking Weber. The hissing of the juices combines with the whirr of vestigial wings to perfectly parody his memory of backyard bliss.

Jamie’s dry, gaping mouth clicks shut as the huge bug sits down at the table and folds its claws on its abdomen.

“What… the… hell… is… going… on?” Jamie says to the impassive creature’s back.

Eat It

“You haven’t touched your food,” Jamie says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. Those massive mandibles are even more intimidating across a narrow picnic table. It doesn’t help that the 18 faceted eyes don’t blink, move or give away a single emotion. Then there are those claws hidden below the red and white checkered tablecloth.

Jamie pushes the grey melamine plate a fraction of an inch closer to his insectoid table mate. “I’ve been here for three months. I haven’t seen another soul since that damned stone pillar made literally everything inedible. Then you show up! Either eat or say something!”

His ‘guest’s’ continued stonewalling causes Jamie’s facade to crack, “What?! Was one of those little guys your friend? Are you planning my painful, gruesome death?”

Finally, there is a reaction. The mandibles click-clack. Jamie leans back hastily. His new ‘friend’ merely tilts its head back, shears off an inch thick branch hanging over the table and begins to slowly chew.

Jamie stares, then shrugs. “Bon appetit.” The lobster beetle is grilled to perfection. He digs in with gusto.

“Thank you, Big Bug. This is really good,” he keeps trying to make small talk. “You have a name?”

No response.

The tree branch is about half consumed. Jamie’s patience is too, but he hides it well.

“How about… ‘Chewy’? Is that alright with you? As far as I know there ain’t no one else left alive on this planet to sue me. I mean, unless there are more of these damned monoliths dropped around other places.”

Chewy continues chewing. A nice non-vanilla scented breeze blows off the lake and whisks the flies away for a minute. The afternoon sun sits low enough to stream past the leafy canopy of the maple tree over them. Jamie finishes his bug steak and stretches lazily.

“I gotta tell you, Chewy. Conversation or no conversation, this is the best afternoon I’ve had in a while.” Jamie has a stray thought.

This bug knows something. It walked in here like it means to own the place. Time to play good cop.

He jumps up from the table, maybe a bit hastily. Chewy flinches. Short, membranous wings buzz angrily. Jamie holds up his hands, forcing himself to move slower. He backs over a short distance to a smaller tree at the edge of the clearing, keeping the giant bug in sight. A nice sized branch comes off the sassafras.

Back at the table, still not making any sudden moves, Jamie extends an arm holding the branch. Chewy twitches and the branch is snatched out of his hand and reappears in Chewy’s mouth parts.

“That was fast! I guess I need to keep you on my good side, right?” Jamie looks at the setting sun and turns back to his chitinous companion. “I have a small shelter not far from here. It’s almost dark, I’m going to hit the sack. Do what you want, but don’t follow me. Grill master or not, I don’t trust you.”

Chewy stays at the table, motionless and unresponsive.

“Right, see you in the morning.” Jamie backs away again. Damn alien woodchipper.

Papa Don’t Preach

Three days and two sassafras trees later, basically nothing has changed. “Chewy is still chewing. I’m still talking to myself and walking on eggshells….” Jamie takes a couple angry swipes at the grill with a stainless-steel brush before throwing it on the table. “And now I’m hungry again. Stupid bug doesn’t care… comes to my turf and eats whatever it wants… right in my face.” He slams the brush down and moves to pick up the dirty plates on the table, intending to wash them.

Chewy stops chewing. Mandibles click-clack in the face of the lone human. Jamie almost wets himself for the second time in a week before he notices the vanilla in the air and ripples in the water.

“I knew it! You and this rock are in cahoots. What hellspawn are you summoning this time?” He rushes around to the far side of the fraying checkerboard draped table. A hurried glance at the water’s surface confirms the presence of big ripples.

Chewy resumes chewing. No response. The wavy-edged corner pocket of the universe springs open.

POP… POP… POP

“Ugh, lobster beetles again? Wait…” Jamie looks from the three, foot-long bugs scuttling out of the null space in front of the black rock, then to Chewy. Back to the beetles. Back to Chewy. “Oh, no.”

The similarities are undeniable. The dark carapaces, four reverse jointed limbs, and triple segmented bodies match nearly perfectly.

They are not clones, exactly. The smaller insects don’t have the scary mandibles and their wings are much larger, compared to their bodies. They might actually be able to fly, or at least glide a bit. The last one through is weird though. It’s rocking a flash of yellow fur lining the ridge above its even larger wings.

About the time Jamie realizes that one of the new arrivals is different from the other two, Chewy makes a scarily rapid lunge.

Snik-Snik

The first two beetles lose their heads in a blink of an eye, severed by those wicked hedge clippers mounted on the front of Chewy’s face.

Snik-Snik

The lower thirds of their bodies join the small pile of loose body parts. Chewy clinically pulls apart the armored plates of the trimmed thoracic bits. Soon there are two bug steaks laid out on the grill, waiting for fire.

Chewy resumes its position on the monolith side of the picnic table. The portal is gone. The breeze is still. Jamie stands stunned.

The only movement comes from the furry beetle, last through the portal. Wings buzz a high-pitched song as it lifts itself to perch on Chewy’s shoulder. Chewy slowly raises one arm and… strokes… strokes the head of the little one. The golden patch of fur on the smaller one ripples almost like the surface of the lake did moments ago. Harmonizing trills come from both of them.

An awful thought dawns on Jamie. He backs away, quietly dropping the hood on the grill, like closing the door on a murder scene. “Uhh, um, I… Chewy?” he gulps, “Are these your kids?”

Jamie leans across the table, in a low growl says, “You better not have been feeding me your cockroach babies.”

Bye Bye Bye

Growl.

“Shut up,” Jamie says to his stomach.

He looks at Chewy through laced fingers, “I need answers, buddy. I showed you the sassafras, give me… something.”

The two fresh bug steaks sit uncooked over a lifeless bed of charcoal. The lid of the Weber is still closed. He doesn’t even want to see them right now. Jamie can almost believe he hears soft, melancholic harmonies drifting out of the stainless-steel flue pipe on top.

Chewy’s head swivels slowly, side to side. Jamie’s heart skips a beat. “Wait! What was that! Did you just shake your head? I mean, if you don’t want to talk, that’s totally fine.” His eyes light up with an idea. “You probably can’t talk, right? We could do twenty questions!”

The bug’s head stops moving with the mandibles pointing directly at a young tree with dark chocolate colored bark. It looks inviting even to Jamie.

Jamie sighs, “Of course, that wasn’t a head shake. Just scanning for your next meal.” Chewy moves far more quickly than the reverse bent knees would seem to allow, snipping off two branches complete with their jagged edged leaves.

“Must be nice to just grab a snack whenever you want. No obelisk poison or moral qualms involved. Feel free to let me know how that’s even possible since this isn’t your damn world in the first place.” Jamie sighs and massages his temples. “You can’t understand me. This is all part of your plan anyway. You wouldn’t tell me, even if you could!”

