Rambo: Hunters/© 2026

Hunters 

(An Urban Fantasy novel).

Copyright 2026 by Katherine B. Rambo

All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript in any form—blog, book or text—may be

reproduced or transmitted by any means electrolyzed or mechanical, including

photocopying, recording or by any storage and retrieval system, without permission from

the author in writing.

HUNTERS

Chapter 1

Louisiana, Bayou Mauvais

January 12, 2014

In the dense fog, her car bumping over muddy ruts and water-filled pot holes, Verity Lafitte drove slowly, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, drops of cold sweat trickling down her ribs; not sure which side of Bayou Perdue road she was on; how close to the deep ditch on her right, and on her left, Lost Creek eight feet below.

On her cellphone in its dashboard holder, . a text appeared. She read the words, but it took a few moments to comprehend:. “Plan changed. Med School. Academy. Can’t risk. Too dangerous. Come home. Sorry. Charles & Gerard.”

Shocked, distracted and staring at the screen, Verity felt the left front tire jerk and sink over the edge. “Merde alors!” Turning hard right, she veered back into the middle of the road and braked; slammed her fists once on the steering wheel and then, with no choice, kept driving until she found the abandoned shack; parked and sat, hands on her knees, staring into the swirling fog brushing the SUV’s windows as if seeking an opening.

A year ago, after her best friend, after Jolie Bechet moved into the main compound of the Archeé cult, her family disowned her. In the neighborhood, the Old People called her débauché. Démente. Friends called her crazy, and moved on. Charles Bechet, Jolie’s older brother; Gerard Regaud, her boyfriend, and Verity had not. If there was a way to help her, they’d find it.

Two days ago for the first time in over a year, Jolie had called her, whispering, “Verity, help me. We’re going to Mexico. Last meeting the 12th. At night. Perdue Levee Road. Belle Abri”—the phone had gone dead.

Charles had just been accepted to the Culinary Arts Academy in Lucerne, Switzerland. Gerard, to med school at Duke University. Their parent’s would pay their expenses, like her family would support her through college and, hopefully graduate school. But if the families found out they were helping Jolie…

They’d save her. It was worth the risk.

Based on everything they knew about the cult—including its Enforcers who, according to rumor, enjoyed using their hickory wood clubs—they’d worked out a fast plan using maps, calculating distance,  driving time and factoring in their family’s conflicting schedules. To go armed or not? The families kept guns for hunting and personal defense—but after a short intense argument, the “Forlorn Hope” (as Verity had named them) agreed that guns were too dangerous. What if they got caught, and the guns were taken away? None of the family guns had silencers. If they had to use them, the noise…and if the worst happened, could they shoot someone? No. They’d rely on courage, their wits, and how fast they could run.

They’d also agreed that because of family schedules, Verity would take her own car, while Gerard and Charles traveled together, a plan that tonight had worked in their favor. By texting her from a safe distance they’d avoided a face-to-face fight.

She could still text—no, call them. Curse. Accuse. Shame them for choosing ambition, money and security over Jolie—

Why? It was too late, and time was short.

She inhaled, held her breath, exhaled slowly and unclenched her fists.

Without Gerard and Charles, trying to rescue Jolie was felony reckless. Of course she could still leave. The cult would never know she’d been here. But if something terrible happened to Jolie—maybe worse, if no one ever knew what happened to her at all—she’d be tormented for the rest of her life, wondering what if…

God, she thought, Papa Legba, just get us through this.

She got out of her car, hesitated, then shut the door. The ‘bang’ wasn’t as loud as she’d feared. No worse than a small cannon cracker at Mardi Gras, and she hoped that any stray cult members, gator poachers or wandering rougarou would assume it came from a hunting rifle or backfiring outboard motor.

She left the shack and followed the levee road. It wasn’t just the chill air that made her turn up the collar of her old peacoat, and pull her knit watch cap farther down around her ears. Mixed with the smells of standing water, damp earth and decayed leafy compost, there was a taint of woodsmoke from the cult’s ceremony, beyond the woods on the open high ground near Bayou Mauvais and the ruins of the Sauviac mansion.

The perfect place, she thought nervously, for corruption, depravity and the ravaging of lost souls.

In 1837, the rapacious nouveau riche Sauviac family, lately arrived from Jamaica, established Belle Abri plantation and built its Greek Revival mansion. Respectable people did not visit, as the Sauviacs themselves were not “received.” Their refined cruelty and unnatural good fortune—their enemies tended to die in grisly and mysterious ways—and stories passed by slaves to the outside world, fueled rumors of black magic and demon-worship.

In 1866, Édouard Sauviac, youngest son of Belle Abri’s owner, kidnapped Julie Beauchene the day before her marriage to Valcour Gallatin. The outraged families, joined by other plantation owners, farmers and ex-soldiers, raided Belle Abri, rescued Julie and burned the mansion, slaughtering every Sauviac they could catch. Survivors found refuge in New Orleans.

Among the city's old families, Sauviac history was Gumbo rich with lurid, gruesome, perfectly terrifiant legends about human vengeance, ghosts and demons that had stopped the family from returning to the mansion and its rumored secret room to salvage pirate chests filled with gold, silver and jewels.

Isolation; gators, venomous snakes, and modern stories--many of them true--about treasure hunters who'd gone to the mansion and never come back, kept even professional ghost hunters away.

Tonight, Verity couldn’t shake the feeling that even from this distance, evil gibbering duppy ghosts might come writhing out of the ruins and grab her.

In the fog, intent on finding the path that led from the road through the woods to the high ground, she didn’t see the parked grey cargo van until she bumped into it. Frightened, she backed up. No voices, no sound. One of the back doors wasn’t completely closed. She opened it a few inches and glanced inside. Empty. Both sides had padded bench seats. On the floor, bench cushions. The only windows were in front. The interior had a weird stink of body odor and burnt orange peels.

Alert for sounds from people she couldn’t see, she continued walking. Muted colors, bulky shapes with no hard edges and occasional rents in the fog revealed two more vans, a dozen cars and three double-cab pick-up trucks with camper shells. She made quick calculations. With just bench seats and floor cushions, each van could pack in up to twenty passengers. The cars, five or six; the pick-ups, maybe a dozen. Up ahead, there were probably more she couldn’t see. There could be over 200 people here.

What was she walking into?

A few yards ahead, laughing and swearing, three people holding flashlights thrashed through the underbrush onto the road. They wore white arm bands and carried gnarled wood clubs. Enforcers.

Sprinting into the woods, she tripped over a log hidden in the weeds and scraped her left ankle; recovered, then froze at the faint sound of slithering.

On a woven lanyard around her neck, she wore an extra car key, a small Swiss Army knife and a penlight. She took off the lanyard, gripped the penlight, hesitated, and listened. Judging from the voices, the Enforcers were still on the road, but moving away. If she used the light for just a few seconds, there was minimal risk they’d see it.

Sweeping the narrow beam from side-to-side, she discovered there were no paths.

She put the lanyard back, picked up a long stick and walked slowly, putting one foot down, waiting, moving again, sometimes shuffling, testing the sodden earth, prodding weeds, briar patches, clumps of saplings and trailing vines, trying to give snakes a chance to retreat, fearing every shadow and twisted stick might come alive and strike.

An owl hooted, rose from a tree limb and glided away. She realized it was the first wildlife she’d seen or heard since she’d left her car. Frogs and nightbirds were silent. Rabbits did not break cover. There were no shining eyes from possums. Not even manic chittering from raccoons. It wasn’t natural. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the cult.

At a stretch of Lost Creek about eight feet wide, the woods ended. She crossed a slippery double-plank bridge, then scrambled up the bank onto high ground. Judging from the number of cars, there was probably a large crowd. But in darkness where fog mixed with smoke from small campfires limited visibility to a few yards, the crowd did not exist. Around the fires, there were just phantoms in makeshift rather shabby “Elf Land” costumes. Jolie was probably wearing one, which meant even close up, she’d look different and easy to miss. Oh, bon sang! She could have already passed Jolie without recognizing her. The last of Verity’s optimism burned away into frustration; the realization of how alone she was and the first gut-twist of real fear.

The campfires ended about fifty feet from the mansion’s front steps. Even the Enforcers kept their distance. Most of the second floor was gone, the remnants supported by twelve pillars. The first floor was a charred shell, but mostly intact. On the right side near the back, a shifting red glow illuminated trees and dense brush along Bayou Mauvais.

Originally protected by natural high ground and man-made levees, the mansion and the bayou had been a mile apart. Since the end of the Civil War, battered by hurricanes, floods and neglect, the levees had eroded away. Slave cabins, out-buildings and the family's

cemetery were submerged. Above the black water, there was nothing but the top half of a white marble mausoleum. A few more hurricane seasons, and the mansion itself would be flooded.

Stronger than fear, insatiable curiosity pulled Verity into the deep shadows along a path until she came to a large hole broken through the first-floor wall. About fifteen feet away, crouching behind a pile of rotted timbers and charred bricks, she stared into a room where two men stood around a small scrap wood fire on the open floor. She recognized them: Paul LaBasse and his first cousin, Damien Durel, jaded feral trust-fund Aristos.

