The Vampire's Daughter

Thanks to my granddaughter for posing for the cover!

Part I

         “Please, Miss Goldstein, take a seat,” the small, professionally dressed woman offered, extending her hand toward the conference table at the end of her office. “We’re very sorry for your loss. I’m Grace McFarlane, and this is my partner Rick Borden. How can we be of service to you today?”
         “Actually, Miss McFarlane, I’m here because a Sergeant Gomez of the Sheriff’s office told me you were very interested in meeting me.”
         The woman had the faintest hint of an accent, a remnant of a guttural language, one delivered from the back of the throat.
         “That is true, Miss Goldstein. You see, we know that your father was a vampire—”
         “Mother told you?”
         “She didn’t need to. When someone dies, sometimes things hidden come to light. I take it that it wasn’t common knowledge?”
         “Hardly. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could do any good for people to know about, and we agreed to keep it quiet.”
         “But someone knew?”
         “Close friends, people he knew from the old country, but you may be misunderstanding his situation. When people think of vampires, they think of evil creatures that kill by draining a person’s blood, and indeed, most of them are, but they don’t have to be. My father was a good man, devoted to his family, and he did whatever it took to ensure our well-being.”
         “Miss Goldstein,” McFarlane said, “you should know that this agency specializes in cases of the paranormal, the occult. Things of a supernatural nature, and as such, we have some experience with vampires. What you’re describing is not what you would call normal behavior for one of these creatures.”
         “Do you have any insults to add, Mr. Borden?” she asked, turning the gaze of her dark eyes on him. As their eyes locked, a wave of warmth rolled down his spine and spread into his belly.
         “No, Miss Goldstein,” he replied. “I’m somewhat new at this. I’m here to learn.”
         “Well, learn this, both of you. It is true that all vampires feel the blood hunger. It consumes them, and many… most of them come to revel in the power it gives them. But there is still the person inside, a person who may have been decent and caring, and if he was, he may fight for control. Such was my father, and he achieved that control for the love of my mother.”
         “I thought vampires were soulless monsters who thought only of their next meal,” Borden said.
         “You watch too many movies, Mr. Borden. You saw our home. It isn’t a crypt. My father worked in an investment firm. He walked freely in the daytime, he didn’t sleep in a coffin, and he couldn’t turn into a bat. If you’re going to be in this line of work, you should learn about the things you hunt. But you didn’t call me here to get the Cliff’s Notes on vampires, did you? What is it you want?”
         “Please,” McFarlane said, “ignore my partner’s ignorance. He is still in training. We called you here because you’re a dhampir. We would like to know what that means in your life, and possibly to offer you employment.”
         “I am a student,” Goldstein replied. “I have no interest in employment. I’ve returned home to help my mother work through her grief, and when she has become settled, I will return to my studies.”
         “All right. But for our own education then, would you tell us something about what it is to be a dhampir?”
         “For your education. A dhampir is the offspring of a vampire and a human. Generally, if the father is the vampire, the dhampir’s feelings toward the world around her are benevolent. If the mother is the vampire, she is more likely to turn to evil. But, good or evil, we feel the blood hunger too, though we aren’t equipped to act on it. Some of the worst serial killers in history have been dhampirs. Having no fangs or superhuman strength, they tend to substitute cutlery and ferocity.”
         “How about powers? Do you inherit any from your vampire parent?”
         “It’s possible. It’s very random, though.”
         “Do you have any?”
         “Well, my reflexes are pretty sharp, and I can usually tell if something of a supernatural nature comes into my vicinity. For example, I knew that Mr. Najdenik was a werewolf, and there were so many conflicting auras from the items in my father’s display room that I could barely stand to be in there, but there isn’t really much call for a gift like that in the real world.”
         “There certainly would be in our world,” McFarlane said. “If you were to take temporary employment with us, take a semester off from your studies, you could remain in town with an income until your mother is fully recovered, then return to school with your mind at ease.”
         “I don’t need employment,” Goldstein replied. “My father left us very well provided for, and spending my days in an office on the far side of the county is hardly helpful to my mother. In fact, I have plans to take her out today, get her mind off things for a while. I’m afraid I must respectfully decline.”
         “I’m very sorry to hear that,” McFarlane said. “Here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything I can do for you. Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
         Borden rose and walked her to the door, bid her farewell, and returned to the table.
         “That’s too bad,” McFarlane said. “That gift, as she calls it, could be quite an asset in a job like this. Quick reflexes could help as well.”
         “And she didn’t mention her other talent,” Borden said.
         “Oh? What’s that?”
         “The effect she has on men. When we made eye contact, I felt a wave pass through me. It was like I’d been hypnotized. All I wanted to do was protect her, make sure she had everything she might need.”
         “Well, she is a beautiful woman, after all.”
         “It’s not that. I’ve dealt with beautiful women in my police work. I’ve had them try to manipulate me, and they get nowhere. I almost find them laughable. Hell, you’re beautiful, and I don’t get all weak-kneed around you.”
         “You think I’m beautiful?”
         “Yes… no… all right, yes. I have eyes. But my point is that I’ve never been affected like that. It didn’t start until we made eye contact, and now that she’s gone, the effect is gone with her. It’s a power associated with her being what she is, and I think she wields it at will. Mark my words, boss, that girl is trouble.”

*          *          *

         Mekaura Nadir was a very important man in the world of antiquities. Important, and well-known among experts in his field, but his desire for public adulation drove him like a drug that was always just out of reach. But the means was now in hand, and he didn’t intend to let it pass him by.
         Being named the managing director of the Egyptian World Antiquities Tour was a big part of the means, but it was his position as an assistant curator for the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities that had really positioned him for his coming rise.
         Nadir was a specialist in the First Intermediate Period. That had been a time of civil war and famine following the Old Kingdom, the monument builders who had raised the great works that Egypt was known to the world for. And yet, local rulers, with no strong central government siphoning off the wealth, became rich and powerful lords bent on further conquest. It was a time of chaos, and in his decades of study, Mekaura Nadir had well learned that chaos meant opportunity.
         The Tour had spent nearly a month set up in the main gallery of San Diego’s Museum of Man. Nadir had been interviewed on local television, photographed by the press, and welcomed as celebrities just as had been done in Phoenix, Albuquerque, and Dallas before that. The name of Mekaura Nadir was becoming known in North America; it would soon be more so.
         “Just look, Fadil,” he said to his aide as they looked out over the gallery from the mezzanine that surrounded it. “They come in droves to see true history, no? Our country has more thousands of years than theirs has hundreds.”
         He looked around to ensure they were alone.
         “There are many easy marks here, are there not?”
         “It is true, effendi. These people seemed starved for direction.”
         “Perhaps soon, my friend. Perhaps soon.”
         Detecting a change in a certain piece of jewelry, he pulled a black stone pendant out of his shirt by its chain. Holding it out over the crowd, he moved it back and forth, testing the emanations in this direction and that.
         “Perhaps sooner than one might think. Excuse me.”
         Taking his leave, he made his way down the marble staircase to the main floor, removing the pendant and concealing it in his hand as he walked. He made his way around the floor, a handsome public face of the Egyptian Museum, nodding to guests and graciously accepting the occasional compliment, his attention on the stone all the while.
         He turned one way, and it cooled. He turned another, and it warmed. He followed the warmth until surpassed warmth, becoming hot to the touch. When the heat began to feel that it might be doing damage, he tucked into his jacket pocket and greeted the two women standing before him looking into a display case.
         “They are beautiful, are they not?” he asked. The women, one young, tall, and vibrant, the other rather ordinary, older, possibly the mother or an aunt, turned to face him.
         “They are indeed,” the younger one answered, and Nadir felt a power try to move through him as their eyes made contact, but he held it at bay. The heat of the pendant could be felt through his jacket and shirt. “Are you with the Tour?”
         “I am Mekaura Khalid-Latif Nadir, the traveling curator, though I fear I was chosen more for my facility with English rather than any great knowledge.”
         “Oh, I doubt you would have been chosen if you lacked knowledge,” the older one said.
         Nadir turned toward her and the pendant cooled slightly. It was the young one, then.
         “Perhaps not,” he agreed, “but these displays are from the Old Kingdom. That was the time of the monument builders, the pyramids, many of the famous tombs, the public works that Egypt is known for throughout the west. My specialty is the First Intermediate period, a time of internal strife whose surviving works are much less dramatic.”
         “Do you have any works from your field here?” the young one asked.
         He turned toward her, and the stone heated up again.
         “Regrettably, very little, and nothing of importance. The period only lasted a little over a century, and art was in decline at the time. People had larger things to worry about, and producing art was rather low among their priorities. Little important art was produced, I’m afraid, and much of what there was now resides in the British Museum. There is a joke among Egyptologists that the reason the pyramids are in Egypt is because they won’t fit in the British Museum.”
         Both women offered polite laughs at that, then the young one asked, “Is there anything from the period you can show us?”
         “Pottery shards, some fragmented tablets, but if you’d care to see a sample of some of the best surviving work, the gift shop sells a replica of the Stela of the Gatekeeper Maati.”
         “I’d like to see it,” the young woman said. “Mom?”
         “Of course, Denise, we’re here to learn,” the mother replied, but she seemed disinterested, like her mind was somewhere else.
         No matter. She isn’t the one we’re interested in.
         “Certainly, ladies, this way.”
         He led them to a side wing that was laid out like a store, and to a shelf in the rear corner where he selected a flat resin piece from a stack.
         “This is the gatekeeper,” he told them. “He is seated at an offering table holding a jar of oil. The text surrounding him names him as Maati, and references known figures such as the treasurer Bebi, and an ancestor of the ruling family. We don’t know who Maati is exactly, nor who he served, but the context presents him as a gatekeeper. Whether for an estate or the afterlife, there is still some debate, but that is hardly surprising for a piece that is 4000 years old.”
         “This is amazing,” the young one said. “And this is for sale?”
         “It is. I will remind you again that it is only a replica.”
         “A beautiful replica, nonetheless,” Denise said. “How much is it?”
         “It sells for 99 dollars, but for such lovely women, and for showing such an interest in my field of specialization, shall we say fifty?”
         “You can do that?”
         “I am the curator. Who will challenge me? There is only one caveat. As our books must balance, you will need to pay with a card so that appropriate codes can be attached to the transaction. It is difficult to make notes on currency, you understand.”
         “That isn’t a problem,” Denise told him. “Do you take Visa?”
         Nadir led them to the register, had the clerk step aside, and handled the transaction himself. He asked to see the name on her card as she put it in the machine so that he could compare it to her driver’s license.
         “My apologies,” he told them, “but with so much fraud in the world today, one must take a few precautions.”
         Denise didn’t mind, and handed over her driver’s license. Nadir placed it and her credit card side-by-side on the counter in a space where he knew the security camera to be focused. Satisfied, he thanked them for their purchase, wrapped it in foam, and placed it in a sturdy bag for them.
         “I must get back to my duties, ladies,” he said. “It has truly been a pleasure that I will remember for a long time. Have a wonderful visit, and don’t hesitate to ask for me should you need anything.”
         He returned to the display floor, lingered just long enough to belie any purpose his activity may have suggested, then took out his phone and feigned a conversation. Returning it to his pocket, he made a beeline for the staircase. Reaching the top, he located his assistant and motioned him over.
         “Fadil,” he said, “go to the security monitor, the one over the gift shop counter. A few minutes ago I placed the driver’s license of a young lady named Denise Goldstein in its field of view. Record her address and bring it to me.”
         “At once, effendi.”

