Date: October 12, 1951

  They didn’t build the SFPD’s magi-tech surveillance vehicle for comfort.

  The compact truck—affectionately dubbed Maggy by the guys in the motor pool—barely fit two cramped workstations and a utilitarian bench seat. Yet, somehow Terrance Gordon, built like a frog with a bulbous middle and spindly limbs, fit the space as if it had been custom-made for him.

  “Did you hear they might integrate dwimmers and humans in the same schools?” he asked, using the stainless-steel monitoring console as a makeshift mirror to check the height of his mousy brown pompadour.

  His hairline would’ve receded years ago if not for regular doses of Rex-All’s Luster and Shine Regrowth Tincture. The cheaper alternative to the Cloud Nine brand left his hair limp as wet noodles, but it was half the price, damn it.

  Beside him, Amos Sadie glanced up from the device he was working on.

  “Is that such a big deal?” he asked, adjusting his glasses. In Maggy’s tight confines, it looked like someone had crammed a six-foot scarecrow into a four-foot crate.

  Gordon stared at his partner like he’d grown a second head.

  “Of course it’s a big deal!”

  “You don’t even have kids, Terry.”

  “Yeah, but someday I might, Amos. And I sure as all the hells don’t want some liberal nut job teaching my future offspring that dwimmers are the same as them! What if some dirty little dwimlet tries to get into my daughter’s pants? That’s worse than a nigger doing it!”

  “Mythics,” Sadie said, emphasizing the word, “are people too, Terry.”

  Gordon chuckled. “Right. Sure, Amos. You’re as bad as those bleeding-heart lefties in Washington.” He turned to the third man in the truck. “You’ve got kids, right, Al? Where do you stand on all this?”

  Seated on the bench along the truck’s side, Inspector Alfred Dunn knew better than to engage in a debate with the squabbling magi-tech specialists and didn’t look up from his newspaper.

  Gordon’s jowls tightened, but as Dunn hoped, he let it go.

  Instead, he muttered under his breath, “How they ever let dwimmers mix with civilized humans, I’ll never know. I sure as hell didn’t vote for it.”

  Sadie set down the device and turned to Gordon. “Where would you have them go, Terry?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Amos,” Gordon said. “Anywhere’s better than here. How about back under the rocks they crawled from?”

  Before Sadie could respond, the partition to the driver’s cab slid open, revealing a large half-orc in police blues. Small tusks jutted from his lower jaw, and the glare he directed at Gordon made it clear he’d overheard every word.

  “Inspector,” said the cop, his voice a low rumble. “He’s coming.”

  Dunn folded his paper and checked his watch.

  “Good. Let’s get ready to move.”

  He pushed open the rear doors, and a blast of fog-chilled air swept into the truck.

  Gordon checked his own watch.

  “Five past? He’s late.”

  Sadie rolled his eyes.

  “The meeting’s set for fifteen past.”

  “Yeah, well, I was always taught if you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late.”

  “The man’s record speaks for itself, Terry.”

  “Pff,” Gordon scoffed. “He’s a crackpot, and you know it, Amos. Why else would he cozy up to those fish freaks? Makes you wonder where his allegiances really lie. And who in their right mind goes about calling themselves Whiskey?”

  Ignoring the bickering duo, Dunn peered into the mist. Amber streetlights cast long shadows that danced in the gloom like living things. And through the fog, sauntering as if it were his natural element, emerged a man.

  Kinichiro “Whiskey” Mononobe made for the truck’s open doors.

  With rugged, handsome features, he looked to be in his early to mid-thirties. At an even six feet, he stood taller than most Japanese men, and his sharp gray suit—complete with matching vest, white shirt, and black tie—fit flawlessly.

  He tipped his fedora as he reached the door, periwinkle eyes sweeping across each face inside.

  “Gentlemen,” he said without the faintest hint of an accent. “Apologies for the delay. I would’ve been here sooner, but I hit a snag crawling out from under my rock.”

  The truck fell silent. Only the soft hum of magi-tech equipment and the distant murmur of city traffic filtered through the fog, and Whiskey had to fight back a grin as he savored the men’s flabbergasted expressions.

  From deep within his mind, Passenger chuckled.

  “Perfect,” it said. “Next, tell Gordon you’re enrolling in his daughter’s school.”

  Dunn smiled as he extended a hand. “Good to see you, Whiskey.”

  Whiskey took it and eased onto the seat beside him.

  The inspector knocked on the partition, and the truck lurched into motion.

  “Everything set?”

  Whiskey nodded. “Bernie needs this deal if he wants a seat on the council, so he’ll get us in to see Gilgamesh. But it’ll be up to you to sell the rest of the story.”