Paul and Damien looked so much alike—6’ tall, thin but muscular with handsome, intriguingly sharp faces and blond shoulder-length hair--many people assumed they were twins. Tonight, unlike the cult’s devotees, they wore street clothes: jeans, pullover sweaters and heavy hip-length coats. From their scowls, folded arms, the way they scuffed their boots on the floor and ignored each other, she assumed they’d been arguing.

In grade school, Damien had been the neighborhood bully. Verity had been eleven years old on the rainy Halloween night when he’d ambushed her outside a school party and chased her down an alley into a cemetery. The only witnesses were ghosts. Dressed like a medieval pilgrim, Verity had been carrying her grandfather’s oak walking stick. In darkness, where the animal is older than the human, Verity had turned on Damien.

Afterwards, he kept his distance. In the past seven years, their mutual hatred had grown cold, deep and silent. Verity had no longer feared him--until now.

She remembered that Paul and Damien had Sauviac grandmothers. Damien’s family still owned Belle Abri. On private property, Damien, Paul, and the cult could do what they wanted without being bothered by locals or the law. Like the faint stench of decay from an old grave, rumors of black magic still tainted both families. Maybe their presence here, and their connection to the cult, had a chilling kind of logic.

Behind the mansion, something thudded once against metal. Overlapped with rhythmic wheezing guttural noises, a man cursed in French broken with a language that Verity didn't recognize.

Silence.

Inside the room, the group glanced at eachother, then stared at a doorless opening in the back wall.

A man entered. Older, perhaps in his early thirties, he wore jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and grey parka. Verity didn’t recognize him, but he looked so much like Paul and Damien, he must be related. His thick auburn hair was long on top, short at the sides. Upper cheekbone to chin, the left side of his face was marred by a jagged red scar at least a quarter-inch wide.

Damien asked, "What happened?"

"Damn thing threw a skull. Hit the van. This was inside." He pulled a gold coin out of his jacket pocket, held it up, then shoved it back. "It laughed when I found the coin. " He grimaced and shook his head.

"The boxes?"

Scarface took a deep breath, and exhaled. "Yeah. Four. Those things are filth, but they don't lie. The mausoleum's got a fake niche at the top, just above the water. The slab's gone so it's wide open. Two boxes have bags of coins. Gold and silver. The third's got jewelery. The fourth had paper money. Union, Confederate, doesn't matter. It's rotted. Tonight, when this is finished, we get the other boxes."

In the bayou, something large splashed. An animal screeched once. The men looked toward the bayou. Verity ducked.

Scarface grimaced. “God, I hate those things. But they’re useful. They’ll do the job.”

Verity raised her head just high enough to see over the pile.

Paul looked horrified. “Not…all of them?

“Witnesses.” said Damien.

Paul persisted, “But the cars—“

Scarface cut him off. “Could be days, weeks before somebody finds them. By then we’re gone. No evidence. Any kids get away, who’ll believe them? They’ve never seen me and they don’t know your real names.” He smiled. “Must belong to some kind of cult.”

“The Enforcers—“

“Pralines,” said Damien. “Lagniappes.” He jerked his chin toward the bayou. “For them.”

Defiant but obviously terrified, Paul said, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

Damien said, “You've been whining all night. So you've come to Jesus? You want out? Fine.”

Behind them, another man entered.

Verity knew him. Eddie Lawler, ex-high school uber-thug with the face and body of a blond angel, and the soul of a water moccasin.

Lawler and Scarface glanced at each other. Lawler left the room, then returned holding a leather pouch about eight inches long with a spout on one end.

Damien and Scarface tackled Paul, forcing him face down on the floor. He struggled, trying to yell. Damien pressed his hand over Paul’s mouth. Scarface pinned his arms. Together, they rolled Paul onto his side and twisted his head back. Lawler stuck the spout into Paul’s mouth, forcing him to drink. Paul spit out what looked to Verity like dark orange water. Lawler slapped him hard and replaced the spout, keeping it there long enough for Paul to swallow visibly three times, then removed it. Damien and Scarface released him and stood. Paul twitched, thrashed and lay still, gasping. Lawler pulled him upright. Paul smiled, frowned, smiled again convulsively, raised one arm, and let it fall. Lawler pushed him out of the room.

Verity fled, slipped on the mud and slid down the bank toward the bayou. Six pair of glowing eyes appeared above the dark water. Gator eyes were gold. These were red, each pair set too close together, appearing almost human.

She heard rapid clicks, soft grunts, and brief overlapping trills.

The eyes moved closer, then sank.

A man wearing dark clothes and a hooded sweatshirt grabbed her outstretched hands and pulled her up the bank onto solid ground. Pale as a revenant, he had an odor like burning cedar and woody spice; light, elusive—yet stronger than the bayou stench.

He helped her stand, started to speak, then hurried away. Verity followed, until someone called her name. She turned. Jolie stood beside a small campfire.

Petite with dark eyes and a beaky nose, artistic and outspoken, her preferred clothing style had been 1950s French Existentialist with smoky eye make-up, sweaters, skirts and berets. Like one of her heroines, actress Louise Brooks, she’d worn her straight black hair in a bob cut. Now oily and tangled, it hung ragged around her ears. She wore a loose full-length purple velvet dress with glittery embroidered flowers, gold tassels and a tattered, crooked hem. She had a smell on the edge of repellent: stale musk like wax mixed with burnt orange peels.

She exclaimed, “Verity, my star-sister in the blue aetherium! Welcome to our fire!”

Caught by surprise, Verity muttered, “Yeah. You too. Jolie--”

“Are you here for our first ascension?”

Other people gathered close, smiling and talking softly, sometimes to themselves.

Jolie said, “We shall ascend to Luriel, Earth’s second moon, the lavender beauty loved by the Atlantans, and hidden by the Council of High Adepts in the Galactic Command to protect it from Earth’s pollution.”

“But you called. We thought—“

“You’re simply trapped in what is! Free yourself! Feel the healing light of Luriel on the star wind! We are reaching mass enlightenment, foretold in the Na’Caal records of Lemuria, guided by Knights of the Lost Star of Khabarah-Khan.”

Verity muttered, “Jesus--”

“Yes! Among the Ascended Masters, instructing us through cosmic wisdom to see beyond the discomfort of the transition as our crystalline vibrations intensify into balanced polarity.”

Jolie touched Verity’s arm, then pulled away--exactly, Verity thought, like someone touching an object they weren’t certain was even real.

Stinking of burnt orange peels, the crowd moved closer, chanting:

“From the chamber of power we go singing to the waters--”

“Chastised, cleansed for the Ascension--”

“Guided by the messengers, guardians of earth and water--”

“Whose earthly forms in this dimension distorted by psychic pollution--”

“On Luriel, revealed as beings of light, beauty, purity--”

Lawler appeared, followed by a man with thick bullish shoulders; almost bald with heavy-lidded eyes and a round fleshy face pitted with old scars.

Lawler grinned. “Hey, Laffitte. Been a long time. Missed you, girlie.”

The man stroked Verity’s arm and shoulder. Like a small gibbering animal, terror clawed at her insides. Oh God, Papa Legba, get me the hell out of here!

Lawler said sharply, “Turcas, stop it. She’s not for you.”

Looking sullen, Turcas backed away,

“Not yet. When the ceremony’s over, do what you want. But make sure no one finds the body.”

The crowd parted for Damien, holding a black cloth bag about three feet long wrapped and tied with leather straps. He placed it on the ground, then stood, face-to-face with Verity. He smiled. “You made it so easy. In the open. Street clothes. You and petite missy crasse.” He hooked his thumb at Jolie. An Enforcer gripped her shoulder, pulled her out of the crowd and guided her toward the bayou.

Verity jumped toward her. Damien threw his right arm across her shoulders. Her mingled rage and fear emerged in short explosive scream. He shoved her back.

An Enforcer pushed Paul, now without his coat, to the shoreline. Looking confused, he moved erratically as if wanting to escape but not knowing how.

Damien crouched, untied the bag, opened it and pulled out what looked like a short alpine horn made of polished brown wood with holes down both sides and a few on top. Kneeling on the edge of the bayou, he placed the front of the horn level with the water. By fingering the holes, he played a weird sequence of bass notes.

Laughing and chanting, the crowd surged forward. Some waded up to their waists, raising their arms, immersing themselves, crying and praising like ecstatic born-agains in a frenzied revival meeting.

The bayou roiled with scaly bodies. Some broke the surface, rising up as if they stood on two legs. Human faces—but with fangs. Hands with claws—

People were abruptly pulled under. Screaming, others scrambled back, slamming into the crowd on shore. In Jolie’s eyes, Verity saw terror and sudden awareness, as if the physical shock had shattered whatever clouded her mind. “Verity, help me! Aidez-moi!”

“Je viens!” Verity fought through the crowd to the bayou where Jolie on her stomach scrabbled at the mud as something below the water dragged her backwards. She vanished.

Seizing Verity’s hand, the Stranger pulled her away. They ran toward the road.

In the woods, the panicked mob turned feral. People who fell in the creek, across fallen logs, or who got in the way helping injured friends were kicked, punched and knocked aside.