*          *          *

         Denise Goldstein’s eyes suddenly opened, focusing on the digital clock on her bedside table.
         3:26.
         But what had wakened her so suddenly and completely?
         Click!
         The seemingly innocuous sound had come from the front part of the house, and it didn’t belong there as part of the ambient noise of wind chimes, road sounds, and crickets. She faked a coughing fit, and under its cover, rolled out of bed in sleep shorts and tank, looking about for a weapon as she did so. The only thing that came to hand without conducting a closet search was her heavy ceramic coffee mug, which she picked up with a tight hold on the handle.
         No doubt attracted by the news reports, some opportunist had come to help himself to her father’s priceless collection. The silent alarm would have summoned the police, so all she had to do was wait until they arrived.
         Only it wasn’t what she thought at all.
         Slowly and stealthily, the knob of her door turned and it began to swing inward. She watched as a dark shape leaned into the room, taking in her closet, dresser, and her bed. Seeing it empty, the figured craned its neck to look behind the door. She had a brief impression of robes, a cowl, a scarf covering the lower part of the face, and pair of strange goggles, darkened lenses where the eyes should be with a third above and between. Seeing her there the man, for man it was, shouted a couple of words in a language she couldn’t identify, and reached out to seize her.
         She wasted no time puzzling over his strange headgear, but assuming it was some form of night vision, she swung the mug with all her strength behind it at the man’s temple. The blow staggered him, and as the mug didn’t break, she swung it again, this time hitting him squarely in the face and driving him back out into the hall.
         “Denise?” her mother called from her own bedroom. “Are you all right?”
         Denise had no time to answer as she followed the man into the hall to see two more robed figures charging at her. She felt herself falling into that dreamlike fugue that she kept hidden as the mark of a freak, and embraced it as the mysterious robed figures began to slow until they seemed to move through a vat of quicksand.
         As the first one reached her, she placed her palm under his chin and pushed his head forcibly back. She pivoted away as his legs began to rise before him and he headed for a nasty fall. Turning almost too quickly for the eye to follow, she raised her knee high and stomped hard on the outside of the second man’s ankle, feeling a satisfying crunch as tendons stretched and bones misaligned to the accompaniment of a high-pitched squeal.
         Her mother chose that moment to open her bedroom door, and the first man, just now recovering from her blows to his head, seized the older woman and wrapped his arm around her throat.
         “Stop right there,” he snarled at Denise. “You’re coming with us.”
         “If you harm her, I will kill you,” the girl said as if there were no doubt about her ability, and the moaning bodies on the floor lent her statement a certain credibility.
         “I warn you,” the man said, “if you value this woman’s life—”
         “And I have warned you,” Denise cut him off. “When you broke in here, you triggered a silent alarm that summoned the police. They should be here any moment, so by all means, keep talking.”
         “Fadil,” the man who had been clothes-lined said, helping he of the damaged ankle to his feet, “we must go.”
         “Not without the girl,” the other replied. “We have our orders.”
         “Fadil,” the man implored, “we have to go! We cannot fight her and the police, too.”
         “You believe this bluff?”
         At that moment a fast-approaching siren began to be heard in the distance.
         “Fadil!”
         He began to help his comrade toward the front door.
         “Round one to you, then,” the one they called Fadil told her, “but know that this isn’t over.”
         He threw Denise’s mother at her and as the girl caught and steadied her, bolted for the door. Denise helped the shaken woman to the living room, settled her on the sofa, and returned to her bedroom for a robe. The police were pulling up in front of the house when she returned.

*          *          *

         Nadir awoke to the sound of the rented van pulling in outside. He’d thought he’d be too keyed up to sleep when he sat down in the battered recliner, but it was just as well. The cat nap would do him good. He glanced at the clock.
         4:54.
         He pulled himself awake and straightened his rumpled shirt as the van’s doors banged shut. The agreed-upon knock came, two raps then one, though it was hardly needed in this instance. He slipped the chain, turned the deadbolt, and swung the door open. Fadil and his two henchmen, one supporting the other, filed quickly in − alone.
         There were two problems immediately apparent, and unsure which was the more pressing, Nadir raised them both with his first words.
         “You took your time about it. The sun will be up soon. One of you should have stayed in the van with her.”
         “No need, effendi,” Fadil said, eyes on the floor. “She isn’t in the van.”
         “What? You’d better explain yourselves. Sit down,” he added to the injured man, gesturing toward the bed. Fadil took the invitation to include himself, and sagged into the recliner.
         “Now, what the hell happened? I send you to do one simple thing, and you come back with your tails between your legs and what, a list of excuses?”
         “Excuses, effendi?” Fadil repeated, dropping his cowl and unwinding the scarf that covered his face. For the first time, Nadir saw the growing shiner where Goldstein’s second blow had struck him. “We always do your bidding, our master, but it might have proven helpful had you told us that that woman is the devil.”
         “The devil,” Nadir said, a sneer in his voice. “One girl. You are three men.”
         “And that woman is ten men! She is the master of a fighting system I have never seen. It doesn’t help that she moves like a ghost. She’s a blur.”
         “It is true, effendi,” the least injured of them added. “I had my arms around her and the next thing I knew, I was upside down, crashing into a wall, and she was gone.”
         “Yes,” added the third, “and after that happened, she appeared beside me and stomped on my ankle. I think it might be broken.”
         “Listen to yourselves,” Nadir chided them. “You sound like a pack of schoolgirls who’ve had their pigtails pulled.”
         Fadil met his gaze without flinching.
         “You weren’t there, effendi,” he stated, his words almost a challenge. “You have used us to carry out jobs like this on three continents, and we have never failed you, have we?”
         When Nadir didn’t reply, Fadil asked again with more emphasis, “Have we?”
         “No, Fadil, you haven’t. So why did it happen this time?”
         “As we said, this woman is the devil.”
         “You said that she moves like a ghost, that she appeared beside you. Did she teleport from place to place?”
         “No, effendi.”
         “Then what did she do that so stymied your efforts?”
         “She’s just so incredibly fast. You think you’re about to strike her or seize her, and just when the blow should land, she’s gone.”
         “It is true,” Fadil added in confirmation. “If she doesn’t want to be touched, she isn’t going to be touched. Perhaps an ambush trap. We could find a place to drop a net over her.”
         “Imbecile!” Nadir dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. “Where do you think we are, the Malayan jungle? I suppose if that doesn’t work, you’ll want to dig a tiger pit in her driveway.”
         “if you are determined to have this woman, effendi,” Fadil told him, “an ordinary kidnapping isn’t going to work.”
         “No, I suppose you’re right, Fadil. We must make her want to come to us. She was with her mother at the exhibition. Did you see any sign of her while you were in the house?”
         “Yes. An older woman came out of another bedroom. I threatened her life to try to make the girl cooperate.”
         “And?”
         “She said if I harmed her, she would kill us all.”
         “Then that is our key. You and Yazid find a way to keep an eye on them. When the girl leaves her alone, you take her. I have a feeling the girl will come to us soon enough. Osahar, have one of the clerks take you to have that ankle looked at. You’re no good to me if you can’t walk.”

*          *          *

         8:02 AM. Grace McFarlane had barely set her lunch bag on her desk when her intercom lit up.
         “What is it, Parker? I was in reception two seconds ago.”
         “It’s Miss Goldstein, boss. She seems pretty upset.”
         “Oh. Put her through.”
         She waited for the clicks followed by the hollow line sound.
         “Miss Goldstein, this is Grace McFarlane. I hear you want to speak with me.”
         “Indeed. Three men broke into our house this morning and ordered me to come with them.”
         “I’m guessing you didn’t?”
         “Correct.”
         “Have you notified the police?”
         “We have.”
         “And what did they say?”
         “They think it was a burglary gone wrong, that they were after my father’s collection.”
         “What do you think?”
         “They entered by the front door. They went right past father’s display room and came down the hall to the bedrooms. One of them seized my mother and said if I didn’t come with them, they would kill her.”
         “Okay, my curiosity’s got me now. If they were going to kill your mother, how is it that you’re still at home… Oh. You didn’t let them, did you?”
         “Of course not. I believe I told you at our meeting yesterday that one of my… gifts is quick reflexes.”
         McFarlane pondered this for a moment.
         “You’re telling me that your reflexes are quick enough to deal with three kidnappers who presumably had a plan and came prepared?”
         “It was actually rather easy.”
         McFarlane paused for more pondering.
         “We’re going to have to have a talk about that some day.”
         “That day may come, but at this moment I’m calling you for help. The police obviously don’t believe that I could fight them off, and they’re looking for a gang of bungling burglars. They aren’t going to help, and the man who was leading them told me that they’d be back for me later. I need to talk about retaining your firm”
         “All right, Denise, we’ll help you. Are you at home?”
         “Yes.”
         “If it would be convenient, then, I’m going to bring Mr. Borden with me and we can talk about what we might be able to do to help you.”
         “I’d appreciate that, Miss McFarlane. We’ll be expecting you.”
         McFarlane hung up the phone, wondering what she could do that would help this young woman — this young dhampir — and her mother. Dhampirs and other creatures of the void were certainly within Akuma’s purview, but generally as adversaries, never as clients. Yet here was a twenty-something daughter of a vampire who had just fought off three would-be abductors while giving every appearance of being as helpless as a schoolgirl.
         Well, to be fair, she was a schoolgirl.
         She keyed the intercom.
         “Parker, find Rick. Tell him we have a case and I’ll be picking him up shortly.”
         “On it.”
         McFarlane stepped out of her office pulling her lightweight jacket over the shoulder rig for her Wesley & Diller P-103 taser pistol.
         “You find him?”
         “Yeah, he’s at Jimmy’s having breakfast.”
         “Jimmy’s again? Jesus Christ, he should have an office down there. Or a room. Is he expecting me?”
         “Sure is, boss. He says he’ll wolf down his breakfast and be waiting outside.”
         “Thanks.”
         She went down to the ground-floor lot, started her BMW X-5, and covered the three blocks to Jimmy’s in close to ten seconds. Borden was just coming out, and she barely had to pause for him to climb into the passenger seat.
         “What are we up to, boss?” he asked, fastening the belt as she shot into a break in traffic barely larger than the car.
         “Denise Goldstein,” McFarlane replied, cutting through a gas station to avoid a traffic signal. “Somebody raided her house last night and tried to kidnap her.”
         “Tried?”
         “Apparently, she’s a pretty rough catch.”
         “How many?”
         “Three.”
         “Wow, she is rough! So, what are we doing? Isn’t this work for the police?”
         “The police have been there. They’re treating it like an attempted burglary. Of her father’s collection, you know.”
         “Okay, but how do we figure into this? I mean, we’re ‘ghostbusters,’ right? Isn’t that what they call us? Hauntings, possessions, and curses our specialty?”
         “Well, Miss Goldstein is half vampire, and that lands her right in our cross-hairs. She fought off three would-be kidnappers, and she told me on the phone that it was easy. I don’t know what she’s sitting on, but if she has that kind of power and somebody’s interested in spiriting her away, it seems to me like we ought to get interested, too. What do you think?”
         “I think there might be more here than we’re seeing.”