A strong scent of wintergreen curls up from the cut ends of the tree limbs. Chewy leaves them on the table and reaches a claw up to gently pluck the smaller insect from its perch and place it next to the leafy sticks.

Jamie’s gut squirms with guilt as he watches what really, really looks like a parent caring for the hunger of a child. A buttery odor of shame sneaks out of the closed grill.

“OK, OK! I get it!” Jamie yells to the wispy clouds in the sky. “I didn’t know before. I feel terrible. Can we get past it and figure out what you two are doing here?”

Chewy turns and walks away with an unhurried stride. Jamie watches it until it reaches the edge of the woods. His brain finally unsticks. “Hey! Where are you going? You can’t just leave! We need to figure some stuff out. Hey! What about the kid? You can’t leave it here!”

Princess sits contentedly eating and ignoring Jamie. After each bite there is a slight but perceptible ripple in the gold fur… maybe even a hint of sparks.

Chewy disappears into the undergrowth a couple of paces into the woods.

“Yeah, I can wait here for 5 minutes with your boy, errr girl… child, uhhh… spawn.”

Jamie waits 5 minutes, then 10, then 50. The sun starts to go down. “CHEWY??? Come take care of your brat, I need to get to my house!”

Jamie growls, looks over at the furry bug munching contentedly. “Don’t hum while you chew. Your mom isn’t here to protect you. I’ll put you in there with your brothers.” He points at the grill. The threats make no discernible difference.

“Great, it’s a teenager.” Jamie rolls his eyes and walks away. “I’m going to sleep.”

His last thought… Chewy doesn’t come back, I’m charging this kid rent.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

The next morning, things were not better. Different, yes, but not better. Something felt off. Jamie runs through the daily mental checklist.

Crappy hovel, check

Messed up world, check

Creepy obelisk, check

Trusty Weber grill, check

Food crisis averted, nope

Damn it

“Now where did Princess get off to?” The small, fur clad mystery creature is nowhere to be seen. He shrugs, “It’s not my responsibility anyway, right?”

On the table, a few scraps of the cherry birch leaves lie next to a shimmering two-foot long gold crystal. It seems to rock every couple of seconds. There is a scent of vanilla in the air, but the lake water is as still as glass. No portals open.

That’s a shame. I could still use something to eat. Preferably something not sentient.

The crystal’s motion becomes more rapid. As it shifts position, the play of sunlight through it reveals that it is actually translucent. The thing inside is giving it a golden hue.

“Princess?” Jamie tries to bend down for a better look without getting too close. “Is that you?”

The vibration quickens enough to become a hum. It gains stereo width as the obsidian monolith resonates and reflects the tone. Vanilla saturates the air. White crested waves are racing across the lake, away from the near shore.

“What the hell?!” Jamie backs away, every jet-black hair on his head standing at attention.

A crescendo of sound and scent explodes out from the monolith, tearing a hole in the air the size of a small cottage. At the same time, the crystal shatters. Translucent shards fall from the glorious, winged nightmare inside.

“Princess” is not significantly larger, but every other part of its alien anatomy is now augmented. From the auric quills on its back, fractal glints of light refracting off the points, to the glistening gossamer wings, and the deadly looking mini-mandibles, it all screams, “BEAUTIFUL, BUT DEADLY!”

“GOD, Chewy! What did you leave me with?” Jamie wants to put more distance between him and Princess 2.0, but the lake is to his back.

Princess orients on the portal, hovers in place, and screams at the blurry edged void. There’s a lurch in Jamie’s gut—like falling without moving—and then a new world pops into focus.

“Whoooaaa!” Jamie’s jaw drops.

Imagine looking through a cosmic window into hell. Two-story fungi tower over swarms of lobster beetles crawling over each other. Chewy-size brutes wander among them. None of them look anything like Princess.

How’s Jamie handling that? Not great.

Another scream. Another wave of vertigo. The large portal splits down the middle.

The hellish world now sits side-by-side with another world, a sun-bathed hillside covered in bright blue grass. A small group of orange skinned humanoids are lounging across the side of the azure slope.

The vibrations are gone. The water’s surface returns to a flat tranquility. Only the faintest hint of vanilla remains on the breeze.

Princess retrieves a branch she discarded earlier and buzzes to the ground beside Jamie. Eighteen eyes—and a pair of freshly minted, very sharp mandibles—fix on his face. The newly crowned royal bites off a chunk of wood and begins to chew.

Like it’s just another day at a lunatic’s picnic.

“I…? What do you…? What is this?” He manages to stutter before dropping to his knees at the water’s edge. He closes his eyes and shakes his head vigorously. The two halves of disconnected space remain floating in front of him.

“What? Am I supposed to choose?” He crawls sideways to put some distance between them. This close up he can see himself reflected in those enigmatic eyes. “Based on what?”

A prolonged rumbling growl starts in his stomach. Almost instantly, Princess’ wings thrum a matching note.

“I’m supposed to decide based on my hunger? You can’t be serious! I already told Chewy that I’m sorry for eating those other lobster beetles. I’m NOT doing that again.” He shakes his head resolutely. “The other portal ain’t any better. I don’t see anything that looks like food over there.”

His hands gesture unconsciously as he talks. When he waves toward the group of resting humanoids, Princess’ gaze follows his movement. The insectoid’s wing hum ramps up to a shriek and the gold-barbed bug streaks straight over the sunbathers, almost faster than the eye can follow.

A moment’s hover gives Jamie just enough time to stumble to the event horizon marking the border between the two worlds, shock and fear twist his face. “What are you doing? Get back here right now!” he yells.

Princess dives.

SNIK-SNIK

One of the smaller orange ‘people’ screams. There is a spurt of dark blue blood and an upper limb separates from its body. The group panics and flees in all directions but the individuals don’t go far. Each one looks back and when it doesn’t appear that the assassin bug is following, they lie back down in the grass and continue basking.

Princess takes up the severed limb gently and flies it back to deposit it on the table next to the grill. The twin portals snap shut.

TAP-TAP

Like a murderous woodpecker, Princess pecks on the still closed lid.

My Favorite Mistake

“Stupid cockroach! Dumbass, unbelievable, deaf, mute stink bug! What are you doing?” Jamie slams his left hand down on the stainless-steel lid. “At least the two inside here are already dead, I didn’t ask you to maim somebody for me. I am not cooking that poor guy’s arm.”

In pure treachery, his stomach growls again.

Princess matches the sound again and picks up the orphaned arm and slams the three fingered palm down next to Jamie’s digits. The razor-sharp mandibles graze his nose. Reflective onyx eyes meet his unflinchingly.

SSSSSNIP

“Ok, ok. Calm down.” Jamie raises his hand, wipes a bead of blood off his nose, and backs a step away. “You were trying to help… maybe?”