In the chaos, the Stranger lost his grip on Verity’s hand. He reached for her—but like quicksand the mob sucked him in. He shouted, “Je te retrouverai!”

Verity struggled onto the road into fog thickened by dust kicked up by spinning tires. People ran in all directions, shouting and wailing. Engines revved. Tires squealed, metal crunched. Darting between the cars, Verity narrowly escaped being hit. Fear gave her unnatural energy. Feeling no physical pain, her thoughts running on a level separate from her body, she ran down the road, whispering desperately,

“Jolie, I’m sorry! Mother of God, help him! Je te retrouverai! I’ll find you again…”

CHAPTER 2

Santa Monica, California

October 30, 2026

Verity flipped the manila folder shut. Across the desk, Adam Fujita made a half-turn in his swivel chair, leaned back, puffed on his pipe and watched the rain trickling down the window.

Verity knew crime scene photos were just another tool in a private investigator’s job--but Adam hadn’t said anything before he’d opened the folder. Was he trying to shock her? Judge her fitness for the job by her reaction? Maybe he thought she needed a sharp reality jolt to destroy lingering illusions that being a real-world P.I. had anything in common with fictional detectives. Should she ask why he’d shown her the photos? Or just wait until he told her?

She shifted uncomfortably. When the interview started forty minutes ago, the wood chair hadn’t felt this hard. She straightened, then turned and crossed her legs, trying to ease the growing ache in her lower back.

The silence lengthened. With nothing else to focus on, she became acutely aware of the woody vanilla smell of Adam’s pipe tobacco; the tentative knock and clank of the old steam radiator, and voices from the other P.I.’s beyond the closed door to Adam’s office. Background noise came from two scanners on a shelf with the volumes turned low. One monitored police frequencies and the other, fire-rescue.

She’d learned from Kit that scanners were a P.I.’s equivalent of the Back Fence and the Village Well: an endless source of news and gossip. From the way Adam occasionally turned his head and listened, she knew he’d heard something interesting. She hoped that eventually she’d be able to decipher the code and language for herself.

The Gaslight Agency occupied the top floor of a three-story 1920s concrete building so narrow that each floor had only one tenant. The office had no waiting room, and the front door opened onto a small outside landing. The second floor was currently empty. Marvin Garden’s Burger Bar occupied the first floor. A jazz club called The Lizard Lounge filled the basement.

Adam leaned over and rolled open the casement window. Verity smelled wet asphalt and car exhaust. A sudden brief arpeggio of saxophone notes escaped into the rain and gusting wind; someone must have opened the front door to The Lizard Lounge preparing for the night’s business.

On the right, built-in wood shelves about four feet high spanning the length of the wall contained the scanners, as well as books and small cardboard files. Maps of Los Angeles and Orange County covered the wall above. The left side was taken up with a half-dozen battered five-drawer green steel filing cabinets and a wood table with two computer monitors, a scanner and printer. Above them, a flat-screen TV was bolted to the wall.

She’d known Adam for almost three years, but their encounters had been brief. Now for the first time, she had a chance to study him more closely.

Six feet tall, he was thin and sinewy with skin like taut parchment. His short hair was grey at the temples. He wore no wedding ring, and his office had no visible family photos.

Finally she asked, “Why did you show me the pictures?”

Adam swiveled to face her, took his pipe out of his mouth and said calmly, “You should have asked me sooner.” Holding the pipe by the bowl, he gestured as he spoke. “Asking questions, it’s part of the job. Be assertive. If necessary, aggressive. There’s also a fine line between assertive, aggressive and stupidly obnoxious. Don’t be afraid to step on the line. I’ll tell you when you cross it. Look at the pics again. How do you think the victims died? Werewolf? Vampire? Something else?”

Verity opened the folder and studied the three color photos. In the first, a man wearing only his underwear lay in bed with his throat torn out. In the second, taken at night in a narrow trash-strewn alley, a pallid young woman in a black sequined dress had no visible wounds except for two small holes in her neck. In the last photo, taken in a paneled office, a charred gaping-mouthed corpse sat in a leather wing-back office chair: but the chair and the wall behind it showed no sign of fire.

Verity said, “Werewolf. Vampire. Spontaneous combustion. Are these real?”

“Yes. But nothing supernatural. The victims were murdered by people who faked the crime scenes. This wasn’t a test. Just a warning to be careful. Keep an open mind. Stay skeptical.”

He tapped the ashes of his pipe into a small grey stone bowl, then used a tool shaped like an awl to ream out the pipe. “This isn’t just bilge cleaning until you find a real job. It’s a commitment. Full-time. I know this is what Kit wants for you. What do you want? Why do you want to work here? If you can’t be honest, the interview’s over.”

She considered her answer, and chose the words carefully. “I haven’t sold anything in six months. A deal I had to write scripts for a new TV mystery series just fell apart. Two more scripts got rejected by the last three production companies on my agent’s master list. Some of the most famous writers have been cops and P.I.’s. I want this job. And I’ll be good at it.”

Adam opened a round metal tin and stuffed his pipe with tobacco. Verity’s stomach tightened. Had she said too much? Not enough of what Adam wanted to hear?

“Kit told me something about your family. Do they know you’ve decided to be a P.I.?”

“No. They weren’t happy when I went to UCLA instead of Tulane. And they freaked when I majored in film studies. I figure the best time to tell them will be about ninety seconds before the earth crashes into the sun. And they never give up. It’s always Child, we miss you. Cher, we need you. Come home, all those Yankees are making you crazy. Mardi Gras, birthdays, the old people want to see you before they die, all the little baby-childs and the dogs and the cats they miss you so and we just know you’re not eating right. Sometimes I want to go home so bad...but all that love, food and church...I hear the chains rattling.”

“Family. Yes.” Adam opened a small grey metal box, removed a match, struck it and touched the flame to the tobacco, waved out the match and stubbed it into the bowl. He puffed several times, then leaned on his desk, took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed the bowl at her. “No illusions about being a crusader for justice?”

“No.”

“Good.” Adam leaned back. “Gaslight specializes in grunt work. Background checks. Disability fraud. Problem solving. Families hire us to track down their runaway kids. We don’t do legwork outside L.A. and Orange counties. Our primary job is to gather information, and pass it on to the right people. How experienced are you with guns?”

“My family hunts. We target practice. And we keep guns at home for protection.”

“I thought your family lives in the Garden District.”

“We do, but it’s still New Orleans, and especially at night--”

Someone rapped on the office door.

Adam said, “I’m in.”

The door opened. Lillian Schenk entered; a tough, leathery old broad in classic B-movie tradition. Verity smelled “My Sin” perfume with an underlying odor of unfiltered cigarettes. Lillian wore a grey tailored jacket with shoulder pads, a matching skirt, a white blouse, nylons with black seams and sensible black shoes. She wore no make-up, but her short iron-grey hair had been freshly permed. She glanced at Verity through violet-tinted wire-rimmed glasses, then laid a manila folder on Adam’s desk, along with a preprinted requisition form.

“Bandog report on the Agostina case.” Even her voice came from central casting: a classic whisky rasp. “And Chance needs this signed. He’s going to Strelka’s to buy the night-vision binoculars.”

She left, closing the door quietly.

Adam said, “Gaslight couldn’t function without Lillian. She’s managed it since John Sapheri opened it forty years ago. When I was a detective with L.A.P.D., I worked with him on a lot of cases. I quit the department and became his partner. After he died, I inherited the agency. The prime directive is keep Lillian happy. So file your reports on time, wash out your coffee cup and watch your spelling. I’ll have Lillian draw up the contract.”

It took Verity a moment before she understood. “You mean I got the job?”

“Well, Lillian gets upset if I give people contracts just for the hell of it.”

Verity was elated--and curious. According to Kit, there were two other applicants, both with extensive P.I. experience, military training and degrees in law enforcement. Mentally, she told herself to quit obsessing over details and just enjoy the moment.

“Your face is unusually expressive, and your silence, eloquent. It also lasted a few seconds too long. I assume you don’t play poker. You know about the other applicants and you’re wondering why you got the job.”

Flustered, Verity said, “How…yes.”

“The agency is mine, and I choose my own people. Lillian knows my schedule. Give her yours and we can set up a meeting in the next few days to sign the papers. For one year you’ll be on probation. Since you already have a relationship with Kit, he’ll be your partner. Starting salary, twenty-five dollars an hour. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes. It’s…fine. Thank you.” Verity kept her voice deliberately cool and casual, as if she’d worked for that kind of money on a regular basis.

“I have a job for you. Nothing strenuous. A Halloween costume party at The Castle. Kit said you’ve been there before.”

“A few times. Mostly I just go to watch and take notes for a screenplay I’m writing.”

“Good. Keep doing it. Just watch and listen. If you hear anything about a group called The Ark, I want to know. Kit’s working the same case but different location. Not far away. Call him if you have to.”

Adam stood. Verity followed. They shook hands.

He smiled. “Welcome to Gaslight.” His smile vanished. “Think of it as your new family.” He added softly, “Here, we have one rule that covers all rules. Never let your actions tarnish your family.” He opened the office door. “The desk by the radiator, that’s yours.”