*          *          *

         Denise Goldstein opened the door of her home as McFarlane and Borden were getting out of the SUV.
         “Please, come in,” she greeted them as they came up the walk. “It was good of you to come so quickly.”
         “You’re a priority for us, Miss Goldstein,” McFarlane told her. “First you lose your father, and now the police won’t help you. I’m not sure there’s anything supernatural about this case, but you’ll have our help for what it’s worth.”
         “I’m sure it will be worth plenty. Please sit down. You remember my mother, of course.”
         “Indeed. I wish we could meet under happier circumstances.”
         “I wish there were happier circumstances,” the elegant woman replied, “but I’m grateful that someone is going to help my daughter. But you’re here to see her. I’ll bring the coffee.”
         “That isn’t necessary,” McFarlane began, but she had already risen from the sofa and started toward the kitchen.
         “Mother’s wired to be a hostess,” Denise told them. “Make yourselves comfortable. The coffee’s Kenyan. You won’t regret it.”
         “All right, thank you. Now, you had a break-in last night − this morning, I suppose. About what time?”
         “It was 3:26.”
         “Exactly?”
         “Yes. A sound woke me and I was looking right at the clock when my eyes opened.”
         “All right. And exactly what happened?”
         “Three men came down the hall. I had gotten out of bed, and they came straight to my room. I knew immediately that it was no burglary because all the valuables are in my father’s display room. The first one opened my door and I hit him in the head with a heavy mug I keep on my nightstand. I think the first blow was somewhat deflected by his headgear, though.”
         “What sort of headgear?” Borden asked.
         “Well, they all wore cowls, and that may have cushioned the blow, but they also wore some very intricate goggles. I suspect they were some form of night vision. Oh, and a strange thing was that they all wore robes.”
         “Robes?” McFarlane repeated.
         “Yes. Ah, mother,” she interrupted herself as Jamie Goldstein returned from the kitchen with a tray containing a carafe, four cups, and a plate of scones. She set it on the coffee table and Denise continued as everyone seasoned their coffee. “These robes were brown or gray. The light was very dim. They went clear to the floor. Not ideal for fighting in.”
         “They probably didn’t expect a fight,” Borden said. “They were going to come snatch a girl out of her bed. They probably figured they’d have you in a gunny sack before you were fully awake.”
         “That’s very possible,” the younger Goldstein allowed. “I guess mother and I were very fortunate that I woke up before they got to my room.”
         “I’d say so,” Borden said. “More than fortunate, really.”
         “What do you mean?”
         “Three men came equipped with everything they expected to need up to and including night vision goggles, to abduct one woman, yet you woke from a sound sleep and defeated all of them in unarmed combat. That suggests to me that there’s something you aren’t telling us.”
         “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Borden. As you said, they came expecting to find a sleeping girl. Perhaps my being awake and ready for them turned the tables on them, gave me the element of surprise.”
         “I’ll be blunt, then.”
         “Rick,” McFarlane cautioned.
         “It’s all right,” Borden said. “We can’t help if we don’t know everything.”
         “Tread lightly,” she warned him.
         “Miss Goldstein,” he continued, “it’s been my experience as a police officer that kidnappings aren’t random. These men targeted you for a reason. It likely wasn’t for ransom because, as you said, there’s a room full of treasure right down the hall. It likely wasn’t for violence, either, as serial killers and rapists work alone. They don’t like an audience. So, if it wasn’t for money or to gratify a baser urge, then I’m thinking that you have some skill or talent as a damphir that made you a target. And I’m thinking the ability to defeat three coordinated assailants might be part of it. Am I right?”
         “You may be, Mr. Borden. I’ve told you I have quick reflexes, but it goes beyond that. When you make fast, aggressive movements in my immediate vicinity, I begin to perceive you as moving in slow motion. This is why I’ve avoided contact sports. No soccer for me, softball, wrestling, none of that. Questions would be raised, none of which I’m prepared to answer.”
         “I can well understand that.”
         “Yes, but I’ve gone to great lengths to keep my, um, talents under wraps. My closest friends don’t know what I am. So how would some stranger know what I can do, and if they did, why would they try to best me at my own superpower, for want of a better term?”
         “That remains to be deduced,” McFarlane said. “Perhaps they expected to catch you in your sleep as it appears. Or maybe they didn’t know what it was, and they were just unlucky. Were there any distinguishing marks on these robes?”
         “No. they were just dull, flat cloth. Medium to heavy material. Plain. But there was something…”
         She sat in thought for a moment.
         “One of them I tripped, turned upside-down and he crashed in a heap. When he got up, a pendant had come out from under his robe. Some kind of cross, but odd.”
         “Could you draw it?”
         “Easily.”
         She opened a drawer in the coffee table and, withdrawing a note pad and pencil, sketched a perfect ankh.
         “This is Egyptian,” McFarlane said. “Have you been to Egypt lately?”
         “In a way. I took my mother to the traveling exhibition yesterday after I met with you.”
         “That’s asking a lot of coincidence,” Borden said. “Did anything unusual happen while you were there?”
         “No, not really.”
         “What about the curator?” her mother asked.
         “What about him?” Denise replied.
         “He approached us while we were looking at an exhibit,” Jamie told them. “He was very nice, talked to us about his specialty one of the periods in their history. He showed us some of the things from that time. He made it very interesting.”
         “Did he do anything you felt was out of the ordinary?” McFarlane asked.
         “Well, talking to us was probably out of the ordinary. I’m sure he doesn’t have time to talk to every visitor.”
         “Hmm. So, why did he choose you? Anything else?”
         “He sold us a nice piece from the gift shop. Gave us quite a discount, too.”
         “Why would he do that?” McFarlane asked. “Is it big enough to hold a tracking device?”
         “Oh, I don’t know. I can get it for you.”
         “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Borden said. “What are the odds he’d have a bugged artifact just waiting to be sold to someone he didn’t know was coming in? And how could he know that you’d buy it if you did?”
         “How did you pay for it?” McFarlane asked.
         “My credit card,” said Denise, “but all that has is my name.”
         “And did he ask for ID?”
         “My driver’s license.”
         “And that has this address on it?”
         “Yes.”
         “And there’s your connection. Do you remember this curator’s name?”
         “Nader, was it?”
         “Nadir,” Jamie said.
         “Well, I think our next step is to talk to this Mr. Nadir,” McFarlane said. “Where is this exhibition?”
         “The Museum of Man in the main foyer.”
         “The sooner the better,” McFarlane said, rising from her chair. Borden stood up as well.
         “I want you to stay here, Rick. I want a presence here at all times until we sort this out.”
         “It hardly sounds like she’ll need my help if they come back.”
         “You can get in their way. And maybe you can shock one. If they break in to do violence we won’t have to be the least bit subtle in our questioning methods.”
         “I like the sound of that,” he said, sitting back down.
         “I’ll walk you out,” Denise said, rising from her mother’s side.

*          *          *

         “How are you going to question Mr. Nadir?” Denise asked as they stepped out into the yard. “You can’t just say, ‘Why did you send men to kidnap Ms. Goldstein… Can you?”
         “The shock might do him good. But, no, a few leading questions that suggest a connection without declaring one might cause him to slip up.”
         “Or put him on his guard.”
         “If he’s really behind this, he’s already on his guard. If he isn’t, maybe he knows something helpful.”
         “Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” Denise said as they reached McFarlane’s SUV. “I certainly hope you can get to the bottom of this.”
         “Oh, she will,” said a rumpled little man standing up from behind McFarlane’s car, “just as soon as you run out of money.”
         “Tibor Kovács, as I live and breathe,” McFarlane said with a sigh. “I thought you died.”
         “Hoped, don’t you mean? I knew I’d find you here. The smell of money attracts you lot like blood attracts sharks.”
         “Who is this, please?”
         “Tibor Kovács, legend in his own mind. Mr. Kovács writes for the vilest of supermarket tabloids and fancies himself a journalist. He thinks if he can expose me as a fraud, that will be his stepping stone to a real career.”
         “Yes. These grifters are all cut from the same cloth, and they need only exposure to sunlight to dry up and blow away. Tell me, Miss Goldstein, is it, how much money has she taken from you since you father died, God rest his soul?”
         “She hasn’t taken any, Mr. Kovács. What makes you think she would?”
         “Why, it’s her profession, Miss Goldstein, to separate the gullible from their funds. It’s what these ghost hunters do. Which reminds me, Miss McFarlane, the reason you haven’t seen me around is that I’ve taken a little vacation time to visit our state’s beautiful capitol. Sacramento’s lovely this time of year, don’t you agree? The art and culture is phenomenal, and the cuisine is to die for. Yet it still maintains its small town flavor. You know how people in small towns love to gossip, and they still remember you, Miss McFarlane, and all your youthful hi-jinx. Ah, people do love to talk.”
         “You really are a nasty little man, aren’t you?” Denise asked him.
         “You won’t think so when I put this charlatan’s deeds before the public,” he said, gloating with his power over his nemesis. “You’ll be grateful to me for saving your family’s fortune.”
         “You’re a weasel,” Denise told him. “What makes someone as twisted and bitter as you obviously are? Has she done something to you? Killed your mother, maybe?”
         “Nothing so dramatic,” McFarlane said. “It’s that I don’t believe he’s a deposed Hungarian count.”
         “Who told you this, him?”
         “Who else would?”
         “No one who knows him, certainly,” Denise said with some authority.
         “Who do you think you are?” Kovács asked sharply. “You didn’t know my name two minutes ago, and now you’re an authority on my family history? Don’t make me laugh!”
         “Why not, Mr. Kovács? You are making me laugh. You see, I recognize your accent. My uncle Lazlo had the same one.”
         “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
         “No? I heard it for years growing up. It isn’t Hungarian, it’s Romanian. Shall I continue?”
         “Please do,” McFarlane said before Kovács could react.
         “It is the accent of stevedores from Sulina, a small port on the Black Sea. It is the accent of common laborers. Honest tradesmen to be sure, but hardly royalty. Unless you went there specifically to study and acquire a manner of speech that would mark you as far below your royal birth, there is only one other way you could have acquired it. You were born to it.”
         “Well, well, well,” McFarlane said, “how people do love to talk.”
         “I’d advise you to be very careful who you repeat this to,” Kovács said, visibly shaken.
         “And I might give you the same advice,” McFarlane said. “Now, if I might offer a suggestion, get out of my face.”