  Dunn grinned. “No problem. And once Gilgamesh takes the bait, we’ll reel him in.”

  Passenger groaned. “Fish puns?”

  “You use puns all the time,” Whiskey thought.

  “Sure,” Passenger sniffed, “but I’m good at it.”

  Sadie turned, pulling Whiskey from his internal exchange as he held up a belt.

  “All right, Mr. Mononobe. Let’s get you situated. I’ll need one of your shoes and your belt for the trackers, please.”

  Whiskey raised a hand. “I’m sorry, Officer Sadie. No tech this time.”

  Sadie blinked, and Gordon’s chair squealed as he wrenched himself around.

  “N-no?” asked the former.

  “Why the hells not?” blurted the latter.

  Whiskey answered both with a small shrug. “Gilgamesh is too thorough.”

  Gordon snorted. “Too thorough? He’s a damned fish!”

  Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Whiskey nodded. “The merrow may have fallen on hard times, but make no mistake—if Gilgamesh suspects we’re not who we claim to be, we’re dead.”

  “And without these devices,” Sadie said, frowning, “you’d be going in without a safety net. I strongly recommend—”

  Gordon rounded on Dunn. “Are you seriously going to take the side of some hired goon over us, Al?”

  Whiskey sighed, and also turned to Dunn.

  “Inspector,” he said, “while the FBI assigned me to this case, don’t think for a moment I won’t walk away if you insist on doing something against my better judgment.”

  Dunn studied him for a beat, then exhaled and unbuckled his own belt. “Whiskey’s advice got us this far. We’re not deviating now.”

  Gordon’s cheeks flushed the color of a bruised tomato, but before he could say more, the truck eased to a stop, and the partition slid open.

  “We’re here, Inspector.”

  Dunn buckled his new, mundane belt and opened the door. “You can put it in your report, Terry.”

  “Count on it,” Gordon said, shooting Whiskey a glare as he followed Dunn out of the truck.

  “Hmm…” Passenger mused.

  “What is it?” Whiskey thought.

  “It was quick, but I thought I felt Gordon pulse something. Might’ve been satisfaction, though I’m not sure. Either way, the cretin’s a problem. It’d be so much easier if you’d—”

  “No,” Whiskey cut in. “He’s not The Way.”

  “Ah, yes,” Passenger sighed. “Of course. How silly of me to not consider The Way.”

  The truck pulled away, leaving them alone in the heavy mist.

  Whiskey scanned the fog-shrouded landscape. Visibility stretched about thirty feet, edges blurred, details softened into vague suggestion, but it took little to see Bayview and Hunters Point were suffering.

  The Black and Mythic populations of these neighborhoods bore the weight of systemic violence and slow decay. Survival in such an environment meant growing harder, wilder.

  Outside the rule of law.

  They followed the rhythmic thump of bop music down Rankin Street. The salty tang of the bay hung thick in the air. A faint fishy scent threaded through it, growing stronger as they neared the small dock where Bayside Bernie’s sat moored.

  The bar—an old riverboat converted into a music hall—rocked with the pulse of the crowd inside.

  At the gangplank, half-troll bouncers kept watch over a line of irritable patrons. Whiskey led Dunn straight to the front.

  One bouncer, recognition flickering in his eyes, gave them a cursory pat-down, then waved them through.

  Inside, the band played hard. The packed dance floor swirled in chaotic motion. Bodies pressed close, sweat mingling with smoke and sound. The energy was a living echo of the fog they’d stepped out of, and a rare, genuine smile tugged at Whiskey’s lips as more than a hundred auras, thick with vulnerability, avarice, and lust, washed over him like a cool breeze on a perfect summer day.

  “Ahhh,” Passenger said. “That’s better.”

  Tempting as it was to linger, Whiskey drew a steadying breath and focused. The sensory storm dulled, pushed to the background.

  Passenger made a disappointed sound. “You can be such a killjoy sometimes. You know that?”

  Whiskey ignored the comment and scanned the crowd, spotting a man seated alone at the crowded bar.

  Even if he hadn’t known who to look for, Bernard “Bernie” Sattari would’ve been hard to miss. The pumpkin-orange shirt, tailored gray suit, and impeccably groomed beard couldn’t hide the bulging eyes, sagging potbelly, or the glistening sheen of sweat coating his skin. Grayish eyes rolled beneath purplish lids as Whiskey approached, and a too-wide grin split Bernie’s enormous face.

  “Codgee!” he crooned.

  Whiskey forced a polite smile and leaned down to return the embrace. Bernie had meant to say Kaji, Whiskey’s alias, but his accent and phlegmy speech twisted the word.