Is there any way this doesn’t end badly? I’m actually missing Chewy. At least—

“At least what? Chewy wasn’t any better than this…” He can feel his breathing quicken, control slipping away. His right hand falls on the branch Princess dropped just before assaulting the oranga-a-man.

“Enough! Enough! Enough!” He shouts and slaps the stick into Princess’ ‘face’. The alien flinches back and drops the increasingly rust-colored appendage.

“Ha!” Jamie triumphantly snatches it up and heaves it as far into the lake as he can.

A furious whine behind him alerts Jamie. He doesn’t even turn to look.

Her Highness is pissed! Run! The tree line is only a hundred yards away.

His feet move on their own.

Who do you think you are kidding? You saw how fast that monster mosquito can move. That poor guy never saw it coming! Don’t think about it… He runs faster.

I must have stunned it with the branch. Maybe I have a chance!

A supersonic keening assaults his eardrums. The Doppler effect ups the tone by half an octave before a sharp pain stabs into Jamie’s shoulder. It’s quickly followed by four more pain points where Princess’ pinchers latch on to his head and back.

Nope! I guess not.

The forest edge is barely steps away from where he falls, blood trickling from several wounds. Three shining, gold quills stick out of his spine, faintly pulsating. A swarm of angry bees shoots through his consciousness, bright flares of light bloom behind his eyeballs, then… nothing.

Learning to Fly

Am I dead? I should be dead right? Princess went for my head, not the arm. Where is the bright light? There’s supposed to be a bright light. Why does death smell like vanilla?

He’s in amongst the giant fungi he spotted through the rift earlier. Not at ground level though. He is higher, above the mushroom caps. There are lobster beetles everywhere.

*Carabids*

“What? Who said that?”

*Princess… stupid name… watch now*

The view moves quickly forwards as he flies over an open space in the fungi. Two bugs that could be twins to Chewy are seated, breaking open carabids and feasting on the meat inside.

*Myrm*

“Ok, ok. They’re called Myrm, got it. Thank you. Wait, how am I flying?” Jamie suddenly realizes: Somehow, I’m riding shotgun in Princess’ head!

*Not feasting… not safe… watch!*

“Ok, but don’t think I didn’t notice that I had to answer the flying question myself… OH MY GOD!”

The pair of myrm are in obvious distress. Internal swelling is pushing apart the segments of chitin armor. Thick ooze starts coming from every joint. Frantic seconds of thrashing on the musty ground end mercifully…

POP… POP

Two slowly spreading puddles of gore are all that is left, a few shards of armor segments sinking into them.

“Owwie! I felt that! Why?”

*Connected… can’t explain*

“Were they supposed to explode like that? It didn’t feel like it. What does this have to do with me? Can I go back to my own body now?”

His wings rub against each other while propelling him forward. The sound is angry, somehow.

“Aaaaa! I have wings now? Damn it! What the hell?!”

*We fly… stupid question… Watch… understand… share*

Rounding an unusually tall mushroom, a familiar object comes into view. Tall, pointed, dull black, an obelisk identical to the one by the lake stands alone. A chill goes through Jamie’s soul.

*We found stone… learned stone… made mistake… poisoned world… all ruins now… so many lost*

“What? A mistake, and it’s how you got to my world. Ugh, I don’t understand. Why aren’t my arms listening to me? I need to massage my temples.”

WHIRR… WHIRR… WHIRRRR!

*Regret… Myrm wanted conquest… mistake… carabids poisoned*

“Poisoned? So, you do eat the lobster… I mean carabids. That’s your food, but now they’re poisonous?”

whirrrrrrrr…

*Portal connection… Myrm scout… find food… find home… Jamie share*

“Share? Share what, my planet? I don’t get it. You’re in my head. Can’t you talk NORMAL?”

*Yes… share home… share food*

The wings slow. They begin to drop towards the ground.

“Why is everything getting quiet? My vision is blurring too. Princess? What’s happening?”

*Told you… Princess stupid name… tired now… go back now*

The Sound of Silence

Grass blades slide between his fingers as his human senses return. Dirt pushes under fingernails. A single, normal, terrestrial ant picks its way across the web between thumb and forefinger.

Jamie groans and tries to roll on to his back. A sawtooth sine wave of sound and a foreign body on his shoulder stop him.

*Still here… still connected*

Jamie struggles to his knees and starts to put an exploratory hand back.

ZZZZZ ZZZ

*Why touch?*

“Umm, you’ve been in my head. It’s a little late to get prudish. We’re basically married now. Worst honeymoon in history, though. Well, except for that whole Kim Kardashian thing, but at least that made her a ton of money.”

*Explain*

“I know, right? That’s what we all said. You’re getting the hang of this human stuff really quickly!”

*Anger!*

Jamie feels his left ear lightly pinched between razor sharp blades.

“Ok, ok! No more jokes. We are obviously in this together.” The blades retreat. “What now?”

*Hungry?*

The yawning pit in his stomach answers for him.

Grrrrr

*Zrrrr*

A shadow falls across them. Jamie blinks a couple of times as he looks up. “Chewy! You’re back! Did you find what you were looking for? Can your people survive here? You are never going to believe what happened with Princess.”

Stoic as ever, the big bug holds a struggling, live carabid in each pincer.

*Myrm, not Chewy*

“I thought myrm was his class, or title, or species or something. I named him Chewy.”

*Myrm… all Myrm*

“Fine! You can call him whatever you want. Me and Chewy go way back. Ain’t that right, pal?”

Chewy says nothing, just efficiently dissects the carabids and walks over to the grill. The fresh cara-burgers rest on a spare plate, while the giant arthropod disposes of the moldering old meat slabs and cleans the grating with a wire brush that was hanging off the side of the grill.

“I’ll help! You guys want sassafras, or cherry, or… umm willow bark is good if you have a headache. Not gonna lie, I might have some of that myself.” Jamie rummages around the edge of the tree line. “Oh, wait! Ginger. I gotta find some ginger. You guys are gonna love that.”

He feels something like tiny little fingers tripping around inside his head.

*Spicy?... No… no spicy*

“Come on! You’ve never tried it. You have to try a little bit.”

*Very… little… bit*

Minutes later, plates of steaming cara-burgers, willow bark, and sassafras are arranged on the checkerboard tablecloth. Chewy and Jamie sit opposite each other just like the first day they met. Princess rests lightly on Jamie’s shoulder, quills still piercing his back. The pincers hold gently, no longer drawing blood.

Chewy is… chewing. Jamie licks a drop of burger grease off one finger while passing a juicy, green sassafras shoot over his shoulder to Princess. He cops a feel of golden fur.

Zzzt

“Okay,” Jamie says, yawning through a contented smile. “So let me get this straight. You found the monolith, tried to use it to jump between worlds, and then someone screwed up the process? And now you can’t eat your stuff, and I can’t eat mine, but we can swap? That about right?”