Part II

         “You called, effendi?”
         “I did. The microphone you left at the Goldstein residence works quite well.”
         “Excellent.”
         “Yes. At least you got that right.”
         Fadil cast his eyes downward, accepting his chastisement.
         “It has told me, for example, that the police are not especially interested in your break-in last night, even though the girl recognizes it for what it was. But it has also told me that she has hired a private detective to follow up on her case.”
         “A private detective? Is that bad?”
         “Potentially. But what is really bad is that one of you let your ankh come into view, and she has connected your visit to the exhibition.”
         “What will we do?” Fadil asked, eyes widening.
         “First, we will refrain from panicking. The boss is a woman, and she is coming here to ask me questions. I suspect that this will not be a problem, but I want you to take Yazid and drive up the coast for an hour or so.”
         “Effendi?”
         “I don’t know how skilled or intuitive this woman is, so I want you to be gone when she arrives.”
         “She will find this suspicious, effendi.”
         “Perhaps, but that does not concern me as long as she does not find you. We are only here for two more days before the show moves to Los Angeles, and it is only natural that I would send men ahead to prepare the venue there.”
         “I suppose you are right. What of the girl, though? Is there more for us to do at her home?”
         “No, I don’t want you anywhere near there. She is obviously too much for you to handle, and the other detective is a man who has been left with her in the hope that you will return and one of you can be captured. That wouldn’t do at all. Perhaps Chione could better manage that one.”
         Fadil responded with a gasp.
         “Effendi, you would release the Abhorrent One within a city?”
         “And why not? These Americans are always craving excitement. A visit from Chione should satisfy even their jaded desires.”
         “But sire, Her Terribleness is difficult to control under the best of conditions. If you release her in the midst of all of these people, you cannot possibly predict how she might respond.”
         “I do not especially care how she responds, Fadil. The more terror, the better as far as I’m concerned. I want that girl, and if a few toes get stepped on in the process, well, as these Americans say, you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”
         “I have seen this girl in action,” Fadil said, voice low and somber. “I am not sure even Chione could contain her, and if she couldn’t, her next choice might be to kill her.”
         “I would forbid her to do so.”
         “You know Chione’s lineage, effendi. Many men before have been custodians of the Book, and many men have sought to control her. Many men have failed.”
         “She has always obeyed me.”
         “Yes, but you have been extraordinarily restrained in her invocation.”
         “That is why I am confident in my control. I have read the Book, Fadil. Men like Sutekh and Nuru lost control because they called her to their service too often and asked of her too much. I will invoke her for one simple job.”
         “Effendi, I assure you, taking that girl is no simple job. I know. I have tried.”
         “I’m certain you are right, Fadil, but I don’t plan to use her to take the girl. I will use her to take the girl’s mother. The simplest of jobs for an immortal warrior spirit, is it not? And once we have her, the girl will seek us out to the ends of the earth.”
         “Ah,” Fadil said, bowing slightly. “I see now why the priests entrusted you with the Book, and not another.”
         “Indeed. Now, find Yazid and get out of here. Have a nice day being tourists far away from here. I will deal with this so-called detective when she arrives.

*          *          *

         “What kind of salsa do you like, Mr. Borden?” Denise Goldstein called from the kitchen.
         “Mild if you have it.”
         “Red or green?”
         “What’s the difference?”
         “More tomato in the red. Also, the chilies are more mature… I think.”
         “Red, then.”
         She emerged shortly from the kitchen carrying a tray with three plates, each holding two overstuffed tacos and a small bowl of salsa. Borden quickly cleared a space on the coffee table for her to sit it down.
         “So, you aren’t from around here, Mr. Borden?”
         “Please, call me Rick. How could you tell? Is my accent that strong?”
         “A southern Californian wouldn’t have to ask about Salsa. So, where are you from?” she asked as she spooned some the red sauce from the small bowl on her plate over the open edge of one of her tacos.
         “Chicago,” he replied, following her example.
         “Ah, I see. Have you been here long?”
         “Just a couple of months.”
         “And how are you liking our fair city?”
         “The weather’s nicer. I’m still trying to get used to eating tacos instead of Chicago Dogs.”
         “Culture shock, is it? Just remember, the principle is exactly the same. The shell, or the bun, keeps your hands clean while you eat a big, delicious mess.”
         "What did you do in Chicago, Mr. Borden?” Jamie Goldstein asked.
         “Rick. I was a detective with the Chicago Police Department.”
         “Sounds like a good career. Why did you leave?”
         “Downsizing due to budget cuts. I was invited to vacate the premises.”
         “Goodness. How did you wind up a private detective on the other side of the country?”
         “Funny story, that. I was flipping burgers trying to stay indoors when I got an e-mail from Grace offering me a job. It was weird. She knew everything about me, and wanted me anyway. Of course, I jumped on the next flight out. Well, she took me on a case so I could see how they worked. That was my first day when you met me, Mrs. Goldstein. You probably could have knocked me over with a feather when Grace and her cop friend said, serious as a heart attack, that your husband, the vampire, had been murdered by a werewolf.”
         “And how do you feel now?”
         “It’s still hard to believe. What they investigate at the agency goes against everything I’ve ever believed in. And she tells me they have agencies all over the world doing the same thing. I’ve seen a couple of things that aren’t part of the world I grew up in, but it’s still hard to get my head around.”
         “I well understand creatures of the supernatural,” Denise said. “My own father was a vampire. But if you are some sort of demon hunters, why are you here? It was three men that came to the house, not another werewolf or whatever.”
         “It’s because of you, actually,” Rick told her. “Your father was a vampire, and someone killed him. You’re a dhampir, and someone came to kidnap you. You’re the tie-in. I guess there’s nothing in the manual that says the supernatural creature has to be the bad guy. In any case, Grace wants to help you, and that’s that.”
         “Well, we’re certainly grateful for that,” Jamie said. “It was horrible with those men coming into the house. One of them grabbed me, you know, and threatened to kill me if Denise didn’t go with them quietly.”
         “Yes, and Denise mopped the floor with them. I’ve been meaning to ask about that.”
         “It’s like I told you, I have very quick reflexes.”
         “Yeah, so does my son, but he doesn’t wake up from a sound sleep and lay waste to three assailants. You have a power, Miss Goldstein, and I suspect that somebody wants to control it, to control you, to some unsavory end. What is it you’re hiding?”
         A meaningful look passed between mother and daughter.
         “Mother, we’ve gone to such pains to keep it a secret.”
         “We have, child, but someone obviously knows about it, and Mr. Borden and his lady friend are engaged to help us. Perhaps you should show him.”
         Denise gave a deep sigh.
         “All right, mother. I just hope you’re right. Stand up, Mr. Borden.”
         He did so. She took his elbow and drew him past the end of the coffee table where she stood face to face with him just a few inches away.
         “Now I want you to hit me as fast and as hard as you can. Don’t telegraph it, don’t give me any warning, just do your very best to knock me out.”
         “Are you crazy?” he asked with a sheepish grin. “If I hit you that hard I could break teeth, cheek bones, even your neck. I could give you a concus—“
         “Don’t worry, Mr. Borden, I’ll be fine. Now take your best shot.”
         He looked at Jamie, who just nodded with a sympathetic look on her face.
         “All right, if you two insist.”
         He couldn’t possibly strike this tall, slender girl. His Sunday punch would kill her, but on the last syllable of “insist,” he threw an open-handed slap toward her cheek that came out of the narrow space between them. He leaned into it, thinking to cure her of her arrogance, but suddenly she was simply not there. There was a rush of air, and he had the sense that she was standing beside him somehow. There was a shove against his elbow and he stumbled off-balance to sprawl on his face on the carpet. He rolled over and sat up.
         “How in the hell…”
         She offered her hand, a lopsided grin on her face.
         “I don’t know how,” she said, pulling him to his feet. “It simply is. When anyone makes sudden, aggressive moves toward me, time slows way down for me. Maybe I’m not explaining it right, but when you tried to hit me, this is what I saw.”
         She performed an ultra slow-motion parody of someone throwing a punch.
         “I could probably make a killing in MMA, but that would involve an awful lot of questions I’m not prepared to answer.”
         “I’m thinking of some of them right now,” Borden said, taking his seat on the sofa and picking up his second taco, “but, I’m having a hard time working out what it is about this that makes you a target for kidnappers. Unless they want to force you into MMA so they can bet on you. Are there any weaknesses to this?”
         “Well, I have to see it coming. You can easily hit me from behind, and I don’t know what the speed limit is.”
         “Speed limit?”
         “Yes. I’ve never been shot at, for example, so I have no idea whether it might work with bullets.”
         “Well, let’s not find out, then. Do you have any other talents that might have attracted them?”
         “I’ve already told you that I can feel a glow or aura from things of a supernatural nature. Being among my father’s collection gives me terrible vertigo. Maybe someone thinks that would be of use to them.”
         “That’s very possible, but even that seems to be of limited value. Maybe Grace will learn something from this Nadir fellow.”
         “I certainly hope so, Mr. Borden.” She had remained standing when he sat down. “Would you care for some dessert?”

*          *          *

         “Is Mr. Nadir in today, do you know?” McFarlane asked the greeter at the door, taking the pamphlet she offered.
         “Yes, ma’am,” the young girl told her. “That’s him in the white shirt at the foot of the stairs.”
         “Thank you.”
         She crossed the rotunda with a purpose, making eye contact as she closed with Nadir. Seeing her coming, he dismissed the employee he was talking with and waited for her to reach him.
         “Mr. Nadir?” she asked. “Curator of this exhibition?”
         “Guilty as charged, fair lady,” he said with a smile. “How may I be of service.”
         “My name is Grace McFarlane. I’m employed by a detective agency called Akuma Investigations. We represent the Goldsteins, a family who had a break-in last night. The police felt it was to rob her father’s collection of artifacts, but the daughter insists that the intruders were bent on abducting her.”
         “I’m sorry, Miss McFarlane… It is Miss, isn’t it?”
         “Yes.”
         “What makes you think that I’m involved in this?”
         “Oh, I don’t, but the intruders were carrying an Egyptian symbol, and I thought perhaps, since there is an Egyptian expert in town, you might be able to shed some light on who these intruders were.”
         “Ah, I see. Well, I am hardly the expert you seem to think, but I will tell you what I know. Please, ask your questions.”
         “Thank you. The main thing that brought me here is that one of the intruders wore an ankh.”
         “Well, that hardly means anything. It certainly is Egyptian, but many non-Egyptians wear them. It is one of the most popular items in our gift shop everywhere we go.”
         “Nonetheless, we have few starting points. Can you possibly tell me what the ankh symbolizes? The true Egyptian meaning, I mean. We have ideas in America that may be erroneous.”
         “Of course. The ankh originated as the Egyptian key of life, but it has long since passed beyond Egypt. Coptic Christians adopted it early as their variation of the Christian cross. It was in use all around the Mediterranean before the discovery of the new world. One criminal wearing an ankh hardly leads back to Egypt.”
         “What about the robes? Are there any societies or organizations, especially unsavory ones, who use them in combination?”
         “Of a certainty. You must understand that a civilization with five thousand years of history has given rise to many secret societies with many varied aims and agendas, some positive, others no so much. But I must assure you that, despite the occasional rumor one still hears, these are long gone, buried in the mists of time.”
         “You’re certain of that, are you?”
         “It is impossible to prove a negative, as I’m sure you’re aware, but we, meaning the academic and authoritative communities, are as certain as certain can be. Consider, Miss McFarlane, the reason for secret societies to emerge. They are formed to oppose some perceived danger or address a grievance that can be addressed no other way. If one of these secret orders arose five thousand years ago, or three, or one, what grievance were they responding to that still exists today? No, Miss McFarlane, you are of course free to pursue whatever channels you wish, but I don’t think a fixation on ancient societies will lead you very far.”
         “Perhaps you’re right. We have so little to go on, though, you can see why we’re grasping at straws.”
         “I can, but that is seldom a viable strategy.”
         “Nevertheless, Mr. Nadir,” she said, handing him her card, “should you think of anything that might be helpful, please call me at any time of the day or night. That’s my cell number.”
         “Of course, I shall do so at once. Drive safely, Miss McFarlane, and give my condolences to the Goldsteins on their loss.”