  “Good evening, Mr. Sattari.”

  “You’re early,” Bernie said, wagging a finger in his face. “As always.”

  Resisting the urge to snap the merrow’s chubby digit clean off, Whiskey plastered a smile on his lips and gestured to Dunn. “This is Mr. Fats. He’ll be representing his employer tonight.”

  Bernie’s bulging gaze slid over Dunn.

  “Hmm. Welcome to my glub, Mr. Fatz.”

  Dunn inclined his head. “How do you do, Mr. Sattari?”

  Bernie took a noisy slurp from his drink and grinned, revealing crooked, yellow teeth.

  “I do well, Mr. Fatz. And you…” He swept a hand toward the pulsing crowd. “You have a taste for the eggsclusive, yes? Why else would you gum to me?”

  Right on cue, the band launched into Black Night by Charlie Brown. Bernie chuckled at his own joke.

  Dunn checked his watch dismissively.

  “Listen, Mr. Sattari. My employer is not a patient man. He’s prepared to compensate you, but I’m here to ensure you’re not wasting his time. Is that clear?”

  Bernie’s grin faded. He looked at Whiskey, who shrugged.

  “Now,” Dunn continued, “it’s my understanding that nothing happens with the Asnan Hada without your uncle and the council’s approval. I’d like to speak with him. Immediately.”

  Bernie’s glare sharpened, but Dunn met it with unshaken indifference.

  After a tense beat, Bernie made a wet, puckering sound before downing the rest of his drink in one final, noisy gulp.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Very well, Mr. Fatz. Follow me.”

  “Well, well, well,” Passenger mused. “Looks like the inspector understands the number one rule.”

  “Oh?” Whiskey thought, falling in behind Dunn. “And what’s that?”

  “There’s always a bigger fish. Which by the way, is how you properly use a fish pun.”

  Bernie led them to a guarded door flanked by two hulking half-trolls.

  Once out of the club’s line of sight, he exhaled, and his skin began to ripple, shifting from pale flesh to slick, opalescent green.

  With a sickening squelch, his eyes bulged to the size of baseballs, then slid down the sides of his face. His jaw unhinged and stretched, warping into something between a piranha and a toad.

  His body spasmed, hunched and quivering, as fin-like protrusions fanned out where his hair had been. Then, with a final shudder, gills flared behind his ears, spraying mucous across the hallway as the transformation completed.

  “Out of my way,” the merrow rasped, waving webbed fingers at the guards.

  They stepped aside, but when Whiskey followed, a thick arm blocked his path.

  “Wait here.”

  The merrow vanished through the door, leaving the guards as silent sentries.

  Whiskey leaned against the wall and exchanged a brief glance with Dunn. The inspector had played his part well. Now it was Bernie’s move.

  “Alright, Passenger,” he thought, tipping his hat just enough to shadow his eyes. “Let’s listen.”

  And he triggered his second Gift. The Gift of Vigilance.

  His periwinkle eyes darkened to indigo as his senses sharpened, a brief wave of vertigo accompanying the sudden expansion of his awareness.

  Inside the club, Sixty Minute Man by Billy Ward and the Dominoes kicked on, but the music faded into background haze.

  Vigilance filtered out everything but what he chose to hear.

  At first, the voices were muffled, like listening through a thick pillow, but as Whiskey focused, Bernie’s voice began to clarify.

  “Uncle, where is council? My guests are here, and they expect—”

  A sharp slap cut him off, followed by a yelp and a heavy thud.

  “I have sent council away,” said Gilgamesh, war chief of the Asnan Hada Merrow.

  Where Bernie’s tone always carried a wet, slurred sluggishness, Gilgamesh’s voice rolled like the deep ocean.

  “They need not concern themselves with such trivial matters.”

  Whiskey caught the flicker of restrained anger pulsing through Bernie’s response.

  “T-trivial matters? My lord, alliance I brokered with LME, filth though they may be, has brought much-needed funds to our coffers. Their channels have tripled our trafficking reach, and Bliss supply is second to—”

  “And yet you betray that very alliance by arranging this meeting?” Gilgamesh interrupted. “Where is your sense of honor, nephew?”

  “I act only in glan’s best interest,” Bernie protested.

  Gilgamesh scoffed. “You act as you always have—selfishly.”

  “Uncle, please! There’s almost no Bliss left in entire city. One deal and we’ll have enough to restore the glan’s prominence. If we control product, we control price. The council understands this. That’s why they voted to continue—”

  “And Schultz delivered freeze order personally, did he not?” Gilgamesh said, speaking over him. “Not to mention Angel of Death is in city. Are you so dim you can’t see what that means?”