*Yes*

He gestures toward the carabids. “And those little freaks? Not your kids, right? Just local wildlife?”

*Correct*

“That means, you two can hang out here with me and be perfectly happy munching on sassafras. Then, every other day or so, you can open a portal to bring me some more burgers.”

*Sharing… good*

“Yeah! We have, er… had, a saying. ‘Sharing is caring.’” Jamie shakes off the melancholy moment. “I think it still fits.”

“If things weren’t so messed up, it would be almost perfect. I just hate that you two have to do so much to bring my food and I don’t really have to do anything, just maybe point out new stuff you haven’t tried yet. It would be nice to bring something more to the table, pun intended.”

*...hmmm?...*

Jamie shivers even though the sun is bright in the afternoon sky. He hugs himself and tries to rub a little warmth into his upper arms.

“You get it, right? I wanna pull my weight, but honestly, you really don’t need me.”

SNIK-SNIK-SNIK

A deeply unsettling feeling of disconnection sweeps through Jamie, like a constant buzz at the edge of hearing that suddenly goes quiet.

“Princess? Why did you remove the quills? I can’t hear you anymore.” Confusion laced with a tinge of panic colors his voice. He looks at his hands, the lake, the trees. Everything looks the same but… lesser now.

How does that even make sense?

Jamie tries to twist his head to get a glimpse of those eyes that give nothing away. “We were just starting to get to know each other! What happened?”

Princess turns away for a split second, then makes a quick hop over to Chewy’s shoulder.

“Guys? Chewy? Princess? Come on, talk to me… Guys?”

A light breeze, a whiff of vanilla, ripples roll across the lake.

“NO!” Jamie lunges across the table at the pair–but it’s futile. Chewy flickers back, out of his reach, one arm holding Princess in place.

“You barge into MY world, sit at MY table, eat MY sassafras, and then just…leave?” His fists clench at empty air as he lies there on his stomach, looking up at them. Hurt and desperation dance across his face.

Princess flits to the table next to him, one solitary quill reattaches. Her mental voice echoes like a whisper from a deep well,

*We have…no need…true statement…we agree…sharing…why anger*

Jamie’s mouth works soundlessly for a couple of seconds before he finds the perfect words, “But… but… but…”

*Take grill…go portal…not starve…sharing*

“But… but… but… you?” He repeats his best argument.

*I go…make nest…become Queen…you go…portal…maybe not die…talk later*

She retracts the quill again and flies back to Chewy’s shoulder. They turn and walk into the trees. A final, synchronized buzz of their wings sounds like the word *sharing*.

“Wha…? Fine! Walk away. I don’t need either of you anyway. Have fun with the nuclear waste and whatnot we left for you out there!”

Jamie closes his mouth and climbs off the table. He throws the tongs, matches, and a plate into the cold grill and closes the lid. His last bag of charcoal goes over his shoulder. One wheel squeaks as he tips the Weber back.

-pop-

“Sharing is caring, my ass,” he says as he wheels the grill into a new world.

-pop-

Steam curls around me, hot water streams down my face, tears mingle with both. My brain won’t stop washing me in hot images on replay. Rapid fire–one after the other.

I came here knowing it wouldn’t be easy. I brought Evelyn hoping…maybe…I don’t know…common ground?

-Flash-

I knocked and waited, but there was no answer. I still had my key and it still worked, so I let myself and Evelyn in. No coat on the hook in the tight entranceway.

Steve must be working.

-Flash-

The smell of old money that has moved on–cedar and dust–settled over me. Familiar. Still-life paintings, left from the starving artist that lived here at some point, frame an open window. A breeze blew in bringing the scent of rain. A stray shaft of sun snuck through the gathering clouds over Union Square. It falls on the pine-green fabric couch in the center of the living room.

-Flash-

What was the plan in coming here?

Ivory soap slides across my collarbone and around my neck. The suds run down to gather at my feet before escaping in a swirl at the drain.

-Flash-

The night before. Lugging the heavy, empty cage back to my East Side apartment. I was cold. My coat was draped over the empty copper cube so the doorman wouldn’t report the missing Feline back to my father.

I stared at that cage for hours before sleep came.

-Flash-

I lower my head and let the water flow through my hair. The dark strands dangle with their own weight. My arms hang motionless against my hips.

Ladies first? Or never, Steve? What’s the hook that gets you to let me back in? To see me…my value to your case.

-Flash-

One step into the apartment, the door thunked closed, and a black and white shadow jumped from the fire escape, through the window, and settled into the pool of sunlight on the sofa. My back hit the closed door. Evelyn chirped. The Feline paused–purple tongue flicked in and out–and then jumped down under the couch. I moved around to see where it went and heard keys in the door.

Think fast! Why are you here?

I brought his cat back. Obviously.

-Flash-

I slick my hair back and let the shower pelt my face. The heat and vapor bring a measure of focus.

He didn’t question my claim about the Feline. Just my reason for being here and my loyalty to Sarduci. Does that mean…

The bathroom door sighs open, then closes. I hear the clatter of a pistol on the porcelain sink top and the whisper of clothing hitting the floor.

Do I smile welcomingly or arch an eyebrow?

The copper rings holding the vinyl curtain skitter along the cast-iron pipe holding them above the tiled shower.

Steve is wearing nothing but a scowl.

Arched eyebrow it is.

And the racing thoughts stop. The conversation doesn’t even start.

Steve snores. He’s always snored, but I thought it was cute before. Now it’s annoying.

Of course, he can sleep. He doesn’t need information. He doesn’t have three trains running on shoestrings, about to jump the rails. He wants the Feline to scramble reality.

He got everything he wanted in the shower. What did I get?

The bell tolls from St. Francis Xavier.

Six a.m. already? I can’t stay here.

Steve will be awake soon. What are we supposed to talk about?

I ease out of the bed and wrap a dressing gown around me. The living room is quiet. My purse is where I left it on the coffee table. I pull it over. My PPK isn’t in its pocket. It’s loose in the bottom.

Weird.

The photo of Lizzie at her promotion ceremony, that Mom sent me, is wrinkled. Like someone pulled it out and then stuffed it back in a hurry.

The sound of snoring from the bedroom stops briefly, then continues.

Why am I wasting time? I have things to attend to.

I think about taking another shower before I leave. My head shakes on its own.

Megan has to check in soon.

I look at the desk clock on the hutch where Steve keeps his suckers. Six-thirty. I can walk to the West side apartment, take a shower, change, and be at the Murphy warehouse by nine.

Easy.

I scan the room. No Feline. Evelyn is curled up in the corner of the sofa.

I can’t take her to Murphy’s place. Everyone has seen Samantha with her.

Quietly throwing on my dress from the night before, I tear a page off the notepad on the nightstand.

My fingers freeze.

So long and thanks for everything? Remember this, it might not happen again? I hope it was good for you?