*          *          *

         It was mid-afternoon when McFarlane pulled up to the curb outside the Goldstein home. Borden spotted her through the living room’s picture window, and when she stayed in the car, he went to the front door.
         “Grace, you need help with something?”
         “I do, in fact. Come out here for a minute.”
         Borden walked down to the sidewalk as McFarlane exited the vehicle.
         “What’s up?”
         She had a black plastic box similar to a voltage meter in her hand as she joined him.
         “I interviewed Nadir as planned.”
         “Did he give you anything?”
         “Yes and no. He’s a slippery weasel, which was not entirely unexpected. He’s all full of not knowing anything about anything, but he let something slip that he shouldn’t have known.”
         “Oh?”
         “Yeah. He said to give his condolences to Denise and her mother.”
         “So, maybe he heard about her father’s death.”
         “Yeah, maybe. But that got me thinking, so I swung back by the office to pick a scanner.”
         “Scanner for what?”
         “Bugs. Listening devices, trackers, like that. So I turned it on in the parking garage to run the diagnostics, and the first thing it showed me was a bug on my car.”
         “The hell you say!”
         “Yeah. A tracker, more likely. No point in listening to the road go by. I suspect that one came courtesy of Mr. Kovács. I stuck it to the bumper of a delivery van, so he should be out of our hair for a while, but the reason I picked up the scanner is to sweep the house.”
         She switched it on, and the needle on the gauge immediately tracked about halfway across the dial.
         “Well, that’s odd.”
         “What’s that?”
         “A bug in the house shouldn’t register a reading all the way out here.” She turned in a circle, watching the dial react. “It’s over here somewhere.”
         She walked slowly toward Denise’s car, a late model Audi, and held the device low, moving from back to front. She stopped just behind the front tire.
         “Right here. See if you can see anything that shouldn’t be there. It may have a light on it, red or green.”
         Borden went to one knee and looked behind the tire.
         “Yup, green light.”
         He reached in and pulled out a black box the size of a pack of cigarettes, green LED shining brightly even in the sun.
         “I’ll be damned!” He raised it above his head, preparing to slam it on the concrete driveway, but McFarlane stopped him.
         “Wait. We don’t know who put that there. Could have been Nadir’s men, or it could have been Kovács. Stick that on my car. Whoever’s watching the map will get a nasty surprise.”
         He gave her conspiratorial smirk as he did so, then joined her as she walked to the door.
         “Denise, could you come outside for a moment? I need to show you something.”
         McFarlane walked her down to the sidewalk.
         “Denise, I think there could be a listening device in your house.”
         “What?”
         “Not to worry. I brought a scanner to ferret it out, but what I need to ask you is, when you were at the exhibition, did you mention anything to Nadir about your father’s death?”
         “I don’t think so,” she said, slowing down to think. “I mean, why would I?”
         “I don’t know, but this is important. I need you to think hard. What did you talk about with him?”
         “The exhibits. He was very friendly, but that’s what you’d expect from a representative of the show. No, I’m sure of it. All we talked about was the exhibits, mostly his specialty, a certain period in the dynasties. My father never came up.”
         “So it wouldn’t be a reasonable thing for him to offer his condolences to you and your mother?”
         “No, not for that.”
         “That pretty much settles it. Would you wait out here, please. Rick, with me, and if we find a bug, this one you can smash.”
         She led him into the house and turned on the scanner. The needle rose immediately. Jamie Goldstein started to greet them from where she sat on the sofa, but stopped when McFarlane put a finger to her lips.
         McFarlane moved the device around and settled on the area defined by the sofa and love seat flanking the coffee table. They moved in, McFarlane moving the scanner back and forth until it drew her to the rarely-used fireplace at the far end of the table. She held it low then raised it up.
         “Gotcha,” she whispered. She caught Borden’s eye and nodded toward the row of photographs on the mantle, mostly full head shots with a few group portraits of the family. Moving slowly and silently, they began to tilt each one forward, leaning in to look behind. A few pictures in, Borden held up his finger, then reached behind to retrieve another of the small black boxes. McFarlane made a throat-cutting motion, and he placed it on the hearthstone and stomped it into fragments.
         “They must have left that the night they broke in,” McFarlane said, going to the door to summon Denise back in. “They’ve been listening to everything that’s been said in here. I hope you haven’t given away all of our trade secrets.”
         “No, just hers.”
         “How’s that?”
         “Denise demonstrated her so-called quick reflexes for me. It’s pure magic.”
         “Well, I’m sure they know all about that by now.”
         “She also told me about being able to sense, what, enchantments?”
         “Anything of an occult nature,” Denise clarified.
         “That could be what they want from you, although I’m not sure how they’d know about it.”
         “They know now,” Borden said.
         “Indeed,” McFarlane agreed. “Time for us to start catching up.”
         She took out her phone and hit a number on speed dial.
         “Parker,” she said when Mason answered, “I want you to get everything you can find on a guy named Nadir. He’s the curator of the traveling Egyptian Exhibition. You can get his full name off their website. Don’t worry about the touristy stuff. I want to know what he gets up to after the doors close… Good man. Call me as soon as you have something. Oh, and tell Mike to knock off and get some sleep. I’m going to have him relieve Rick tonight. He’ll be staying with the Goldstein’s.”

*          *          *
         It was late afternoon, and McFarlane and Borden had spent a pleasant afternoon in the Goldstein home. With the bug removed, they had discussed a number of subjects as they waited for Mason to return the information McFarlane had requested. What it was like having a vampire as the head of the family was exhaustively discussed, as was what made Denise an irresistible target for Nadir’s machinations. How he could have known that she even had vampire blood and a couple of random powers was a question they couldn’t answer. In the middle of the discussion, McFarlane’s phone rang.
         “Parker,” she answered, “what did you find out?”
         “Quite a bit,” he replied. “This guy’s a respected scientist by day, but the dark web tells a very different story.”
         McFarlane switched phone to speaker and laid it on the coffee table.
         “Let’s hear it, Parker. All of it.”
         “There’s quite a bit of material,” Mason told her.
         “And this is quite a case. Knowledge is power, so start educating.”
         “Yes, ma’am. On the face of it, this guy’s a modern day success story. His full name is Mekaua Khalid-Latif Nadir, by the way. Born in Cairo in seventy-three to a shopkeeper and a weaver, he’s one of six children, four boys, two girls. He’s number two in birth order.”
         “Middle child,” Denise said. “Likely neglected, and struggling to establish his place. Oh, we learned that in child development,” she added, to McFarlane’s quizzical look.
         “Could be,” Mason agreed. “Looks like he was a good student in the elementary years. Started working in his father’s shop, first make-work at around ten, then as a paid employee as a teen. In ninety-one, he goes off to college, University of Cairo. Majors in anthropology, specifically early Egyptian history.
         “Makes sense,” McFarlane said. “He lives right in the middle of it.”
         “True enough,” said Mason. “His specialty is the First Intermediate Period, and that could be significant, given some of the other things I’ve learned.”
         “How so?”
         “Well, the First Intermediate Period consists of about a century of utter chaos between the First and Second Dynasties. The first had fallen, the pharaoh who reestablish central rule hadn’t been born yet, and it was a time of minor local rulers all attempting to stake out their territorial claims and amass personal fortunes. Very likely, they all wanted to set themselves up as the next pharaoh into the bargain. If you look at Nadir’s knowledge… He is one of the world’s leading experts on this period, and has published a number of articles that have been well-received among his peers. But he began his career with the Egyptian Museum in ninety-four, and that’s when he departs from a simple tale of glowing success.”
         “Oh, yeah?” McFarlane asked. “What happened to him?”
         “Nothing that looks too bad on the face of it, but he hasn’t advanced as far as you’d expect someone with his credentials to have reached at this point. He’s an assistant curator in an obscure period, which is, granted, his specialty, but that’s a position for a man — sorry, boss, a person of half his knowledge and experience to hold. It looks like he’s been shunted into a dead-end position and been kept there for most of his career.’
         “Maybe his pissed in somebody’s corn flakes,” Borden said.
         “What the hell?” McFarlane asked.
         “These things happen. I have some personal experience.”
         “Yeah, but in a job like Nadir’s?”
         “That’s not entirely out of the question,” Mason continued. “There is some circumstantial evidence, but lot of it seems to be in line with his own wishes. He was offered promotions not long after he took this assistant job, but he turned down the early attempts, and then the offers stopped. It seems that some items went missing from his department, and he was one of the prime suspects.”
         “Understandable. That stuff has to be priceless. Why wasn’t he convicted?”
         “There was too much doubt around the theft. They couldn’t assemble enough evidence to make anything stick. No surveillance footage, no witnesses, no fingerprints, anything like that. In the end, they couldn’t move on him, but his career has continued under a black cloud since.”
         “What about this traveling exhibition?” McFarlane asked. “Isn’t this something, a privilege that someone in favor should be heading?”
         “You’d think so. The buzz is that he was selected because of his facility in English, but there’s a different buzz that suggests they sent him to get rid of him for a while, and there’s an investigation going on in his absence.”
         “Things sound like his job may not be secure for too much longer.”
         “Maybe not, but then I went to the dark stuff, places you gotta have special access to get to.”
         “You have special access, Parker?”
         “I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy.”
         “This isn’t going to come back on the agency, is it?”
         “Never, boss! But you might be so interested in what I found there that you won’t worry about how I got it.”
         “Try me.”
         “One of the things that went missing was a book, an ancient text called the Book of Petbe.”
         “The Book of What?”
         “Petbe. Petbe was an obscure regional deity otherwise known as the God of Vengeance. He was primarily worshiped in the area of Akhmin in central Egypt. Tellingly, this is where Nadir performed the research for his doctoral dissertation, and Petbe figured in it. I’ve looked up this Book of Petbe, and it’s supposed to hold the incantation for summoning a demon to exact the summoner’s vengeance, assuming the summoner is worthy.”
         “What makes him worthy?”
         “I couldn’t find anything on that, but get this. The book has been listed by Interpol as stolen ancient art since 2015. Missing from Nadir’s department, though nothing ties him directly to it. Nothing exonerates him, either.”
         “Great work, Parker,” McFarlane told him.
         “Ah, ah, boss, ain’t done yet. I really had to dig for this one, but I found the name Mekaura Nadir of Cairo on the rolls of a secret society called the Iron Guard.”
         “And, what might that be?”
         “Glad you asked. The Iron Guard was a secret pro-Axis society that formed in Egypt in the early 1930s. It opposed British rule and the British presence, and took great exception to King Farouk backing the Allies in World War Two. Following the war, the Guard then backed Farouk, who allowed them to operate as his personal ‘fixers’ with a license to kill his political enemies, raid their offices, and just whatever they needed to do to keep Farouk on top. They are said to have been disbanded in fifty-two, but from what I’ve been able to dig up, the Iron Guard or an evolved version of it, may remain active.”
         “Loyal to whom?”
         “That isn’t clear, but it seems to be the highest bidder without regard to politics, ideology, or anything else. It’s money for services here in the modern era.”
         “This is fabulous work, as always, Parker. What we need to get to next is what Nadir’s agenda is, and what relation he has with this supposedly-disbanded secret society. Keep digging at this, Parker, and call me when you have something more.”
         She switched off the phone.
         “Well, what do you think?”
         “Too early to tell yet,” Borden said, “but those bugs came from somewhere, and Nadir looks to be our only suspect.”
         “So, we wait and see what Parker comes up with?”
         “That seems wise. We can’t just accuse Nadir of trying to kidnap someone without evidence.”
         “So we wait. Denise, do you need anything from the store? You’re going to have one of our men staying the night with you.”
         “I probably could use a few items.”
         “All right, I’ll go with you. Rick, hold the fort here, and take care of Mrs. Goldstein.”
         “Will do.”