  After a beat of hesitation passed, Bernie replied, “I do not fear them.”

  “Then you’re twice the fool I took you for. Politics, cops, business—they’re everywhere. I should send Schultz product you stole along with your empty head.”

  “The council…”

  “To the depths with council,” Gilgamesh snarled. “As war chief, clan’s safety is my only priority. And I will protect it, even from the council itself, if I must!”

  A stunned silence followed, likely Gilgamesh realizing what he’d just admitted in front of witnesses.

  Whiskey could practically hear Bernie purr with satisfaction.

  “My apologies, my lord,” he said smoothly. “I meant no disrespect. While there’s no denying your authority as war chief, you do not speak for glan. That, as these fine warriors bearing witness can attest, lies with council.”

  He paused, no doubt wearing a gloating smile.

  “And though you may have misspoken—understandable, given your advancing age—war chief’s duty is not merely to provide safety, but to serve the glan’s will. And you—whose honor is beyond reproach—would never dream of undermining that. Right, Ungle?”

  Silence stretched long enough that Whiskey briefly feared he’d lost the connection.

  Then Gilgamesh sighed.

  “Bring them in,” he said.

  Whiskey blinked, releasing Vigilance. The world tilted as his heightened senses collapsed back to their baseline. He wiped sweat from his brow, steadying himself against the momentary dizziness.

  “We’re on,” he murmured to Dunn.

  The inspector drew a breath and gave a single nod.

  Now came the hard part.

  A moment later, Bernie returned. “This way, my friends.”

  As Whiskey stepped into the room, he was greeted by the glowing barrel of an enhanced Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. Its wielder, a hunched, leathery merrow, kept it trained on him while Bernie frisked him and Dunn again. Finding nothing, Bernie offered both men a serrated smile and nodded.

  “Follow me.”

  The room beyond was unnaturally cold. Plumes of steamy breath escaped the mouths of Whiskey and Dunn with every exhale. Heavy curtains choked the windows, sealing in the damp chill. Black mold crept along the walls, thick with the stench of rot. Dim yellow sconces cast long, distorted shadows, and dusty sheets draped the furniture, giving the space a haunted, cavernous feel.

  Bernie crossed the room and took his place behind Gilgamesh.

  The merrow war chief sat at the room’s only uncovered table, flanked by two guards. To say he resembled his nephew was like saying a crawfish resembled a lobster. The similarity was there, but everything about Gilgamesh was bigger. Darker. More dangerous. His frame was thick with muscle. His presence radiated power, dominance, and control.

  “Kaji Akura,” he said, dark eyes locking onto Whiskey. “You bring man who seeks our business?” He lifted a brick of white powder, lips curling into something that might’ve been a smile. “You want what we have, yes? Blissss…”

  Whiskey gave a respectful nod and stepped forward.

  “Gilgamesh, Lord of the Depths, Slayer of Bahram the Mighty, Warlord of the Asnan Hada Clan, it is my honor to present the venerable Mr. Fats, empowered to negotiate purchase on behalf of his employer.”

  Dunn stepped forward. “Good evening, Gilgamesh. You’re correct. My employer is very interested in doing business.” He glanced around. “If you’ll convene the council, we can—”

  Gilgamesh cut him off with a dismissive wave of his clawed hand.

  “Sweep them.”

  Dunn stiffened. “Again? They’ve already searched us twice.”

  Gilgamesh’s eyes locked onto him like twin cannons.

  “Then you not mind a third time, human.”

  “Now hold on a minute. If you think—”

  Gilgamesh slammed a fist onto the arm of his chair. The sound of wood splitting echoed through the room.

  “No,” he said, low and dangerous.

  The merrow with the shotgun stepped forward.

  “You listen. I am Gilgamesh, overseer of Asnan Hada, protector of the council. If you wish to even breathe their hallowed air, then you will submit to my security protocols. Do you understand?”

  For a moment, the only sound was the muffled pulse of bop music bleeding in from the dance hall. The vein in Dunn’s temple twitched as he glared at the merrow. Then, after a beat, he nodded in acquiescence.

  Gilgamesh’s grin widened.

  “Good.”

  A merrow holding a device shaped like a magnifying glass etched with glowing green runes stepped toward Whiskey. He raised his arms, allowing it to pass the device over him.

  “Oh dear,” Passenger tutted. “Dunn’s aura control slipped.”

  Whiskey glanced at Dunn.

  Normally, SFPD’s aura defense training made their officers tough to read. But to someone like Whiskey—as attuned to emotional energy as he was to breathing—Dunn might as well have been screaming. Outwardly, the inspector looked composed. Inwardly, he was on the verge of panic.