High ceilings, off-white plaster walls, original steam radiators. worn oak plank floors, old-style roll-out casement windows with dark wood trim; except for the furniture and computers, the main office hadn’t changed in almost 100 years.

Standing at his own desk, scrabbling through papers and folders, Kit Sage looked up, grinned and gave Verity a thumbs-up. He was just over six feet tall with a large nose and enormous owlish eyes. His intensely curly black hair--which now stood on end because he’d been running his hands through it--made him look like a mad scientist in an old silent movie.

From behind her computer, holding an open gold-colored compact, Georgia Moran--an ash-blond ex-model and the agency’s researcher--paused in the act of lightly powdering her face, and smiled at her.

In the back room workshop, three walls were covered with small shelves, papers, clipboards and tools arranged on pegboard. Next to the open door, the wall facing the inner office had a four-pane window, about 4’ x 4’, where Chance Quinn—a former cop with the Los Angeles Port Police—sat at a long wooden table covered with tools. He nodded at Verity and went back to doing something mysterious with a small dismantled drone. With his intense dark eyes, short beard, shoulder-length dark hair and gold earring, he looked like a cross between Saint Michael and an outlaw biker. On his left bicep, a tattooed fist clutched the hilt of a horizontal sword above the Gaelic words Cosaint agus seirbhis: protection and service. On his right bicep, above an Irish harp, Se misneach arm fir misniuil: A brave man’s heart is his weapon.

From inside her own office--an enclosed cubicle with a door and no windows--Lillian looked up from her computer, scrutinized Verity, then looked down at her desk and opened a thick folder of what appeared to be invoices.

Sitting with one hip on his desk, talking on the phone, Sam Talaverra flashed Verity a ‘V’ for victory sign. “Love you too, baby,” he said. “Give Smudgy a big kiss for me and put your mommy on.”

Although Sam was an ex-Army Ranger with a Master’s degree in accounting, he would always be cast as ‘First Thug,’ ‘Nightclub bouncer’ or ‘Hero Vet Vigilante’ because casting directors would never see past the simple fact that he was 5’9”, squat and heavily muscled with a shaved head, ferocious tattoos, a magnificent handlebar moustache and a fondness for army-green tank-tops and camouflage pants.

Adam shut the door, leaving Verity face-to-face with her new coworkers.

Kit said, “Sort of like the first day of junior high.”

“But different.” said Georgia. “This time, you get paid for putting up with your classmates. ”

Sam hung up the phone. “In this job, we mainline caffeine and sugar. In here.”He jerked his chin at a utility closet converted into a Pullman kitchen.

“Microwave, fridge, place for your coffee cup. We’ve got tabs at Marvin Garden’s Burger Bar, Windy City Pizza, Yamada’s Seafood Express, and Chez Mac’s Pastry Palace. We’re on rotation for take-out duty. We’ve got a food-fund. Twenty dollars a week from everyone. Lillian keeps the box in her office. She also keeps the supply cabinet--”

“Locked.” Lillian stood in her office doorway. “Verity, I assume you know how to fill out a time sheet? Requisition forms? File an expense report?”

“Yes--”

“We’ll see. The schedule for filing is on the general bulletin board. You will have your paperwork in on time. And there is no excuse for tardiness.” She went back inside.

The front door opened. On a damp draft of cool wind smelling of the city, a kid swaggered into the office. Redheaded, thin, gangly, just below middle height, dressed in old jeans, a woolly grey knee-length coat, brown stocking cap, blue wool scarf and battered work boots, he looked like an urchin in some gritty early 1930’s movie about tenements, gangsters and redemption.

Verity asked Kit, “Who is that?”

“Trouble. Mickey Devlin. Chance’s nephew.”

Mickey said cheerfully, “Hey, gang! Uncle--”

Chance emerged from the back room, scowling. “No.”

“But, uncle—”

“—No! No money! You quit school—”

“Just for the semester—”

“So you get no money. And why aren’t you home helping your mother?”

“She’s with Aunt Augusta, Aunt Maureen and Gramma Nora. They’re cooking. And I just thought—”

“I’m not your banker. Earn your keep. Go down to Tank Harbor. Liam, Sean and Ronan are refitting the machine shop and you’re a damn fine mechanic, when you bother. Or help Connor and Grampa Eamon at the Chandlery. And why are you dressed like that--you’re off again.”

“On the road. Down and Out in--”

Chance folded his arms. “No, you are not!”

Taking a step back, Mickey raised his chin, clenched his fists and pressed them, knuckles together against his stomach. “I just wanted you to know. So you wouldn’t worry. You did the same thing—”

“I was tougher at your age than you’ll ever be in a lifetime. I knew how to take care of myself. Ah, what’s the use. You’ll do what you want.” He sat down at his desk and stared at his nephew. “But you love your comforts. In this weather, you’ll be home quick enough. What’re your plans?”

“Don’t have any--” Mickey caught sight of Verity. “Hey, beautiful, you here for the job?”

Chance said, “She got it. And mind your manners.”

Mickey grinned. “Sweet! Too many guys in this place. Need more pretty girls--”

“Mickey!”

“Well, it’s true.” He said to Verity, “I’m going to be a writer. Like Jack Kerouac. Only modern. And I’m talented. I’ve already got some awards. I’ll do my own illustrations. And I’ve been published--”

Chance interrupted, “Just magazines. Online. No money. No use to anyone.”

Mickey said defensively. “I’ve got time. And I’ll be L.A.’s Faulkner or Steinbeck. But I need to be there, where it’s all happening--”

“And accept the risks. When you’re on the streets, the family can’t protect you. You’re on your own.” Chance pulled out his wallet and counted out five twenty-dollar bills, grabbed Mickey’s right hand, turned it palm up and slapped the money down. “Don’t sleep on the street. If I find out you’re sleeping in a flop house, I’ll kill you before the perverts do. Stay at the Hope Street shelter with Father Acosta. I’ll call to make sure you’re there. You get five days. Then if you’re not home, the family’s coming after you. And for God’s sake, take notes. Don’t think you can remember everything you see.”

“Thanks, I mean it. And it’ll be a great book.”

It was past five o’ clock. Adam, Lillian and Chance planned to work late. With Sam, Georgia and Mickey, Kit and Verity went downstairs to Studio Street, which led nowhere in particular. Shabby but respectable, the old Santa Monica neighborhood had faded, blended and fused over the decades into a kind of generic L.A. movie backdrop hardly noticed by strangers, and loved only by the locals.

People gathered outside the Lizard Lounge. Street lamps flickered on. The smell of frying meat from Marvin Garden’s Burger Bar overwhelmed the gritty odor of wet pavement. Nearby, someone opened the door to Pearlie’s Launderette and Hair Salon, releasing a current of warm air heavy with the smell of shampoo and fabric softener.

On the sidewalk, Georgia straightened Mickey’s collar and zipped his coat almost to his chin. “Call your mother. And next time you come by, bring your notes. I want to hear your stories.”

“I will. Thanks.” Mickey walked away, turned once and waved at them, then loped across the street and disappeared in the dusk.

Georgia and Sam walked to their cars, leaving Kit and Verity alone.

Kit said, “Good God, woman, you look like Lillian Gish after dear old pappy gambled away the mortgage money. So you got the job, but you’re not happy? Having second thoughts? I told you all the fun stuff, and most of it was true. I know that Adam was honest. If he gave you a reality check and I’ve gotten you stuck in something you don’t want--”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m fine. I’m just having a strange interlude.”

“Actually, Groucho said, ‘Pardon me while I have a Strange Interlude.’ Animal Crackers. So, talk to me.”

“I’ve been thinking about that old song, the one that goes, ‘The world gets colder, and suddenly you’re older…'

“The Man that Got Away. Sure. Judy Garland. A Star is Born. I like the Janet Gaynor version better...oh, right. Birthday. Thirty. Been there. Yeah, hard to believe. Strange age. Strange days and sole survivors.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and stared at the street. “You know we’re the only people from Dr. Macklin’s screen writing seminars left in L.A.? You’re the only one still working in the business. And it was a damn good group. The way people sold their screenplays in the first couple of years, I figured we’d all be famous. At least, we would and all the people we liked.”

“It’s Hollywood,” Verity said. “I just never figured that I’d be the one shuffling down that Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”

“Not you. Not ever. ‘I’ve got seventeen cents and the clothes I stand in, but there’s life in the old gal, yet.’ ”

Verity smiled. “Joan Blondell? Goldiggers of 1934?”

“Dames. You’re tougher than I am. I gave up thinking I could make it in this town three years ago. I was a good writer, but you have talent. The real starch. And you’ll make a great P.I. So what else’s bothering you?”

“Well, I’m a rational adult. When I’ve got no choice. I knew that being a real P.I. wouldn’t be like the movies. But maybe I’ve been writing screenplays too long. At some level I saw myself lurking in cafes and trailing suspects through the fog. You know, smoking Gauloise cigarettes, wearing a battered but stylish trench coat and hiding in rainy alleys with Jean Gabin. Why not? I speak French. I own a trench coat. I even saw the interview as a kind of movie scene. It didn’t seem entirely...real, until Adam mentioned the contract. Then it was all business. And that scares me.”