*          *          *

         McFarlane settled back in the passenger seat of Denise Goldstein’s Audi S5 Coupe.
         “Wow, this in nice,” she offered in genuine praise.
         “These are nice cars,” Denise agreed. “You’ve got a pretty nice ride yourself in that Beemer.
         “That’s true, I did opt for some luxury, but I had to get an SUV to carry all the gear we sometimes need. I’d love to have a little pocket-rocket like this though.”
         “Oh. Well, would you like to drive?”
         “No, I’m good. It’d be my luck that some kid with no insurance would cross six lanes of traffic to ram us head-on.”
         “You have a lot of bad luck, do you?”
         “Just with the little things. I splurge on a treat at the grocery store, get it home, it turns out to be spoiled. Let me have something important to do, and you can count on my alarm clock not working, that sort of thing. A person cursed by the gods of luck wouldn’t last long in my line of work.”
         “No, I suppose not.”
         Goldstein backed into the quiet residential street and started down the winding road. If McFarlane was expecting a wild, show-off-my-car ride, she was disappointed.
         “So, how does one arrive in your line of work? I mean, my father was a vampire, and I’ve know it from an early age. It isn’t a matter of belief with me, it’s a matter of knowing without question. So, do you have a werewolf in your family tree or something?”
         “Hardly. No, I’m a quarter Japanese. My great uncle Keisei and his wife lived in Sacramento, about a hundred miles from the ocean. Long story short, his wife fancied herself a witch.”
         “Really?”
         “Really. She may have been. I was just small. But, whether she had any real power or not, she offended someone… something powerful, and she was killed in her Sacramento home by a Japanese water demon, an Onryō, a spirit of vengeance.”
         “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s hard to believe.”
         “Yeah, and you’re half vampire. The cops tried to pin it on him, of course, but they couldn’t work out how he might have filled her lungs with sea water and bound her with still-wet kelp of a Japanese variety. They had to let him go, but the stigma remained, so he came to San Diego and opened his agency. He’s semi-retired now, and mostly advises me when I’m in over my head.”
         Denise turned into an AM-PM parking lot and parked in front of the door.
         “How about Mr. Borden, does he have a wild tale as well?”
         “Yes, but of a completely different sort,” she said as they entered the little convenience store. “He was a Chicago cop. They had to downsize, and he was one of the ones that went over some officers with less seniority. The public records talk about certain departments needing to keep some more junior officers, but the fact is that he’s mildly insubordinate and tends to follow his hunches even over clear evidence sometimes. His department called him a loose cannon. We call him just the sort of operative we’re looking for, so I recruited him.”
         “How’s he taking to it?” Denise asked, tossing a package of hot dog buns into her hand basket.
         “We had a bit of a rough start, but we’ve showed him a werewolf and a mythical flying snake, and he’s coming around nicely. He doesn’t like it, but he believes it.”
         Goldstein gave a full-throated laugh at that.
         “I’d imagine he would at this point!”
         She set her basket on the counter and waited while the clerk rang up the hot dogs and buns, bags of chips and pretzels, and a six pack of colas. She paid a price that McFarlane viewed as outrageous, put her change in the charity jar, and left the clerk reeling with a dazzling smile that bordered on a superpower by itself. They returned to the car, set the groceries on the floor of the back seat, and buckled up.
         “So, how many of you work out there?” Denise asked as she started the car and headed back toward the house.
         “We have two field teams right now. There’s me and Rick, and Vickie and Mike form the other team. They’re both around Rick’s age. Mike Porterfield — you’ll meet him — he’s relieving Rick for the night shift this evening. Parker Mason you’ve met. He’s the black kid at reception. He looks like a receptionist, but he’s a computer wizard. Well, you heard all the stuff he found on Nadir, and I’ll be dollars to donuts that he finds more before this is over. Then there’s Ann Barrett, our armorer. She maintains and improves our weaponry. Her counterpart in non-weaponry items is Ted Davis. He and Ann work closely together, and it’s amazing some of the things they come up with.”
         “And you wanted me to join this merry band of, what, hooligans?”
         “Still do. The police call us Ghostbusters, and they mean it derisively, but we’re who they call every time they get in over their heads. I could pair you with Rick, which would let me get back to coordinating operations. You’d make a wonderful addition, if only for your ability to detect enchantments. We haven’t found the weapon that killed your father yet, and to kill a vampire takes a pretty strong enchantment.”
         “I hate that thing. It was the worst vibe of everything in his collection. It was almost sentient. Whenever I’d get in the same room with it, I could feel it trying to speak to me?”
         “Really? What did it say?”
         “No specific words, if that’s what you mean. It got into my head and tried to give me, I don’t know, a desire.”
         “For what?”
         “It wanted me to set it free from its case, to release it on the world. It promised me wealth and power untold if I would become its wielder.”
         “And you resisted. That shows that you belong with us, or another group that fights evil. You’d be a natural.”
         “I’m sorry, Grace, but I have my priorities. Do you know that car?”
         The car she pointed out, parked in front of her house, was a somewhat battered Mercedes-Benz E Class that had seen better days.
         “Yeah, that’s Mike’s. He’s early.”
         Denise parked in the driveway, took her groceries out of the back seat, and led McFarlane up the walk to find the door open, the wood splintered around the top hinge.
         “Oh, no!” Denise breathed, and darted in, McFarlane on her heels.
         They found Porterfield kneeling in the kitchen, holding Borden’s head up as he tried to give him a drink of water.
         “Mike, what is this?”
         “Mom?” Denise called. “Mom!”
         She took off down the hall before McFarlane could react.
         “This is where I found him,” Porterfield replied to McFarlane’s question. “I only got here a minute ago.”
         Rick groaned and pushed the cup of water away.
         “Monster,” he said groggily. “Where is Jamie?”
         They could hear Denise at the rear of the house calling for her mother with no success.
         “Rick, what happened?”
         “Her friends came back.”
         “The three guys?”
         “Yeah. No. two guys, but they had a creature with them. Like a cross between a rotting corpse and a mummy. I shot it with my taser, but it didn’t do a damned thing. It held out its arm, a white ball came off its hand and hit me, and that’s the last thing I remember. Where’s Jamie?”
         As if in reply, Denise appeared in the kitchen doorway.
         “She’s gone.”

*          *          *

         Nadir leaned back in his swivel chair, feet on the desk of the temporary office he had been loaned by the museum. As he often did to calm his nerves when important matters were unfolding outside his control, he sampled short stories by Yusuf Idris, his first work, Arkhas Layali, The Cheapest Night in English, being among his favorites. His later works, after his style and politics had “matured,” held little attraction for Nadir other than for their contrast with his early achievements. The gritty, realistic studies of everyday life in the villages were pure greatness to Nadir, and he loved to lose himself in the times gone by.
         Thus was he engaged when the soft rap at the door came. He glanced to the clock on his desk. Eight-thirty. The museum had closed an hour before, the guests and employees had departed, and he had the cavernous building to himself. This could only be one man.
         “Enter.”
         The door swung back to reveal Fadil wearing a look of great satisfaction on his face.
         “I take it you have her?”
         “We have,” he said, stepping into the office to make room for Yazid to step into the doorway, Jamie Goldstein held in front of him, hands behind her, presumably tied, and a lightweight sack of black cloth covering her head. The decaying mummy-creature that Borden had described stood behind them.
         “Yazid,” Nadir said, rising from his chair, “you never cease to amaze me. Why do you treat our guest in such a manner?”
         As he spoke, he untied the drawstring beneath Jamie’s chin and pulled the bag away. The woman’s face wore an expression that could turn a man to stone.
         “You!” she spat. “What is the meaning of this? My daughter will peel the skin from your flesh when she finds you!”
         “My dear lady,” Nadir said with a slight bow, “I must apologize for the zeal of my underlings. When I said no harm was to come to you, they must have interpreted my instructions differently than I intended. As to your daughter, she won’t have to look too hard to find you. I intend for you to call her and tell her where you are. And invite her to join you, of course. But lest you be inclined to continue making idle threats, allow me to demonstrate the unwise nature of such a course.”
         He took her elbow and turned her in place, revealing the hideous countenance that was the face of Chione, a priestess murdered by a paranoid pharaoh for coveting too much and being buried alive after horrible torture. The need to exact revenge on the world was plain to see on that partially decomposed face, and Jamie shrunk back against Nadir.
         “Now, now, my dear, Chione responds to my command, and will do you no harm if she is not so directed. And I have no wish to harm you, I merely wish to speak with your daughter.”
         “What do you want with Denise?” Jamie asked, never taking her eyes off of the creature.
         “I have a business proposition for someone of her talents, and I merely wish to offer her employment.”
         “This is how you do business? What ever happened to ‘could you come in for an interview?’”
         “Oh, Mrs. Goldstein, that’s so twentieth century. I fear your daughter might take some convincing, and that’s where you come in.”
         “Oh, I see. Kidnapping, coercion by threats of bodily harm. What other crimes do have in store, Mr. Nadir?”
         “Several, but the only one that need concern you is what will happen if you don’t call your daughter and invite her to come here with some degree of urgency. Chione can be very persuasive.”
         “I will be happy to make that call for you, Mr. Nadir. What happens after that will be on your own head.”
         “I doubt Miss Denise, regardless of her skills, has ever encountered anything like Chione.”
         “Her father was a vampire, you know.”
         “Yes, the very reason I’m so interested in adding her to my organization. I know what she is capable of. I sent my associates to collect her just the other night, and we all know how that turned out. She put one of them in the hospital, you know. But I doubt she will be so… athletically inclined with Chione’s hand at your throat. So, Mrs. Goldstein, shall I bring you my phone?”