Steve rolls over. The snoring stops. There’s no scowl–no questions on his brow. Just peace.

I snatch the paper and the pencil.

“Bergie baby, be a dear and feed the cat. Thanks for the shower. Back later.”

I make sure the door locks behind me on the way out.

I’m spent.

Hiram, I am trying to finish what we started. I really am. But maintaining two personas and a personal life is exhausting.

Who am I talking to? You left me too.

Don’t even ask me about a certain Felis catus that may or may not be a demon in Siamese drag.

I only wanted…

It doesn’t matter. I have to keep going.

Mario Sarduci is a proud man, but not unintelligent. He’s read a few books and actually had dinner with Nicola Tesla. Honestly though, he doesn’t know what’s going on any more than I do.

But he thinks he does…and that makes him dangerous.

He thinks the Feline is nicking his stolen whiskey. He calls it an anomaly–as if it’s some plot point out of an H.G. Wells story. He calls a lot of things that don’t go his way “an anomaly”. It’s annoying but not the worst.

The worst is: he pulled off the score that I’ve been trying to land for four weeks. He said he found it sniffing around Fulton Fish Market and had his boys corner it. I found out later that six of those “boys” are in the hospital with unexplained blunt force traumas and fall injuries.

I don’t know if I should be proud or terrified.

I’m on my way to see the thing. Papa is trying to keep it as hush-hush as possible. Just me and him.

Yeah, I’m terrified.

That’s why I’m bringing Evelyn.

I know she’s normal. Plus, she’s mine. Plus, if anything can suss out a queer puss, it’s another cat.

On the way, crossing Front Street, I see a few of my father’s men haunting storefronts, trying to look inconspicuous. They see me, too. The look on my face says, “Stay away.” I probably double my walking distance avoiding the revealing cones of light from the streetlamps.

Unfortunately, I can’t avoid the nasty yellow one above the front door.

I mutter an old fisherman’s curse that my mother taught me as the door closes. Evelyn raises her head but then lies back down. It’s echoed by a string of Sicilian profanities deeper into the warehouse.

That’s where I’ll find my father.

And I do find him–the ringmaster in a lonely, surreal circus. Crates and bundles have been cleared out in a circle about forty feet across. One naked bulb beneath a conical, tin shade illuminates my father and a metallic 2-foot cube. The copper mesh glitters like new. The black and white shadow inside makes a perfect loaf shape.

Mario Sarduci, criminal mastermind, is dancing around it hurling insults, rubbing the cage and crooning, even poking it with a thin glass rod through the mesh. Somewhere out of sight a window bangs closed. The single bulb flickers off and back on. A passing breeze smells vaguely of tuna.

The crate of Irish whiskey that the cage sits on is spectacularly unimpressed.

No disappearing. No exploding. No Murphy sneaks revealed.

I roll over a small cask of God-knows-what to sit and watch the show. Evelyn bristles a little but seems content to curl in my lap. Her eyes never leave the caged cat though.

“Taught it any tricks yet?” I sneer.

He turns on me, glass prod raised like a dagger.

“Do not test me, daughter,” he snarls. “I overlooked your little dalliance with that bull, Heisenberg, assuming that having you on the inside would pay dividends. Now, I’m starting to wonder whose side you are on. If I can’t make this cat’s magic work, I may have to consider human answers to my missing product questions.”

Evelyn hisses and turns her head to nip my hand. I focus on relaxing my fingers.

What! … straight face …smile

He steps closer, a head taller than me, and catches my chin between thumb and forefinger. There’s a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

“Hey! I ran point on those daylight grabs outside Murphy’s place. Somebody could have made me.” I point at the cat in the cage. “No thanks to that flea bag.”

The Feline yawns wide. A deep purple tongue stretches out to hang between its lower canine teeth.

Yep. It’s Steve’s.

His grip tightens.

“I also made sure the cops pinned the Jamison hit on Jimmy!” I’m pleading now. “He was skimming off the top of the Canal St. rackets, so…win-win. Right?”

From the front of the building, the creak of rusty hinges–once, then twice–warns us that we aren’t alone.

“Friends of yours?”

I shake my head. He releases my chin and moves to the side of the cage. Pulling a pistol from the small of his back, he leans casually on the crate. The gun is nearly invisible between his hand and the rough wood slats of the box.

He’s starting to suspect me? The whole plan could crumble. If the stupid Feline would just do something magic, I could spin it.

What am I saying?! It’s just a stupid cat.

Of course, it would be Bergie that walks around the corner, into the pool of light cast by the swinging bulb above. His nervous, Italian friend from the precinct is next, gun drawn. I see my father stiffen out of the corner of my eye. His hand on the gun stays deathly still.

Actually, they both seem nervous. Steve whispers something and the other cop lowers his weapon a bit. Their eyes are locked on the cat in the cage.

Why are his hands shaking? I can’t have things get crazy. Not yet.

“Why so pale, babe?” I say, projecting a calm I don’t feel. “It’s just a cat.”

His eyes don’t leave the cage.

“Not that one, doll.” he says, words muffled around one of his lollipops.

My father butts in.

“I’ve found a way to keep my loot out of the Murphy boys’ hands, detective.” He waves theatrically with his free hand. “It’s rather elegant, don’t you think? A Feline in a fancy cage–Faraday gets his revenge on Heisenberg.”

Then he laughs. I know that laugh. People die after that laugh.

Don’t push him, Bergie!

Steve says something to the other cop that I can’t hear. They turn and walk back the way they came. As soon as their backs are turned, my father turns to me—still laughing. He waves the gun between me, the Feline, and the retreating officers. His eyebrows go up and the laughter takes on a mean lilt.

Oh, now you want me involved again?

I try to wave his anger down, but his brow is lowering rapidly.

I turn to Steve, “Babe! Don’t tell me you’re leaving me like this!”

He keeps walking.

The pistol stops waving and comes to rest, pointed at my chest.

What the hell, Steve?

“You can’t leave. We have your cat!”

Their backs disappear around a stack of crates. My father doesn’t stop the strained laughter until the echo of the slamming door reaches us. Deadly silence fills the space.

I risk a look at him.

He’s chewing his lower lip, and the muzzle of the gun has dropped.

“Ok…So maybe you two aren’t working together.”

The muzzle comes back up.

“That doesn’t mean you are off the hook. Are you still a Sarduci?”

For what feels like the dozenth time, I relax my fingers in Evelyn’s fur and take a deep breath.

“Give me the Feline. I’ll take it and figure out how it works.”

He thinks. Finally, he growls and holsters the gun behind his back.

“Get it out of here. Anything else comes up missing…it’s on your head.”

And…he’s gone.

I turn away from his fading footsteps to inspect the purple-tongued white elephant he “gifted” me. Evelyn does something she’s never done before…hiss.

Where did…no! How?

I get goose flesh. The cage is empty.

I drop Evelyn unceremoniously—rush to the side of the crate with the still locked cage.