“You remember that scene in Action in the North Atlantic, when Humphrey Bogart’s talking to Dick Hogan about being scared? About people having a funny idea that being brave means not being scared?”

“Yeah. That if you weren’t scared, there was nothing to be brave about.”

“Right. And Bogie said, ‘Trick is, how much scaring can you take?’ ”

CHAPTER 3

(October 31)

Verity’s gender-neutral ‘Dust Bowl migrant’ costume—work shirt and work boots; a blue bandana around her neck, with her unruly ginger-colored hair tucked under a flat cap—had done its job. She’d been at the party almost two hours, and not even people she knew had recognized her.

Leaving the the overheated party in the ballroom, she walked onto the terrace. Resting her hands on the cool stone parapet, she gazed across the wide back lawn, down the mountain to the shimmering jewels from the broken necklace of beach houses along the Pacific Coast Highway.

The French Norman-style “Castle” had been built in 1913 by a famous silent film director and his wife, an actress specializing in “femme fatale” roles: German spy, Confederate spy, amoral seductress, Eurasian temptress, Parisian “Queen of Thieves.” Both she and the director had faded away with the coming of sound movies. In the early 1930s, the mansion was bought by an outré English director who lasted just long enough in Hollywood to remodel the ballroom into a fusion of Art Deco, Busby Berkley, and Metropolis, before using fine cognac and prussic acid to commit suicide in the mansion’s orchid hothouse. Subsequent owners, including movie stars, millionaire businessmen and a heavy metal rock star, either went mad, killed themselves in perversely creative ways, or were murdered by ‘mad slashers’ Rumors that The Castle was cursed enhanced its reputation, making it an ideal venue for major Hollywood social events.

Behind her, the clamor from hundreds of voices inside the ballroom merged into an ambient roar that reminded Verity of movie scenes about ancient Roman gladiator games. She turned away from the night and studied the crowd: a surrealistic display of fantasy, ego, neurosis and networking. Nearby, Zeus, the Wolfman and a WWII RAF fighter pilot debated the merits of Swiss health spas. Batman, a Klingon, Elvis and Cleopatra speculated about possible changes to The 7th Power: Ironhand II, because the director had shot the star.

The Klingon muttered, “Oh, hell. Look what just slimed in. I hope somebody’s got a can of creep repellent.”

Rance VanWirth slouched into the ballroom. Lifts in his biker boots compensated for the fact that he was only 5’7”. Thin, bony-faced, blond hair styled in a 1950’s ducktail haircut and wearing an expensive custom-scuffed James Dean-style leather jacket, he looked like the second-lead hoodlum in every low-budget ’50’s delinquent movie ever made. Verity wondered who had invited him, and why. It couldn’t have happened by accident. The Committee who ran The Castle was as obsessive about status, reputation and credentials as the court of Queen Victoria.

People acknowledged Rance with a nod or casual wave. There were no handshakes, backslaps or air kisses. He went to the buffet table, turned his back to the crowd and poured a glass of mineral water.

Socially, Rance had fallen off the radar screen years ago. He’d never been an A-list director to begin with, and his reputation for bullying actors and crew; his defensiveness, tantrums, and claiming technical expertise—which he did not have—over all aspects of his movie projects had left him with a reputation that stank like stale brie. Verity suspected his toxic personality spewed up from a molten core of rage and frustration. If he’d been sufficiently handsome, talented and powerful, Hollywood would have forgiven his behavior. Instead, he was a public joke. Because Verity was indifferent to Rance, she found it easy to pity him.

The RAF pilot said, “I read in Variety that he’s doing another movie, Ark of Atlantis.”

Ark? Verity edged closer.

Zeus replied, “If it tanks as badly as Vampire Surfer Babes, he’ll have to sell his production company.” He smiled and sipped his champagne.

The Wolfman ate the last piece of his quartered watercress sandwich, and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “He ran the company into the dumpster. No one to blame but himself.”

They walked away, dissing Rance and talking rapturously about classic films directed and produced by Rance’s father, grandfather and other family members dating back to the early silents.

Ark of Atlantis—because it was Rance’s project, it couldn’t be anything but another poverty-row flicker. In more ways than one, a dead end.

A man dressed like Rhett Butler emerged from the crowd.

Scarface.

Twelve years. He had to be in his mid-40s, but he’d hardly aged. There was no grey in his thick, wavy auburn hair, still boyishly long on top, short at the sides. Experienced in reading “Hollywood” like archeologists deciphered runes and pictographs, Verity recognized the signs of expert plastic surgery. A facelift, botox and probably other fillers had left his skin too tight and smooth, like finely textured limestone. The scar was no longer obvious. But when he turned, and the angle of the artificial light changed, the outline was still faintly visible.

He and Rance met, spoke briefly and walked across the room, intercepting an Elizabethan courtier wearing a black long-sleeved doublet, black hose with thigh-length-boots and a long silver-edged black cloak.

Damien Durel. What the hell was he doing here? Obviously, Rance had invited both Durel and Scarface.

Durel touched a pocket in his costume, pulled out his phone and answered; then lowered his head, paced, gesturing tightly with his left hand, then returned the phone to his pocket. Rance asked a question. Durel raised his right hand, shook his head and gestured at the crowd. Their heads close together, the trio apparently came to a decision. Rance ambled back towards the buffet table while Durel and Scarface headed for the terrace. As they passed her, Verity looked away, feigning deep interest in the buffet table’s mermaid ice sculpture, then turned back and watched them walk down the steps into the garden, following a flagstone path.

Scarface, Damien, Rance, Ark of Atlantis...the connections were tenuous but compelling. Should she play it safe, stay in the ballroom and await developments? If she followed, and Damien recognized her—but how could he? It had been twelve years and tonight she was wearing a costume chosen to keep even her gender in doubt. If she were careful and stayed out of sight…besides, it was her first assignment. She needed to prove herself, and Adam needed the information. Besides, she could turn back whenever she wanted.

Hurrying down the steps, she quickly found a way to follow without being seen: a dirt track parallel to the flagstone path, but separated from it by a tall clipped but thorny hedge of Japanese Barberry. Damp earth muffled her footsteps. Finally, she was close enough to hear Durel.

“Eddie said that Archer and Karras called in after they left the kids at Bodega Beach, but that was three hours ago. The van’s not back and they’re not answering their phones. Maybe two hours ago at Surfer’s Cove, some kids flagged down a cop car. The kids were hysterical about ‘monsters’ that attacked their party. It’s on the news.”

“Shit. Surfer’s Cove. That’s next to Bodega Beach”—

Coming from the direction of the beach, sharp rapid clicks dropped to a low monotone whistle—then stopped. Fear like an electric shock jolted Verity’s heart because she’d heard those sounds on Bayou Mauvais.

Durel said, “They’re here.”

“Oh, God. Why?”

“Power. A show of dominance. Archer and Karras…damn. I didn’t think the job would be that dangerous.”

“Weren’t they armed?”

“Yeah. That’s what worries me. They didn’t expect…it was probably by surprise. I hate to lose them, but they’re collateral damage. Dealing with these…things, it goes with the territory.”

“What’ll we do?”

“You go back to the party. I’ll deal with them.”

“It’s getting too dangerous. Maybe we should—“

“No. Too late. We’re in too deep. But we still have what they need. And they can still be controlled. So we stick with the plan.”

From the sound of hurried footsteps, Verity knew that Scarface was going back to the mansion, while Damien walked the other way, down the hill toward the estate’s private beach.

It would be so easy, Verity thought, to stay behind the hedge until it was safe to come out. Then she could sneak back to the party as if nothing had happened. No one would ever know...

But she would.

Despite his black clothing, Damien was surprisingly easy to see. Under the full moon, his silver-edged cloak became a deeper billowing shadow with sparking glints of light.

She followed him across an old stone bridge spanning Cold Rock Creek, running high and fast from the winter rains. Looming up ahead, a dozen broken arches surrounded a ruined Roman-fantasy grotto built by the mansion’s original owners. After decades of storms, high tides and earthquakes, it looked more like an authentic romantic ruin than the owners probably ever wanted.

Tracking her quarry, Verity felt strangely light. She knew she was afraid, but the fear seemed to belong to someone else. In her mind she sensed a Presence stronger than instinct, guiding her, telling her how far to stay behind Damien, how to walk without making noise, and when to hide. The Presence also told her it was critical to remain upwind. Although Verity had no idea why, she didn’t question, but made certain the stiff sea breeze was always in her face.

The creek cascaded into a man-made fieldstone pool. Obscured by heavy shadows cast by an overhanging cliff, the pool’s coves and piles of debris from the broken arches made its shape and size impossible to judge. The creek had broken through the pool’s back wall, creating another waterfall. Following its old channel, the creek spilled onto the rocky beach and merged with the sea.

At the edge of the pool, Damien paced back and forth, staring into the water.

Verity moved quietly between rocks and shadows until she found a shoulder-high wall of stones from a broken arch. Through small gaps and cracks, she watched.

Something surfaced briefly, arching its back like a large fish; sank out of sight, then suddenly broke the surface, rising so fast straight up it must have pushed off from the bottom of the pool.

Human shape, scales, fangs, claws…

Verity fell on her side, curled up and covered her face with her hands. She struggled to think rationally, but memories from Bayou Mauvais tore her thoughts into fragments, whirling them so violently that she couldn’t hold two coherent thoughts at the same time.