Part III

         “We can’t just roar off half-cocked without even knowing where she is,” McFarlane said, voice rising.
         “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Grace, we know where she is!” Borden was adamant. “Two guys in weird robes and some kind of mummy with mystic powers. Do you need them to leave an invitation for you to know who it is?”
         “We suspect Nadir, Rick. Suspect. That doesn’t mean he’s behind it. What if we roll out for the Museum? What if it’s him, and he hasn’t taken her there? Then we’re lost!”
         “What if he kills her while we’re arguing about this?” Rick countered. “How’s that going to look on the firm’s resume, huh?”
         “Rick, think, will you? There were two men. They brought a supernatural creature with them that had no difficulty taking you down. If they wanted to kill her, she’d be dead.”
         “You don’t know that!” In the background, a telephone rang. “They might have taken her for some ritual sacrifice, and while we’re standing here arguing, they could be doing God knows what—”
         “It’s my mother,” Denise interrupted from the doorway. “Be quiet a minute. Go ahead, Mother … Yes, I’ve seen it … I will … Yes, the detectives are here … I’ll tell them … What is it that he wants from me? ... Within the hour, then.”
         The phone clicked off, and everyone in the suddenly silent room heard it clearly.
         “Well, what did she say?” McFarlane asked.
         “She gave me the location where they’re holding her. I’m to come alone within the hour.”
         “This is more like it,” Borden said. “Where are they?”
         “Alone, Mr. Borden.”
         “Denise,” McFarlane said, “you can’t possibly walk in there alone. You can’t know what they might do.”
         “True, but I’ve shown Mr. Borden what I can do. Nadir says he has a proposition for me. I listen to what he has to say after he lets my mother go. If he doesn’t, then I’ll finish what I started that first night.”
         “Yeah,” Borden replied, “I have no doubt that you could clean out a biker bar, but there are two things wrong with that.”
         “And, what might those be?”
         “First, they also know what you can do. They’ve had a practical demonstration. You have to assume that any villain worth his salt has made adjustments to cope. Second, they have the bride of the mummy at their beck and call, and you really don’t know what that thing can do.”
         “She’s my mother, Mr. Borden. I’ve already seen my father murdered. What do you suggest?”
         “That you go to the meet as planned. We’ll follow you there and park out of sight. We have the experience and equipment to deal with supernatural creatures. We’ll sneak in behind you and have your back.”
         McFarlane looked at him, a questioning expression on her face.
         “Well, don’t we?”
         “I have some in the SUV. Mike may have brought a little more, but all we really know about your ‘bride of the mummy’ is that she put you down with a hand gesture. This could go very badly very quickly.”
         “Well, what are our options? We don’t have time to call in a SWAT team, and even if we did, they don’t know how to deal with that thing.”
         “Yes, you’re right. Mike, what did you bring that might be useful?”
         “Just my taser. I might have a couple of flash charges in my spare tire well.”
         “Those could be useful. Now, Denise, let me remind you that we’re here at your invitation. If you want our help, you need to tell us where this meet is.”
         “Do you know the Latino Cultural Center in Balboa Park?”
         “I do,” Porterfield said. “It’s an old water tank just off Park Boulevard across from where that big bus stop for the Naval Hospital is. It’s isolated at night, only open on weekends, all in all, a perfect place for this kind of skullduggery.”
         “All right, then,” McFarlane decided, setting up her plan on the fly. “Mike, see if you have those charges. Denise, you go in your car. We’ll follow in mine and park out of sight. Before you go in, call my cell and leave the line open. If things go well, you get your mother and leave. We need a code phrase, something like ‘you can’t do that.’ If you need us, just shout it, and we’ll hit the door.”
         “All right. Let’s make it ‘God help me.’ No offspring of a vampire would be expected to appeal to the Almighty.”
         “God help me it is,” McFarlane agreed. “We’d better get going. They’ll be expecting you.”
         Denise slipped on a light jacket with an inside breast pocket where she put her phone, led them out of the house, and used her key fob to arm the alarm system. As they walked out to their cars, Tibor Kovács stepped out from behind McFarlane’s SUV to greet them.
         “Well, well,” he said as if they were friends, “isn’t this a fine gathering. Going clubbing, or are you off to an ATM to help yourself to some more of Miss Goldstein’s money?”
         “What do you want, Tibor?” McFarlane asked with a sigh.
         “Just trying to catch up. I had great fun following a FedEx truck around east county all afternoon, so when I decided to look for you, my first stop was obviously where the money is. So, how goes the harvesting, if you don’t mind my asking?”
         Kovács suddenly looked even smaller as the bulk of Mike Porterfield, almost a foot taller, loomed behind him.
         “This weasel giving you trouble, boss?” he rumbled.
         “No, Mike, not at all. Go ahead and get the car loaded. Tibor, you’ve devoted your professional life to proving that I’m a fraud, have you not?”
         “Well, that may be a bit pointed, but yes, basically I have.”
         “Well, I have a proposition for you. Do you have a tracker on you?”
         “By some coincidence, I do. Took it off a FedEx truck earlier today.” He produced a familiar-looking plastic box from his jacket pocket.
         “Great. We’re headed out on a case. Give me that and follow us. I can promise you a story that will change your life.”
         “Really, Miss McFarlane? You think after all that’s passed between us, you’re going to take me on one of your phony jobs and change my outlook?”
         “I don’t truly care whether you come or not, Mr. Kovács. Honestly, you’ll probably be in the way, but if you want to walk away from the best chance you’ll ever have of getting that story you’re always after, please yourself. Or, you can give me that tracker, follow us there, and see what goes on when the moon comes up.”
         She held out her hand.
         “I have to go. Make your call.”
         He stared into her eyes, emotions chasing one after the other across his countenance.
         “This better be good,” he said finally, dropping the little black box into her palm.

*          *          *

         Grace McFarlane followed Denise Goldstein’s Audi up Washington Street, onto University Avenue, then south on Park Boulevard toward the Cultural Center. Approaching from the north, she looked right toward the Center, the round former water tank, and as expected, it was dark and looked deserted. She made the right onto President’s Way and turned into the public parking lot just off Park.
         Balboa Park was in the process of closing down for the night, but there were still a smattering of cars around the lot. McFarlane scanned the lot to see that Denise had chosen a space at the far end and was waiting for her SUV to pull in alongside. McFarlane was all business as she and her two agents joined the young woman.
         “How do you want to handle this?” McFarlane asked without preamble.
         “The simplest way seems to be for me to walk up and try the door. If it’s open, I’ll take the meeting and see where it leads.”
         “Don’t forget your code phrase.”
         “God help me, I know.”
         “You may as well call me now and get our phones connected. We’ll be able to hear most of what goes on inside.”
         “All right,” Denise said, taking out her phone and punching in the number. As McFarlane’s phone rang and she established the link, Denise continued. “I want to make this perfectly clear. I have no plan to do anything but go in there, talk to this man, and come out with my mother, so if I call you, it means I’ll really need you. Don’t let me down, okay?”
         “We never let a client down,” Borden said.
         “Nobody can make a promise like that, Mr. Borden,” she replied.
         “I just mean, if you need us, we’ll be there. If we lose, we all lose together.”
         “All right. That’s a promise I’ll hold you to.” She gave a nervous sigh. “I’m going over there now. Where will you guys be?”
         “As close as we can get. We don’t want to push it, they may have lookouts. Hell, they’d be stupid not to. Rick, you want to pose as my date?”
         “For?”
         “We need to scout the surroundings, find a place where we can set up close by if we’re needed. If we run into a lookout, we’re just a pair of lovers looking for some privacy.”
         “Ah, okay. That works for me.”
         “Okay, let’s get started. Mike, you follow me and Rick. Once we’ve passed through an area, that means it’s clear. Miss Goldstein, you can start whenever you’re ready.”
         “No time like the present. Wish me luck.”
         With that, the young woman turned and walked off toward the center.
         “Good luck,” Borden breathed.
         “Look at her,” McFarlane said. “Like she hasn’t a care in the world.”
         “If you could do what she can do, you wouldn’t have a care either. When should we start down there?”
         “Give her a minute, then we’ll start walking off the path.”
         As they waited, one of the black and white cars of the San Diego Police Department rolled by on President’s Way, came to a stop, and lit the group with it floodlight. Borden put his arm around McFarlane’s shoulders, pulled her in close, and waved at the cop. Satisfied that the group weren’t breaking into cars, he switched off the light and cruised slowly away, on the prowl for suspicious activity.
         “That could be a problem,” McFarlane said.
         “How’s that?”
         “If this goes south there’ll probably be noise. If that draws him in, we could all find ourselves in some trouble.”
         “For what, helping Denise save her mother?”
         “This isn’t a spur of the moment thing, Rick. We’ve had plenty of time to involve the police, and we chose not to. I don’t know how you do things back in Chicago, Officer Borden, but the police out here tend to frown on vigilantes.”
         “They called and gave us an hour. That was barely time to get a cop to the house. If this doesn’t work, then we’ll call them.”
         “Yeah, that’ll fly,” McFarlane said, the eye-roll present even in her voice. “Come on, let’s move out. Mike, watch our backs.”
         The Cultural Center was surrounded by stately Eucalyptus trees, and the pair moved off the path into their shadows, followed at a discrete distance by Porterfield. On a shorter path than Denise, they reached a vantage point in time to see her walk up to the double glass doors, a late addition to the architecture, open them, and walk inside.
         “Can you hear me?” her whispered voice came over McFarlane’s phone.
         “Barely,” she replied. “What is it?”
         “This is a curved reception area that follows the wall. There’s nobody in sight. There’s a door at the far end that leads deeper inside. I’m going in.”
         “All right. We’re right outside. There were no lookouts. Be careful, and don’t hesitate to call us if you need anything.”
         “Don’t worry,” came her whisper, then only silence.

*          *          *

         Denise Goldstein reached the double glass doors that led into the building’s interior. She tried to peer into the slightly brighter light inside, but someone had sprayed the inside of the glass with an oily substance rendering it opaque.
         Nothing for it.
         With love for her mother propelling her, and faith in her strange gift bolstering her confidence, she pulled one of the doors open and stepped inside.
         The men, for men all four of them were, had kept the lights dim, but she could see well enough. She stood at the perimeter of a circular room. Two robed men stood off to her right, not close enough to be an immediate threat, and holding relaxed postures. On a slightly raised stage opposite the door, Nadir and a third henchman flanked her mother, who was tied to a chair between them. At the back of the stage stood a foul abomination, a human, or humanoid figure mostly wrapped in rotting cloth; the rotting flesh exposed through the rents made the cloth attractive by comparison. It stood, for the moment, motionless.
         “Ah, Miss Goldstein,” Nadir greeted her, “how good of you to accept my invitation.”
         “You've made it impossible to refuse. But I’m here now, so the first order of business is to let my mother go.”
         “Dear, sweet child, surely you know that that isn’t how these matters work. Your mother remains until our business is concluded.”
         “What business could I possibly have with a kidnapper?”
         “Very lucrative business, I assure you, Miss Goldstein.”
         “And my mother?”
         “Your mother is in no danger as long as you don’t do anything foolish. I simply want you to listen to my proposal, and her presence ensures that our business can be conducted in a civilized manner.”
         “In other words, when your attempt to kidnap me didn’t work, you decided to negotiate.”
         “You misapprehend our motives. That was merely a test.”
         “A test?”
         “Yes. When you visited the exhibition, a certain enchanted amulet told me that you had some form of supernatural ability, but it didn’t tell me what it was, so I sent my associates to determine what it might be.”
         “Knowing that my ability might enable me to kill them all? What a scumbag you are! Do you men see how little he thinks of your lives?”
         “Divide and conquer, a time honored strategy, but it won’t work here. These men are all Servants of the One, and as such, incorruptible by such as you. Now, I really must insist that we proceed with our business. We aren’t getting any younger, after all.”
         “All right, Nadir, say your piece, but know that if you harm my mother, I’ll kill you.”
         “Such threats are as unbecoming as they are unnecessary. We don’t want you harmed, you see. We want you to join us.”
         “You can’t be serious.”
         “Oh, but I am. Consider the world you live in, Miss Goldstein. The fact that you are female renders you a second-class citizen, with certain rights, perhaps, as an American citizen, but even here, those very rights exist at the whims of men. European males have dominated the world for hundreds of years. That little accent I detect at the back of some of your words marks you as an outsider to these men any time you speak, and as such an inferior not worthy of consideration.”
         “Do you have a point you’re groping for, Nadir, or are you trying to bore me to death?”
         “I’m simply trying to make this personal for you, but I see that you’re a big-picture kind of girl. Very well, the big picture. I represent an organization known as the Iron Guard. It was formed nearly a century ago to oppose the British, and all that they stood for.”
         “Why the British?”
         “The British spent a century raping my country, and when they departed, rulers who embraced their methods took control. You see, Miss Goldstein, we began with the most humble of goals, to end our oppression at the hands of those few men who control all the wealth. But our goals have clashed with reality over the intervening decades. We now know that the natural corruption of men will prevent us from ever changing that system. Only the men at the top change. So we changed our goal. If we cannot topple the system, then we can become the men at the top. We are an army, Miss Goldstein, a shadow army without borders. We count among our members financiers, captains of industry, as well as warriors and assassins. Spies? Well, that goes without saying, doesn’t it? And over the last few decades we have begun to add creatures of myth and darkness. Take my servant Chione here. A Priestess of the Sun, property of a Pharaoh, she was caught in an affair with a court scribe and mummified alive. Her body died thousands of years ago under millions of tons of stone, but her spirit lives yet and cries out for vengeance. He who possesses this book—” He held up a small, thick tome — “possesses her spirit to wield as he will. She is one of many supernatural creatures we have convinced to serve our cause. We would like you to become another.”
         “To do what, exactly?”
         “Whatever you are best at. An attractive young woman like yourself could make a fabulous ambassador, bringing in new converts. As a spy, your gift could render you uncatchable, should you be found out. Should you wish to serve as a soldier, your effectiveness would go without saying. Can’t you smell the power waiting to fall into your grasp? Can’t you just taste it?”
         “You’re mad, Nadir, stark raving mad. But I’ve carried out my part of the bargain. I’ve listened to your ravings. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take my mother and go.”
         “I’m sorry, my dear girl, but I’m afraid you know too much to be allowed to leave here alive. Since you don’t wish to share the power we offer, prepare then to feel it’s wrath.”
         “God help me,” she said, “this is about to get ugly.”