No holes. The lock is intact. The crate is undisturbed.

I circle the room.

No prints.

Steve’s voice from his apartment, “It comes and goes as it pleases, Sam.”

No…

Mario Sarduci’s voice from just now, “If anything comes up missing, it’ll be on your head.”

It can’t be…

I look to the door my father just vacated.

He’s gonna be pissed.

I can’t tell him.

I have to talk to Steve.

I pick Evelyn back up—cradle her to my chest.

He’s not going to want to talk to me.

People talk about playing both ends against the middle. They say it like it’s a Saturday in the park. It is not.

Hiram understood that. But Hiram isn’t here. It’s just me, an alley cat, and a growing sense that things are getting slippery…fast. Pierpont knew the goal–his goal anyway. Is that my goal? Maybe it was. But now?

Doesn’t matter. You run the game or the game runs you. I’m in too deep to stop now. Time to make that alley cat earn her keep.

Let’s take the fight into hostile territory.

Hiram disappeared after the arrest of Chief Jones. Jimmy the Finger is in the cooler for double homicide, one of them for icing Jonesy’s replacement. Each time, Steve was there with his cat—front and center. No explanations for any of it.

I’m finally catching a break, though. I just found out that Lizzie Reyes is going to be Steve’s new chief. We tore up Marymount Girl’s School together before Papa pulled me out to ‘keep an eye on me’.

That’s why I’m standing on a stoop in East Harlem in a gingham dress and wide-brimmed hat. Lizzie’s family has more money than most Puerto Ricans in the city, but they like simple, straightforward gente.

Besides, neither of us needs attention drawn to our impromptu reunion.

A clipped “Ave Maria” comes from the darkened hallway behind the locked wrought-iron gate guarding the door of the townhouse. The lithe woman in pressed cotton that follows it is the same Lizzie I remember—honed to a sharp edge.

“Aye Bendito! Samantha…Swartz. How long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen?”

She deftly snaps open the gate’s deadbolt but doesn’t reach for the hug she might have offered back in Catholic school. Her eyes look tight.

Like they’re tired of reading the patterns in the eddies of dirt that pile up in the dark corners of the city.

She takes in my outfit. Wrinkles her nose.

“Still trying to play the part of the most respectable Jewish-Catholic girl on the east side?”

A bit of the tightness leaves her eyes. They widen a fraction when I take the handshake she’s offering, pull her closer, and launch an air kiss just off her right cheek.

“Lizzie, please. I missed you all through the rest of finishing school,” I plead. “I heard that you were doing well and getting promoted into my father’s backyard.”

Then I give her my best over-dramatic impersonation of my father when he’s “asking” for cooperation.

“I came to pay my respects. Capiche?”

She waves me in and latches the gate behind me.

“Look, Sam. It was all fun and games and schoolgirl intrigue back then,” she half-whispers. “I’m a cop now and you’re a Sarduci—daughter of THE Sarduci.”

She stares at me, arms crossed, one foot tapping to the beat of the salsa music coming from the bodega across the street.

I guess I didn’t expect open arms, but at least she’s listening. I’ve only got one play here. Sorry Bergie…

“Your star detective visited my father’s gym a couple of nights ago. I don’t know what they discussed but he walked back out alive, so…”

Her lips compress. Eyes tighten again. Then…shoulders drop and her expression softens.

“Is this what we’re doing? Pretending like I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

She waves me over to a bench–pulls a stool out from under it before I sit.

“You and I ran this bit on Sister Mary Catherine. I’d give up you, then you’d give up me.” Liz’s eyes are even with mine. The stool’s feet click-clack in time with her sentences.

She squints.

“What’s Detective Heisenberg to you?”

Damn.

I don’t look away. I can’t. She’ll know.

“Nothing much.” I shrug. “But my father’s convinced he’s got the Devil’s luck and wants him on Sarduci pay. You know about the cat?”

Lizzie nods and finally drops her eyes. “I’ve heard the scuttlebutt. Half the force thinks he’s a wizard. The other half wants him committed.”

“In that case, seems like we would both benefit from some clarity.” I cross my legs and lean back against the wall. “One more ‘Mary Catherine’ for old times’ sake?”

There’s the spark! She can’t have very many sisters-in-arms on the force.

We smile in unison.

“Just like old times, eh? You got a plan?”

Careful.

The bench squeaks under my shifting weight.

“I have an idea and a cat of my own.” I will the bench into silence. “He can’t clock that you and I have history, of course. If we shake up the good detective, maybe he’ll let something slip.”

Or at least I’ll know if he’s really flying blind.

Liz frowns.

I’m losing her.

She sighs, “Ok. Sounds iffy, but harmless if it goes sideways.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Jaime Lamonte,” she says.

I feel my smile slip.

“What does my cotillion date have to do with this?”

Her smile could cut glass.

“Nothing. But your left eye still twitches when someone mentions an ex.”

I pull the brim of my hat low and step to the gate.

“See you tomorrow, Chief Reyes.”

***

The next night, I’m walking to the East Side apartment my father keeps for me, Evelyn across my chest.

It went off without a hitch.

Lizzie played her part flawlessly. I was cool as a cucumber. I’m positive my left eye didn’t twitch.

None of it mattered.

We squeezed Heisenberg’s rock and didn’t get even a particle of milk. His Feline didn’t show and neither did his feelings.

He was sucking on that ridiculous lollipop when he came in and he was still sucking on it when I walked out.

The doorman recognizes me and takes me up the elevator. The whole building belongs to the family. I walk into my apartment without having to unlock the door.

There’s a note on the table in my father’s looping cursive.

“I caught your little friend’s cat. Meet me at the Pier 17 warehouse. Let’s see if its tricks will work for us.”

Double damn.

Evelyn is an angel. She comes with baggage, though.

I’m choosing to overlook the fact that my subconscious tagged her with my mother’s name. That’s fine. I can live with that.

Every time she slinks into the room, just being a cat, I see that and my heart does a cha-cha for a handful of beats. Not the good kind of dance either. The kind where you are sure something is chasing you, there’s nowhere to hide, you don’t have pants on.

Like right now. I’m watching her groom herself and my mind goes back to Steve’s apartment. I still feel the knot in my gut that cat gave me. And the dagger through the heart when he chose it over me.

“It just comes with the territory…” Please.

We’re two sides of the same coin, Bergie. You can’t play a player. You think that cat is your trump card and that’s more important to you than what we had. What we could have had…

I need a drink.

Evelyn watches me change into the little black number that I only wear when I’m not working. It draws too much attention that can’t be switched off. Tonight isn’t about work. It’s about anything but work.

I get her to chase a fleck of light bouncing off a decanter of brandy and close the bedroom door behind her. The same flecks catch my eye and I pour a quick one to get me out the door. Hiram doesn’t matter. My father doesn’t matter. Murphy doesn’t matter. The cat…

What about the cat? I don’t want the cat to matter.