Damien said something--in French. For a crazed moment Verity thought he was talking to her--then realized he must be talking to the monster. In French?

Curiosity proved stronger than fear. Cautiously she sat up and looked through a crack in the wall. Damien stared down at the monster. The monster stared up at him. With barely a ripple it drifted easily in place. Three other monsters floated behind it, watching but keeping their distance.

Maybe, Verity thought, that’s why The Presence had told her to stay upwind; to keep the monsters from picking up her scent.

Damien spoke. The monster interrupted. They argued. The monster’s voice was harsh, guttural. Verity wondered why she had such a hard time understanding them, until she realized they spoke French mixed with another language she didn’t recognize; one that barely sounded human.

Apparently, the monsters had not only taken what they were entitled to (young ones and rightful prey) but something they shouldn’t have. Two men. Verity understood the words for game or play; and strong. Good fight. The monster lifted its lips over its fangs, hissed and champed its jaws.

For a moment Damien remained silent, then changed the subject. He and the monster had a quiet discussion about large amounts of meat and salt. Then Damien spoke about dig something up. The monster responded, Want more and Give us.

Damien agreed.

The monster nodded, then swam away with its companions, sliding one by one over the waterfall onto the beach where they got up and trotted towards the sea. Damien hurried towards The Castle.

Jolie had died twelve years ago, 1,400 miles away. The monsters in the pool could not have killed her, which meant that others like them lived in Bayou Mauvais. But the monster tonight spoke a bastard French. Monsters, the cult, Bayou Mauvais...was Damien the connection? Had he moved the cult to Los Angeles? In both places, the cult involved the monsters. Had he also moved them, as well? She tried to imagine how it might have been done, but every possible scenario read like a plot line from a low-budget comedy-horror movie. She junked the whole idea. It was ludicrous.

Young ones...the kids Damien had mentioned? Had they been a kind of sacrifice, or reward? Maybe a bribe? Had Jolie and the other cult members been killed for the same reason? If those monsters had killed the people at the beach party—that was bold, brazen, to do it in the open. Power and dominance…the monsters and the cult’s leaders in a standoff for control?Maybe Damien and the others didn’t have as much control as they thought.

She tried to think rationally, to analyze the experience and plan her next move--but she’d reached the point where she needed help.

She went to the front parking area where valets brought cars to the guests and chauffeurs waited by limousines for guests in costumes that at the end of the evening looked slightly worn and rather silly. Doors slammed, engines rumbled, headlights shone, taillights vanished down the hairpin turns of Las Animas Canyon Road.

Moving to the edge of the crowd, Verity started to call Kit, then hesitated. Her story was logical, right up to the time she first saw the monster, and heard it speak French. How much should she tell Kit? As much as he needed to know, without the weirdness. When the time was right (if it ever was) she’d add the rest in person, which would give her a chance to script the rest of the story first. Carefully. She called him.

He said, “Damn, I don’t like this plot.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Talk to Adam. I’ll call him. Meet me in the Gaslight parking lot. I’ll drive us to his place. Someone just rewrote the script.”

CHAPTER 4

(Halloween Night)

By the time they reached the parking lot, dense fog had rolled off the sea, enveloped the coast and swept inland.

Moments after Verity got into Kit’s car and shut the passenger door, he answered her unspoken question.

“Adam lives in Marina del Rey.”

“What? How—”

“—Can he afford it. Yeah. A retired cop running a detective agency. He keeps a boat there. Until now, no one except maybe Lillian knew where he lived, or anything about his family until a few years ago when Sam and Chance were on a job in Little Tokyo and got caught in traffic where cops had shut down the street for people leaving a funeral. They saw Adam getting into a limo. No question. They did the research.The funeral was for Shiro Fujita. He was ninety and chairman of the executive board of directors at Daketsu-Pacific. His wife’s maiden name was Chieko Nishida. They were second cousins, and the grandchildren of Baron Isao Fujiwara and Count Jintoku Ichijo who’d founded the company. The four families have divisions in L.A., Honolulu, Tokyo and Singapore for petrochemicals, commercial air freight, an industrial bank and real estate. Shiro and Cheiko had five sons. Adam is the youngest.”

“Yowzer”

“Oh, yeah. After we learned about his family, we talked one night when he and Lillian weren’t in the office. We decided that he hadn’t changed. But because of what we knew, we’d changed. If anyone else found out, they wouldn’t have heard it from us. It would have been easy to find out where he lived. I mean, that’s what we do, right? But that would be like…betrayal. Out there—“ he waved his right hand, encompassing L.A. and the rest of the world—“he’s a Prince of the City. At Gaslight, he’s the boss and nothing else matters.”

“Have you ever been to Marina del Rey?”

“Never had a reason. I’ve always been curious about it, but not enough to make a special trip.”

“I was there once. My first year in L.A., I heard about it, and I just had to see a town with only 10,000 super-rich people and 5,000 boats. I was writing my first screenplay, that pleasure planet murder mystery. Maybe I’d find things I could use. Like a fantasy urban paradise on the water. At first, I saw just what I wanted; the marina with those beautiful condos and townhomes. It was all so…clean. Safe. Kind of exciting. But it also bothered me and I wasn’t sure why until I realized it looked like a stage set for a TV soap opera. It’s a weird place. The town’s over fifty years old, but all the buildings look new. There’s no history. Families live there, but it’s not meant for…”

“Generations.”

“Exactly. New buildings get built, but the place doesn’t really change. Just the people. It’s a town of transients. But rich ones. I looked up properties for sale. The cheapest place I found with a view of the marina was a condo on the eighth floor of a high-rise. It had just over 900 square feet and cost about $600,000. Condos near the marina, but with no water views, they cost over $1,000,000. A building I really liked, on the marina, had a third-floor condo with two bedrooms, two-baths, a study and a view, for $1,500,000, under market and price-reduced. And that was almost twelve years ago. At least dreams are free. But even if I had the money to live there, I wouldn’t. Those people are not my folk. On the other hand, that obsession and insecurity about money and status, and living in a place so insular, where it’s possible to pretend the outside world doesn’t even exist…a screenplay…yeah. Perfect. Murder. Neo-noir—“

Kit said gently. “Verity, it’s a great idea. But stop writing.”

“Sorry. Right. Priorities. But…dang! The possibilities…”

***

They found a public parking place and walked along a street between condos and a utilitarian three-foot high wrought-iron fence separating the street from the marina. Locked gates to each dock kept the unauthorized away from the boats. People congregated around cafes. Late night parties overflowed into the street. Odors from food, flowers and perfume mixed harmoniously with the primal smell of the sea. Diffuse lights from windows and street lamps spilled into mooring basins, casting reflections so beautiful, they looked like a sub-aquatic light show designed to delight the locals. Boats gently swayed and bumped against the slips. The marina was a world of small self-contained isolated lights, always moving: mast, stern and bow lights; lights glowing in pilot houses and cabin windows.

Verity thought, This is what I wanted. The fantasy—but she suspected it could only exist in the fog, after midnight.

At the gate to dock A-900, Kit punched a code into a keypad. A buzzer growled. He pulled the metal gate open. He and Verity walked through. He closed it. The gate locked behind them with an emphatic rattling clash.

Adams’s boat, the Lili Marlene, was berthed at the last slip before the Main Channel merged with the open sea.

Compared to the sleek graceful boats around it, the Lili Marlene looked like a long squat tugboat that had wandered into the marina by accident. Verity had no personal interest in boats, but fishing and sailing obsessed her family. Until she’d left for California, boat shows and time on the water had been a regular part of life.

As she got closer, she realized the Lili Marlene was a Nordic Tug: a trawler custom-designed for long-distance traveling. Over seventy feet long, perfectly balanced between luxury and rugged utility, it whispered: Spared no expense.

Adam walked out of the cabin, motioned to them with the back of his hand, then sat down in a chair near the bow. They climbed on board and sat on a padded bench, facing him, their backs to the sea.

Pale, dressed in black and gray, he looked like a character in a moody film noir. “Verity, you first.”

He listened. When she’d finished, he asked, “The third man, did you hear his name?”

“No. But…he looked familiar. I think I’ve seen him before. But not for years. In New Orleans. I’m almost sure he’s Damien Durel’s cousin.”

Adam sat up straight and folded his hands across his chest. “Describe him.”

When she finished, he asked, “You’re sure about the scar?”

“Yes.”

Next to Adam’s chair on a small metal table, he’d placed a sand-filled stone bowl, a wooden humidor and a rack of three pipes, a white porcelain match box, and an old tin tea container filled with a dedicated pipe smoker’s odds and ends. He chose a pipe and used a reamer to clean it. “Philip Bayliss. Yeah, I know him.” He took his time putting the reamer back in the box, choosing a pipe and filling it with tobacco. “Those monsters, they’re ghouls.”

Kit said, “Rogues?”

Verity gasped, “You knew?

Kit raised his hands to waist level, turned them palm up, lowered them and shrugged.

Adam said wearily, “The Bandogs heard rumors. Angie told me this morning. And now we have a connection between ghouls and the cult.”