*          *          *

         “You have no idea how ugly, Miss Goldstein,” Nadir said, opening the book he held. “It isn’t too late to change your mind.”
         “Oh yes, it very much is,” Denise replied, beginning a slow, stalking walk toward the stage.
         “Darius,” Nadir said, and without further orders, the henchman on stage drew a short, hooked knife and stepped in front of Jamie Goldstein.
         Nadir let his eye drift halfway down the page, and began to read the words inscribed thereon.

Eindama vartafie aliantiqam min gabrih
wayutarid al’ard litagasum alamiha…

         And behind him, the millennia-dead priestess began to stir. Nadir was saddened by it all, saddened by the needless deaths to come, saddened that he couldn’t bring the young dhampir into the organization. Saddened that, in losing her, he was losing a huge feather in his cap. Still, it was not to be helped. He had done his best.
         Denise placed one foot on the stage, hands coming up to a fighting position, one of them holding a small knife of her own.
         Sad for you, little girl. You have no idea what you’ll be facing with your childish gift, no idea what it is that will kill you, no idea—
         His inner soliloquy was interrupted by the glass doors flying back to reveal a group of people, that nosy bitch McFarlane at their head, as one of the men with her threw a canister into the room that immediately began to belch thick clouds of white smoke.
         ”Abn aleahirati!” he bellowed. “No matter. You can all die together!”
         He moved quickly through the last phrases of his chant as the fight began in earnest, and directed the ancient mummy toward Denise. She was making short work of his man Darius, but all that would come to nothing against the undead priestess and her lust for vengeance.
         Smoke filled the room, choking the lungs and blurring the vision as the creature focused on Denise and began to draw a ball of energy into its palms. Raising its arm toward her, it prepared to launch its emissary of death when crackling fingers of electricity reached out from the side and enveloped the thing in a cocoon of arcing energy. One of the men with some sort of projector, he saw. It did the mummy no appreciable harm, but its energy ball lost cohesion and dissipated into mist.
         Chione turned her terrible gaze on him, and took a step in his direction.
         “Not him!” Nadir shouted in the native tongue they shared. “Kill the woman!”
         Without hesitation, it turned back toward Denise and began to advance.
         Nadir could see that his henchmen were losing the fight against the newcomers. None of that would matter; Chione would kill them all, but there was one thing that could not be left to chance. Drawing the ceremonial dagger from its sheath against his left forearm, he stepped behind Jamie and under Denise’s horrified gaze, ripped it through her throat. Gouts of spurting blood instantly covered his sleeves and the front of her dress. Larynx mangled, she couldn’t even scream; her daughter could.
         “Nooooooooo!”
         Denise’s cry of pain and rage cut through the air like a physical presence, causing Nadir’s ears to buzz with a tingling sense of vertigo. He took a step back from her dying mother, but she was already moving, her form a blur, as she left the monster behind.
         “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” she shouted over and over as she assaulted his helpless form. He couldn’t see her clearly, just hints of motion like being caught in a dust-devil, as she rained blows down on him. Then, suddenly, a searing pain shot through him, and he was lying on his back looking at the hilt of his own dagger protruding from his chest, twitching in time with his own heartbeat. The girl knelt beside him, her look of hatred frightening to behold.
         “Why? Why, you filthy animal?”
         “That’s rich,” he croaked in obvious pain, “a dhampir calling a human an animal.”
         “Why did you kill her?” she asked as the fight died down behind her, Chione’s life force apparently tied to that of her controller. “It wasn’t necessary, and gained you nothing.”
         “Not true,” he said between labored breaths. “Everyone you tell of what happened here will know that the Iron Guard is not to be defied.”
         “You’re dead, that’s all anyone will take from this.”
         “Yes, I am dead, but the Guard lives on. We are in every city in every land. Every government, every corporation, every organization has Iron Guard faithful in its ranks. We are taking over, little girl, and the death of one lowly functionary changes nothing.”
         His back arched as he struggled to suck in another breath.
         “Well, take this to your grave, asshole. I’m going to hunt down and kill every last one of you.”
         Breathing was becoming too difficult to bear, but Nadir managed one last sentence.
         “You’ll have to find us first.”
         The last sound he heard before consciousness left him was an authoritative male voice shouting, “Drop your weapons! Get on the ground!”
         He went to join his ancestors secure in the knowledge that Denise Goldstein would be convicted of his murder and spend the rest of her life in a cell.

*          *          *

         Goldstein, McFarlane, Borden, and Porterfield sat in a row on the lip of the stage. Nadir’s henchmen sat at the opposite end as four patrolmen studied the scene through the slowly clearing smoke. One of them, the only female, a stocky woman with corporal’s’ stripes whose name tag identified her as Officer Layne, kept her attention on them and one hand on her pistol.
         “And you say you killed this man in an attempt to save your mother’s life?”
         “That’s right,” Goldstein replied. “I saw what he was about to do and lunged for him, but I was too late. Once I did that, he tried to kill me, too, but in the struggle, I managed to turn the knife back on him.”
         “Hmm. And you three are private detectives?”
         “That’s right,” McFarlane answered. “Akuma Investigations. We’re better known to the sheriff’s office, but there are some detectives who’ll vouch for us.”
         “We’ll check that out just shortly. We’ll check everything out, you can be sure of that. This is the strangest crime scene I’ve ever seen, and no mistake. What’s the story on that thing?” Layne indicated the mummy, lying motionless, face-down on the floor, limbs splayed like a murder victim.
         “That… beats us,” McFarlane said. “My best guess is that it’s some sort of animatronic device. When we arrived here, it was standing on the stage with the dead guy. He somehow got it to move to attack us.”
         “That’s better than any robotic creature I’ve ever seen,” the cop said. “Sounds like something you’d find in a video game.”
         “Like I said, it beats us what the thing is.”
         “Mmm hmm. So, tell me, Miss Goldstein, is it? How is it that you didn’t involve the police instead of going off on some half-cocked rescue mission on your own when you learned that your mother had been kidnapped?”
         “They didn’t give us enough time. They said within the hour. Can you guys show up and set up a whole operation in an hour?”
         “And yet, you had time to call a detective agency and mount your own rescue mission. Do you see the contradiction there?”
         “We were already there,” McFarlane said. “These same people had already tried to abduct Miss Goldstein, an event for which you’ll find a police report on file. We were setting up a bodyguard service. Denise and I had gone to the store for a few things, and they attacked while we were gone. Mr. Borden was knocked unconscious, and they took the mother. Like Miss Goldstein said, we only had an hour.”
         “This all sounds pretty far-fetched to me, but I’m sure the detectives will get to the bottom of it.”
         “I’m sure they will,” said a rumpled little man who stepped in through the outer doors.
         “Whoa, who are you?” Layne shouted, wheeling quickly and drawing down on him.
         “Take it easy, killer. I’m a respected member of the Fourth Estate." He held up a dog-eared press pass. “Tibor Kovács, American Exposé, at your service.”
         “American Exposé? Isn’t that one of those supermarket tabloids?”
         “Why yes, yes it is, and I assure you that not only is every word these people said the absolute truth, but the real story is far stranger than you can imagine.”
         “You must forgive my skepticism, Mr Kovács,” Layne said, holstering her weapon, “but a reporter, or should I say fiction writer, for the American Exposé is hardly the most credible of witnesses.”
         “Why, Officer Layne, I am positively crushed by your lack of belief. But, no matter. I happened to be in front of the residence when these people came out. Miss McFarlane promised me the story of a lifetime if I followed them, and that’s exactly what I did. I’ve been back in the shadows taking low-light photographs and making a sound recording of everything that transpired here. Your detectives should find them fascinating. I suspect that even Miss McFarlane will be glad of my inquisitive nature for once.

*          *          *

         “And you’re sure about this?” Grace McFarlane asked over the rim of her energy drink.
         “Absolutely,” Denise Goldstein replied from across the conference table in the Akuma lead investigator’s office.
         “You could do a lot of good working for us.”
         “I probably could,” Goldstein allowed, “but I have a different calling.”
         “I notice you didn’t say higher.”
         “I didn’t mean higher. I lost both parents, Grace, two months apart. My mother was killed by a man determined to harness my gift to bring suffering to countless others.”
         “Yes, by controlling creatures of darkness.”
         “One of which is me. I appreciate the work you do here, Grace, likely more than most. But my mother wasn’t killed by a creature. She was killed by a man, a man who used his dying breath to taunt me about the invincibility of his organization. Whatever hell he went to, I intend to make him regret that.”
         “A vendetta?”
         “Call it a crusade. This Iron Guard is trying to enslave the world to its own domination. The world deserves a guardian of its own.”
         “How can you possibly even make a dent in what he describes?”
         “By trying. I don’t know where this road may lead, but my father left me a substantial fortune to follow it. I’m sure there’s plenty to be found by a determined seeker. Perhaps Mr. Kovács could offer me some pointers.”
         “Denise, I can’t recommend strongly enough that you avoid getting mixed up with that guy. Seriously, though, I’m sure that Nadir reported your talents up through the ranks. They’ll be searching for you harder than ever now.”
         “Then let them find me. Kovács suggested an information broker in L.A. that might have a lead I can follow. It’s time to get started. I’ll keep you posted. Snail mail only. Burn the envelopes. Wouldn’t want anyone following the trail of postmarks, now would we?”
         “You be careful, Denise. If you ever need anything…”
         “I know. Say goodbye to Rick for me.”
         “I will. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”
         She stood up, gave Grace a firm handshake, and walked out of the office without looking back.
         “Godspeed,” Grace whispered.

The End