All down 42nd Street and into Times Square, I can’t stop seeing strays and jumping at shadows.

I hit the Birdland—too many Murphy boys. The Three-leaf Clover? The same. I throw back a shot in each place, just the same, and keep walking. Slinking past a theater in the Square, there’s a movie poster of Humphrey Bogart outside—the flat, lifeless eyes follow me.

The dress must be working.

The sound of train whistles and conductors’ shouts bring me back to reality. Grand Central is close. Plenty of places I can be alone in a crowd. I pick one that’s down three steps below the sidewalk and through a cluster of cigar smokers.

The haze hides a familiar silhouette until I’m too close to turn back. Eye contact hits like two Hudson River locomotives. His takes in the dress; mine clocks his solitude. No companion, furred or otherwise. My shoulders recover from the train wreck and relax.

Just comes with the territory, huh? Let’s see about that.

I approach slow and casual. He’s already turned back to the bar, so he doesn’t see me scan the room. Everything looks normal.

My stomach’s doing backflips but I have to know. He looks hurt. Join the club, bub. You started this with your “magic cat comes with the territory” malarky. Where is it now?

I can’t keep a little of my own hurt from leaking into my voice.

“Steve, dear, you’re killing yourself here. How many cases are you solving at the bottom of a shot glass?”

His face tightens, his shoulders lift and his chin drops. He growls to the mirror behind the bottles of booze. “I don’t need to prowl Hell’s Kitchen to find the knife you left in my back, doll.”

Nothing else though.

Couple of gents by the door have been staring at my ass since I squeezed past on my way in. The bartender has glanced a couple of times—mostly to see if we need another drink.

No magic cats.

Really though? I stabbed you in the back? I gave you a choice and you chose wrong. You wanna play rough?

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Don’t be rude, Bergie. I’m here to give you a tip.” I hear the sneer in my own voice.

I hesitate. What do I give him?

It’s gotta be something real.

“The Sarduci family is having issues with deliveries. Stuff arrives late, or not at all. Dead drops in trusted locations disappear. People are getting nervous.”

That might be too much. He won’t need supernatural help at this rate.

He finally turns to face me.

“Why are you telling me this?”

It’s only been three weeks and I’d already forgotten about those puppy dog eyes. I can’t let him get to me. I don’t know whose pocket he’s in.

My hand swings on its own. The impact draws looks from the crowd but also keeps Steve from seeing my wince.

That was a little extreme, but I need to be sure.

“I ain’t telling you anything! Please…” I bite off an apology. He’s closed his eyes and hands are wringing the bar rail like it’s my throat.

He isn’t listening now, anyway.

I step back a pace to give him space, but he doesn’t retaliate. Three heartbeats pound in my ear while he rakes the crowd with his eyes.

Probably deciding there’s too many witnesses.

Still no cat.

Is it possible he’s just a straight cop with a bit of a fur fetish?

That would be useful…

Before he can come to any inconvenient conclusions, I get close again—too close for him to swing a solid punch.

I whisper in his ear, “Papa Sarduci is straight out losing his marbles. I can tell you where he is. Maybe arrange an ‘appointment’.”

There’s a vein throbbing in his temple now. His lips work soundlessly.

Finally words come, “What’s gotten into you, doll? You’re more messed up than a hooker’s confession.”

This time the slap is intentional.

That’s for comparing me to a hooker! Plus…

More eyes are drifting our way. Too many. It’s not the dress this time either.

This “date” is over. I need you to move, Stevie.

I stare at him. He stares at me. Something breaks between us. He clears his throat, wraps his trench around him and walks.

I clear an eyelash from my eye as Hiram’s voice echoes in the back of my skull.

Everyone in your life should be there for a reason.

He didn’t specify that I would know what that reason was.

I show some teeth to the bartender, down the rest of Steve’s drink, and trace his steps out. He didn’t get far. The man is at the top of the steps, toes hanging over the edge of the curb, face to the sky. He looks for all the world like someone waiting for the answer to a prayer.

I don’t have either. I give him the best I’ve got.

“We had a good thing, babe. We could have it back, if you don’t ask too many questions.”

And maybe cut back on the cat habit.

“Just tell me where to find him,” he says.

I blink back a couple of raindrops dangling from my lashes. Hiram’s second rule hits.

Commit to the bit. Wishy-washy will get you killed.

I know my dad’s routine.

Deadpan, I tell him, “Ringside at Mario’s Gym, 9th Avenue.”

The walk home burned the gin out of my system and crystallized Steve as the lynchpin that I could hang both gangs on.

I sent him into the belly of the beast. I had no fear they would talk enough to piece together my double-dealing. My father had already made his feelings clear on our relationship. He would either kill Steve or talk around him and send him packing.

I hope it’s the latter, but I’m committed now whichever way it plays out.

The uncanny way events unfold around Steve is still a problem. That variable has to be factored out before the fat lady sings.

That broken record is repeating in my brain as I turn the bronze key to my Westside apartment. It continues playing through to the bedroom door. It stops dead when I see Evelyn asleep on the foot of my bed.

You know…in the right light she could be mistaken for…

Two weeks later, I’m staring down a red-haired bull of an Irishman, and holding my own. If I do say so myself.

Papa Murphy’s ham-hand slams down on his desk like thunder.

“You were supposed to have inside information, lass!” he yells at the tall, dark-haired woman that he knows as Megan Maxwell.

A drop of his saliva leaves a small, dark spot on the lapel of my navy, pant-suit. His cheeks redden. I give him a charitable smile—careful not to crack my heavy makeup.

I take a moment. I…allow… him to watch me dig an imaginary bit of dirt from under my jet-black fingernail. When I lift my head, his eyes track the motion. They’re a little pinched but not dangerous.

Good. I only need to change his frame of reference.

“What is your biggest worry? The fuzz or Sarduci? Because I still have a line on Sarduci,” I say as if I was reading names out of a phone book.

“You know that one of my biggest worries is Pierpont’s status,” he growls. “Second only to how you appeared, out of the blue and right about the time he disappeared.”

He would choose to focus on that.

I lean over and gently turn his head with one finger to a stack of crates. All of them are stamped Emerald Isle imports—all of them recovered from Sarduci’s dockside warehouses.

“Does it matter where I came from?” I ask. “I got your stuff back and there’ll be more on top…if your boys follow directions.”

The Murphys’ old man licks his lips, grimaces, and bites his lower lip. The salt-and-pepper whiskers in his beard ripple from the parade of emotions.

I release his chin. His head swivels back to look into the back of my eyes—as if he could see my angle.

“Hi–. Pierpont might have started this caper, but I assure you…” I choke ever so slightly on the words before finishing the thought. “He trusts me to finish it.”

“And Sarduci? The cops?” he huffs.

“When this is over, you and your boys will be the only power from Hell’s Kitchen to Pier 17.” The windows that make up the upper half of all four walls let me see a dozen of those boys scattered around–busy.