Ghouls? At the same moment Verity thought, So that’s what they are, another part of her mind still refused to believe.

Descended from twelve generations of a Louisiana family, Verity had absorbed history, legends, mysticism and ghost stories with her baby food. She’d just never had a reason to believe, or take them seriously. A lifetime in New Orleans--a city that transformed its spiritual history into tourist tat--had turned her into a skeptic, always looking suspiciously for the scam, the illusion, the trick meant to liberate the credulous from their money.

She could accept the existence of zombies, because there was a rational scientific explanation: Tetratoxin. Ghosts could be explained, however vaguely, by yet unknown laws of physics, electromagnetic energy and things the Church simply called ‘A Mystery.’ But ghouls…they were a joke. Schlocky movies. Halloween costumes.

Between two heartbeats, one breath and the next, Verity had a vision of Primitive Woman—The Presence—standing just inside a cave entrance, with a small fire behind her, gazing out toward the borderland beyond. Verity sensed, rather than heard, Primitive Woman’s whispered, Believe.

She said softly, to her and to Adam, “They’re real?”

“You saw them. You have a right to know what you’re getting into. If you don’t want this kind of life, you’re free to quit. No shame, no blame.”

“I’ve come this far. I can’t lose the knowledge I already have.”

“But you’re scared? You’ve got the gut twist?”

“Yes—“

“Good.” He tamped the tobacco down with his forefinger. “It’s the beginning of wisdom on how to stay alive in the Shadow-world.” He lit a match, touched it to the tobacco, and shoved the match into the stone bowl.

“People who work at night, like cops, paramedics, burglars, delivery people, even P.I.’s, they work on the edge, dealing with things they can’t always explain. Most of them don’t talk about it. You can figure out why by yourself. Sometimes they cross over. A lot of strange alliances in this town. Outside the office, around strangers, we never talk about it. You don’t know who’s listening, and we don’t need that kind of trouble. There’s groups and individuals who live between the surface and the Shadow-world. You know what a bandog is?”

Verity shook her head.

“An old term for a watchdog. A friend, Angie Pacheco, she runs a group called the Bandogs. They’re professional hunters who deal with paranormal pests when they pose a physical threat to humans.” Adam held the pipe at eye-level, as if the smoke, and reflections in the polished bowl could show him pictures.

Verity said, “Those ghouls...they’re monsters. But still just...reptiles. Right? Mutants. If they’re such a threat, and we’re smarter with better weapons, why haven’t we wiped them out?”

Adam said gently, “They’re not mindless brutes. Never make that mistake. They’re intelligent, they have a tight clan structure and they’ll fight to the death to protect their spawn. They’re also uglier than humans, they don’t live like we do, and sometimes, they kill us. What better reasons do people need to commit genocide? People who live in the Shadow-world keep the ghouls secret, because they’re useful.”

He puffed a few moments on his pipe.

“Humans, vampires and werewolves have their blood feuds, but they also have something in common. We all live in the same world. Day or night, it doesn’t matter. Physically, usually we look alike. We breathe the same air and share the same streets. Ghouls live in darkness, literally. And there are nastier things that are greater threats to humans than ghouls, which are usually their first victims. They don’t have the weapons to fight back, but Hunters do. In L.A., in the Shadow-world, humans and ghouls have an old truce. They warn us about mutants, cold spots and infestations. In exchange, the ghouls get fresh meat and salt.”

“Meat?” Verity asked. “Not--?”

“No. Humans, called Traders, they buy it from the back door at butcher shops and wholesale meat packers and give it to the Ghoul Elders. Ghouls also need salt. They can absorb it through their skin by submerging in sea water. Even in L.A., a hundred years ago, there were places they could do that without being seen. They also know how to harvest salt on land by evaporating sea water, but that takes time, and they can’t take the risk. Young spawn need extra salt, or they get something like human rickets. To stay healthy, ghouls only need about one meal a week, and they can survive without food for as long as a month. They’re immune to most human diseases, but sunlight kills them. When a ghoul dies, it putrefies immediately, except for the teeth and claws.” He stared out to sea.

“Ghouls are amphibious, so colonies always live near water, usually estuaries between fresh and salt. They prefer fish and wild game. They consider scavenging human food to be degrading and shameful, but they’ll do it if they have no choice. When L.A. still had farms and ranches, they’d steal livestock. Sixty years ago, ghouls still had three primary dens in the metroplex. Development forced them out. Now there’s only one main den, in the Santa Monica Mountains, in Tongva Canyon.

He took the pipe out of his mouth, rubbed his thumb and forefinger across the bowl, then looked at Verity.

“Sometimes young ghouls turn rogue, and kill humans for sport. When that happens, the elders in the Old Colony allow their own trackers to work with the Hunters to catch the rogue and turn it over, alive, to Doc Saurian and Mother Midnight, who tap the poor brute for its blood until it dies. Shadow-people risk getting hurt in ways that they can’t explain to regular doctors. In L.A., Doc Saurian and Mother Midnight run clinics that take care of the problems. One of their treatments is called Heilgift, ‘Healing-poison.’

He took his time knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling it, then struck a match, gazed for a moment at the flame, lit his pipe and shoved the match into the sand of the ashtray.

“It’s the collective name for compounds made from ghoul blood. One of them can heal most wounds from small cuts to burns and surgical incisions, with no adverse side effects. Other compounds treat skin diseases, blood disorders, kidney, digestive, heart and respiratory and other problems. There’s a compound that can permanently destroy benign tumors, and send some malignancies into remission, indefinitely. When the blood is stored correctly, it never goes bad. One quart makes enough Heilgift to last for years. But the blood can’t be synthesized. It must be taken from a living ghoul, which means supplies are always limited, so it’s only used on shadow people.” He paused. “And their immediate families, but not often. If they’re already being treated by doctors in the surface world, Heilgift in blood and tissue would raise too many questions.”

“How is it still secret? Big Pharma—”

“Yes.” He too the pipe out of his mouth, and twice waved it back and forth at shoulder level.“You’re a P.I. Part of your job is figuring out why something didn’t happen, or would not happen. You have just one fact to work with. In the Shadow-world, someone is always watching.”

Because the answer was logical, it came quickly. “Big Pharma is surface world.”

Adam nodded once, and with a brief wave of his right hand, encouraged her to continue.

“People from the Shadow-world can live, they can hide in the surface, but the surface can’t survive in the shadows. The only way Big Pharma would find out about Heilgift is if someone from the Shadow-world told them. But he’d need proof. And he’d never get the Heilgift out of a lab because someone is always watching. And if he’s from the Shadow-world, he knows what happens to traitors. And no matter how much money he got, he couldn’t hide.”

“Good. The way your mind works, and your instincts, you’re a natural for this work. But remember. It’s too easy to submerge. And people who go too deep in the Shadow-world never find their way back.”

For a moment he gazed over their heads, into the fog, as if seeing—no, Verity thought, confronting, something that she and Kit could not.

Adam continued, “Hunters heard rumors about an alliance between ghouls and The Ark. Tonight, you tied The Ark and the ghouls to Durel, VanWirth and Bayliss. Why would ghouls risk exposure by making alliance with people who don’t belong to the Shadow-world? We know what the ghouls are getting. What are they giving humans? Ghouls speak human languages from the surrounding cultures. The second languages for ghouls in the L.A. Basin are Spanish and English. The ghoul spoke French. Durel’s from New Orleans.” He paused and stared at Verity.

She hesitated, and then, in her mind, heard the voice of her hundred-year-old great-grandmother, still active and alert, all starch, lace and lilac sachet, dispensing wisdom with emphatic raps of her ebony cane on the polished wood floor: “Silly girl. Stand up straight. What have you learned? A life-lesson. Accept it and never be so foolish again. Sois sage! Be wise!”

Verity thought, If Adam fires me...what could I tell Kit...I’ll worry about that later. “I know something about The Ark.” She paused. “And ghouls. Back home. Louisiana. But a connection...I can’t be sure...”

Adam said, “Tea? Coffee?”

“Ah, tea?” said Verity, caught by surprise. “Yes, please.”

“Green or black?”

“Green,” said Verity. “Lots of sugar.”

Adam said, “Kit?”

“Thanks, but nothing for me.”

Adam put the pipe in the stone bowl, went into the cabin and closed the door.

Kit leaned towards her, smiling. “All right, muffin, let’s have a dose of straight talk.”

“Thelma Ritter. Pickup on South Street?”

“Aces, sweetheart. So why didn’t you tell me?”

Verity shrugged.

“Not a squealer, huh? Okay, we’ll wait for the boss. Then you can sing like Saturday night.”

Adam returned with two white china mugs of tea. He handed one to Verity, and put the other on the table beside his chair. “I’m listening.”

“When I was fifteen, I had some friends I’d grown up with. It was summer, and we were...not bored, exactly. But looking for something.” She paused, searching for the right way to explain what happened a lifetime ago.

He gestured with his pipe. ”Go on.”

“Well…it was vague. What does anyone want at fifteen? To have what we thought we needed. To be more than we were. We’d been pushed around by cliques and bullies. We called ourselves The Archée. In French alchemy, it means Central Fire and The Principle of Life. Yeah, I know. But we were geeks. We loved books, we read a lot, and we wanted to be different. Reading, I mean real books, that made us different. We spooked around in cemeteries and old houses, trying to conjure ghosts. It was fun. Nobody got hurt. We brought in more friends. Then somebody, I don’t remember who, brought in a guy named Paul LaBasse. He was smart, he had charisma, and suddenly we had a leader. That’s when it started to get...intense. Perverse. LaBasse and I had grown up in the same neighborhood, but no one knew him or his family, not really. He’d been home-schooled, and spent a lot of time in Europe. He was also Damien Durel’s first cousin. After a year, I quit. It wasn’t fun anymore. The Archée morphed into a cult and moved into a warehouse near Lake Pontchartrain. All our friends dropped out, except Jolie.”

Kit asked, “You didn’t talk to her again?”

“No.”

“Wasn’t her family worried?”

“Panicked. After she told them she wasn’t ever coming home, the family hired de-programmers, but they couldn’t get near the place. When she turned eighteen, legally an adult, the family gave up and disowned her. They’re rich, political, conservative and she’d become a liability.”

“What sent you to the bayou?”

She told them about the phone calls, the rescue plans, the texts and Bayou Mauvais, but didn’t mention The Stranger. She didn’t have the words, or the desire, to explain an encounter so intensely personal.

“Just before I moved to L.A., I heard that Damien’s family was having a reunion party on Lake Pontchartrain. A big houseboat. He hadn’t been invited. He and his people had never gotten along. There was an accident, a fire and explosion. No survivors. Damien inherited money from both sides. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before--”

“I understand. I also knew before the interview that you’d belonged to the Archée.”

“Say...what? How?”

“Verity, I run a P.I. agency. I do background checks on everyone who applies for a job. You were mentioned in a few police reports, but only as a potential witness who dropped out before the cult turned lethal. Your family has political influence. Your grandfather, Judge Bastion, made sure you were never interviewed by the cops or the media.”

“I had no idea...I don’t know what to say--is that why you hired me?”

“No. On the other hand, yes. The other applicants had more P.I. experience. But you also had qualifications. You weren’t a stranger in the office, and we like you. The others were older, not as willing to learn and adapt. Did I hire you because you belonged to the Archée? I needed your experience, like I need your familiarity with Hollywood. That’s why I sent you to the party. You quit the Archée before it became The Ark. But you still know it better than anyone else, except the leaders. I also wanted to see your reaction when I mentioned it. You should have told me. I know you had reasons for keeping quiet. But if you hadn’t said anything tonight, I would have fired you because you couldn’t be trusted to share vital information when it conflicted with your personal feelings. I also have a sixth-sense for knowing who can deal with the Shadow-world. The other applicants, they couldn’t. I knew you could,”

“We know Bayliss, VanWirth and Durel are connected to the cult and the ghouls. But how? What’s the plan? We’ve got no evidence, nothing we could take to the cops, the D.A. or a court of law. This belongs in the Shadow-World. So we investigate. Get the proof. Pass it on to the right people. Kit, how’s your case load?”

“I finished the Benedetto report. It’ll be on your desk tomorrow. On the Danvers case, I found the mother’s will with the codicil at the county courthouse. I also got a copy of the third wife’s birth certificate. Case should be wrapped up at the beginning of next week.”

“Good. I can’t spare Chance or Sam, their case load is too heavy. Kit, after you clear your desk, talk to the usual--”

The boat rocked, as if pushed by a slow heavy swell.

Adam put his cup on the table, got up and lifted a steel-tipped harpoon out of a rack on the wall near the cabin door. Feet slightly apart, he held the harpoon in both hands, angled towards the water. Kit and Verity joined him.

Verity glanced over the stern, and caught her breath. A patch of gator-shaped darkness sank abruptly, leaving small whirlpools. “Adam--”

“I saw it.” He bent over the stern, sniffed the air, then straightened. “No good. Salt water masks the ghoul-stink. At the party, are you sure no one recognized you?”

“Positive.”

“Did either of you tell anyone you were coming here?”

“No,” said Kit.

“I’ve never heard of ghouls in this channel. They have to be rogues, but the elders in Tongva Canyon always tell the Hunters about the ones who’ve gone feral. They always hide near the L.A. River and the harbor. Lot’s of food to scavenge, since the Traders won’t deal with them. They must have come past Rocky Point. Even for ghouls that’s a brutal swim. They aren’t deep-water swimmers. They usually stay close to shore, inside the eight-fathom line. They’d have no reason to come prowling around the marina.” He paused, then added softly, “And why this boat?”

“They?” Said Verity. “I thought there was just one.”

“Ghouls are pack hunters. See one, you know there’s more. How do you feel”

“Scared. Confused.”

“You can quit now--”

“No. I’m in. Just tell me what to do.”

“Kit, tomorrow morning, introduce Verity to Mr. Bartelby and our friends at the Arcane Library. The first visit, it would be less of a shock if she didn’t go alone. Show her how the library works. Then your time is your own, but stay close. Verity, pull anything you find on human-ghoul cults and alliances, and look for any connection to The Ark. It might be older than we think.”

Kit said hesitantly, “Adam, who’s the client? Who’s paying?”

He tapped his pipe ashes into the stone bowl, and placed the pipe in the rack. “I am. It’s my case.”

He rubbed his right hand over his mouth. A drop of sweat rolled down his right temple. He stood up, one hand flat on the table. “It’s been a long day.” He nodded once, went inside the cabin and closed the door. The cabin lights went out.

Kit stared at the door, then put his arm around Verity’s shoulders. They left the boat.

He said, “I’m sorry I got you into this”

“I’m not. No worries. We’ll be okay.”

He smiled. “Music swells. Sun breaks through clouds. ‘We keep a-comin’. We’re the people that live. They can’t wipe us out.”

Verity finished softly, “They can’t lick us. And we’ll go on forever, Pa, ‘cause we’re the people.”

EXERPT: COMPENDIUM OF THE SHADOW WORLD: 3rd Edition, 1947

Rackers

From the Low German Rek, Rekke, to rack. Reke, referring to plants, to shoot up quickly.

To rule, govern, to cover in earth or ashes.

A confederation organized in the early 8th-century in the borderland between Italy, Croatia and Slovenia. They originally called themselves Kresniks after the first great hero of the Slovenes; a magician, demigod and monster-slayer later identified with Saint George. In the Balkans, Kresniks became professional hunters of heretics, werewolves, Sanguis*, witches and other “creatures of darkness.”

Their enforcers were called White Wolves, named for the white wolves in Balkan folklore who prowled through cemeteries hunting and killing vampires. There is also evidence that in 733 A.D., Pope Hadrian I gave his covert blessing to an unofficial religious order which may have been called in ‘kitchen Latin’, Ecclesia Redemptii ab Kresnik Evangelista (Redeemed Church of Kresnik, Evangelist), which vanished at the end of the 17th-century.

In 1214, after Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II and Pope Innocent III allowed King Ottokar I to appoint the Kresnik Master, Konrad von Marburg as Chief Inquisitor for the Kingdom of Bohemia, Kresniks acquired another name, Rackers.

Rackers were largely indifferent to national boundaries, ethnicity and, to an extent remarkable in medieval Europe, religion and gender. Only The Cause mattered. It was among their greatest strengths. Leadership was hereditary, with descent reckoned in both the male and female lines. By the mid-13th century, Racker family dynasties existed in every European country.

During the 18th-century, during the political, religious and scientific Enlightenment, the interlocking system of family dynasties--dependent on the absolute power of church and state--gradually died out.

However, many Racker families survived, preserving contacts with relatives in other countries. A few private libraries and archives, the largest in London, Paris and Rome, as well as monastery libraries in Southern Germany and Hungary, also survived virtually intact, preserving books, documents and artifacts dating back to the dark ages.

________________________________________________________________

*Sanguis. Latin: “Blood Kin”. Vampires.

CHAPTER 5

(November 1)

Verity stared at the ghoul, and the ghoul stared back, crouched and snarling, protectively clutching one of its infants . From scales and fangs to the wiry body’s posture and musculature, the detail was incredible. The artist must have drawn them from life.

She touched the ivory-colored page. It felt disturbingly smooth. When she closed the book and tilted it toward the table lamp, the rough dark grey cover revealed a faint pattern of scales. According to the Arcane Library’s card catalogue, the cover and pages of this 1642 edition of L’Historie de l’Inquisition et de la Guerre Contre les Creatures de la Nuit, were tanned ghoul skin and the bindings, ghoul sinew.

And yet the author, French Grand Inquisitor Charles-Phillipe Grisson, described ghouls with surprising objectivity, even sympathy. The contradictions encompassed a complex relationship formed when humans and ghouls first became aware of each other, deep in the fog of prehistory.

The first known images of savage battles between humans and ghouls were painted on the walls of an 8000-year-old temple at Catal Hyuk in Anatolia. Verity suspected the first skirmishes in the war may have occurred at the end of the Ice Age when humans in Europe were abandoning free-roaming hunter-gatherer societies for agriculture and settled villages. A human population explosion combined with sudden and drastic climate change might have forced humans and ghouls to compete for increasingly scarce natural resources.