I lay a black-and-white photo of a young Sicilian in suspenders and a fedora on the desk. I slide it across under his nose with the speed of a glacier. By the time it gets to his side of the polished oak, he’s had time to memorize every freckle on the guy’s face. His brows get closer and closer to his lips.

“I see you are familiar with Jimmy. He’ll be the sign that I have both the police and Sarduci’s men under control.”

I drag my casually comfortable flats back under me and stretch into standing while checking my watch.

“Precinct 13 picked him up an hour ago. Do you want him neutralized or just side-lined?” I turn to the office exit but I can feel his eyes focus on a point over where my heart should be.

“I don’t need loose ends or weak allies. Take him out.”

I freeze.

Thank God my back’s to him.

“Ok, if that’s how you want it.” I give a two-finger salute to a pretty secretary as the office door snicks shut behind me. She scowls but I let it slide off and head to the outer door.

Hiram, you bastard. We will have words later.

***

The city is the most beautiful at night. Daytime is better for people-watching but the lights–the shadows–the moon…that’s when I can be free. Who’s going to be looking at a shapeless figure in pinstripes on a street corner in Hell’s Kitchen when the Big Apple is putting on her best show?

At least that’s what I thought.

Before Steve brought that cat-shaped demon home.

I couldn’t be sure it was the same one from the street in front of Murphy’s Five-and-Dime but the shivers were the same. Just like the vibrations tickling my belly now. I don’t feel watched, so much as…perceived.

Walking away from the Murphy base on Pier 88 is an exercise in restraint. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.

I am not a killer, but that’s what the boss wants–this boss, anyway. He’s going to be expecting results.

I spin on my heel. I kick my knees up waist-high, making the spin look like a little dance. A full circle doesn’t reveal any prying eyes. A few shadows look a little off, especially the ones where a wall meets the sidewalk, low to the ground.

How do I get to Jimmy? How am I supposed to ice him, right in the middle of a police station? It’s going to take some inside help.

Rustlings come from a dark alley. I’m only a block from the apartment that I keep for “Megan”. I quiet my steps and edge closer to the brick wall of the apartment building that butts up on the alley.

A glossy, black trash bag rolls off an over-stuffed steel can. It lands barely four feet away from me with a collection of clanks and splats. The space it just vacated sprouts a white and black, furred head.

I jerk back.

What…

The cat doesn’t move to exit the can. It cleans its right paw with its pink tongue, paying no attention to me.

It’s not giving me the shivers. Hmm. Different cat.

I shrug and continue on. It’s almost midnight. My steps trade silence for speed.

I’m in front of my building, then up the stairway, and unlocking the door before I realize I have a shadow.

The siamese from the alley rubs up against my leg, purring loudly.

I have zero time for a pet!

I try to kick it away. The motion jerks the hand that’s on the doorknob. The door pops open and the stray zips through the gap.

I sigh and chase it into the entranceway.

Evelyn, you better not be pregnant.

For as long as Samantha Swartz can remember, people have been watching her.

Her mother, Evie, watched her like a hawk. In her eyes, her daughter was too delicate, too vulnerable.

Her father, the great and powerful Mario Sarduci, watched her with calculated pride. He saw her as both prize and pawn.

His soldiers watched her, from the corners of their eyes, with greed. She was a ticket to power and pleasure.

Other women watched her with suspicion. She could be an ally or a threat…or both.

Hiram Pierpont didn’t watch her.

***

He saw me. He taught me how to turn the watching into a weapon.

When he suggested that I infiltrate the Murphy clan as Megan Maxwell, I thought he was helping me get back at my father.

He wasn’t.

When I tried to seduce him, I thought I was repaying my debt to him.

He wouldn’t have it. You don’t pay a con with such crude coin.

“If you want to repay me, my dear, write me a love letter. Make it convincing.” Hiram smiled sadly as he spoke. I followed his eyes to the portrait of his wife on the wall.

That was the last time I would see him.

***

“Bergie, you’re a dear but, honestly, I’m not sharing my living space with a cat. Especially not that cat.”

I can’t hold his gaze, not even when he speaks to me. He is fixated on the Siamese he had brought home from his last case.

But that cat…I’d heard him talk about it but it had always been ‘out there’. Now it is ‘in here’.

I shiver and lean back to put the coffee table between its eyes and mine. It isn’t even looking at me.

“What’s the big deal, doll? I thought the ladies liked cats.”

I sit–draped over the sofa–and wait. The silence lengthens until, finally, he looks up at me.

“Steve Heisenberg, I am not ‘the ladies’. I am Sam,” I say, slow and deliberate. “And I will not share you with that cat.”

“Either it goes…or I go.”

My finger tracks a line between the black tip of tail that I could still see and the center of my chest. Steve’s eyes follow.

Dramatic…I know. But I have a gut feeling about this.

His eyes harden into chips of blue sea glass. “I don’t control the Feline. It comes and goes as it pleases. It’s part and parcel with the territory, babe.”

I suck on my teeth for a pair of heartbeats, stand, and smooth my peasant skirts.

“Well. That’s that, then.” I round the opposite side of the coffee table–the swish of my skirts loud on the hardwood floor.

“I’ll leave my things here, in case you change your mind. Don’t bother to get up. I’ll see myself out.”

Look at me. That’s right. Right over here.

Samantha Swartz strikes a pose against a backdrop of flowers outside Murphy’s Five-and-Dime. A stockboy, thicker than he is tall, looks up in time to see a flash of perfectly-turned calf. The “wow” on his lips turns to a leer as it rises to her exposed shoulder.

Ugh. Hurry up, Jimmy!

Sarduci’s scout jumps out of the back of an idling milk truck, nicks a case of premium whiskey, and disappears back into the waiting lorry. True to his nickname, “the Finger”, not a single clink of bottle against bottle gives him away.

Ok, creep. Now look over there…

She tosses her head, and the long, dark waves of hair form a flag around her face, nose pointing to a matronly, young mother breastfeeding her child in the shadow of the store’s awning. His attention thus occupied, Samantha turns toward the street corner, plotting her escape.

A furious yowl turns heads all across the block. Sam looks down. There’s a Siamese with its tail pinned beneath her blood-red heel. She lifts her foot rapidly but the cat continues staring at her and hissing.

Stop! People are looking!

She leans against the plywood counter of the nearby news-stand pretending to be enthralled by the day’s headlines and front page splashes. Her trembling hands spill a shallow jar of candies across the blue-grey painted surface. One lollipop rolls to the edge. She throws out an arm to catch it. It tips, hangs, then falls–bright green drawing of an apple flashing past as it spins.

Sam can’t tell if it actually reaches the cement. The hissing feline flashes over, grabs it between its teeth and disappears into the store.

She hesitates for a single breath. She slides the newsboy a quarter and walks.

Don’t look around. Believe that nobody is watching.