  The merrow finished scanning Whiskey and nodded to Gilgamesh. The war chief returned the gesture, and the merrow turned toward the inspector.

  “There are several reasons he could be nervous,” Whiskey thought.

  “Sure,” Passenger replied. “And how many of those are good? My guess, not that it matters, but I’d be remiss not to point out yet another instance where I’m right, is Gordon talked him into planting another tracker. Which means you’ve got maybe seconds before this place turns into a kill box.”

  Whiskey frowned. “You don’t know that.”

  Passenger sighed. “Look at Gilgamesh, Kinichiro.” The war chief’s body was taut, coiled like a predator ready to strike. “He might not have aura senses, but he’s caught Dunn’s hesitation all the same. He smells blood in the water. It sniffed imperiously, obviously pleased with itself. Which, by the way, is still a better pun than that soon-to-be dead man made earlier.”

  Whiskey’s stomach tightened. Passenger was right.

  He needed to act. Now.

  With a quiet sigh, he triggered his first Gift—the Gift of Passion—and unleashed his will on both Gilgamesh and Bernie.

  In an instant, the full strength of Whiskey’s power wrapped the two merrow in an invisible web of pure aura. Yet for all its force, his will remained subtle, as delicate as a kitsune’s smile. Outwardly, neither reacted, but the moment it touched them he felt Bernie’s defenses crumple, his will shattering on contact.

  Gilgamesh, unsurprisingly, held firm. Decades of unshakable authority fortified him, his presence rigid and immovable.

  Whiskey pivoted immediately, splintering the assault. Threads of will unfurled like a pack of hunting wolves, probing, pressing, herding the war chief’s defenses toward a single exploitable weakness.

  “Fear won’t work,” Passenger noted. “The merrow’s obviously brave.”

  “Right,” Whiskey thought. “And rage and lust are too volatile for what I need.”

  “That leaves old reliable.”

  A faint smile tugged at Whiskey’s lips.

  “Greed.”

  The effort felt like juggling sand, his mind stretched to its limits, but he held steady. His eyes darkened to violet as he forced Passion inward, thin tendrils burrowing like weed roots through the microcracks in the war chief’s protections.

  Then he was inside, and his smile twitched as insight struck.

  Gilgamesh’s greed wasn’t merely for material wealth—though that was there. No, it ran deeper. A hunger for power. Dominion. Control.

  He could work with that.

  Whiskey tightened his grip on the emotion, pushing Passion deeper, shaping it with care.

  “Got them,” Passenger purred, just as the rush hit.

  Whiskey resisted the urge to close his eyes and savor it. Overpowering another’s will wasn’t just satisfying; it was a high like no other. It felt right. And unlike drugs or any other weakness, this high made him strong. Gilgamesh’s hold over the clan depended on maintaining the wealth Bernie and the council so desperately prized.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked, gently twisting Gilgamesh’s greed until it aligned with his own aims. “Don’t we have business to conduct? Money to make for the clan?”

  The shift was subtle, but unmistakable.

  “Yes,” Bernie said, his eyes glassy.

  “Perhaps you’re right…” Gilgamesh murmured, his posture beginning to ease. “Let’s…”

  Then the device buzzed and flared red as it passed over Dunn’s shoe.

  Gilgamesh blinked at the scanner once. Then his eyes sharpened, and fury surged to the surface, snapping Whiskey’s connection like a taut wire under strain.

  Whiskey staggered as thaumaturgic whiplash slammed into his chest like a hammer blow.

  “Correction,” Passenger said, hissing in pain. “Had them.”

  Bernie reeled, disoriented, but Gilgamesh rose to his full height.

  “Despicable human,” he began. “I’ll…”

  Whiskey didn’t wait. Teeth gritted in a rictus smile, he triggered his third Gift, the Gift of Ambition.

  And moved.

  He lunged at the shotgun-wielding merrow with the speed of striking cobra. His boot slammed into the creature’s knee with a wet, splintering crunch. The blast from the gun missed his head by inches, concussive force tearing the air.

  Whiskey recoiled, twisted the shotgun free, bit back the pain, and chambered a fresh round. Infusing the weapon with anima, he leveled it at Gilgamesh.

  “You dare—” the war chief began.

  Whiskey stepped forward and drove the butt of the shotgun into Gilgamesh’s face.

  Blood sprayed. The merrow collapsed with a stunned squawk. Adrenaline tore through Whiskey like acid, but he kept his voice cool.

  “If anyone moves, I redecorate this room in war chief red. Understood?”

  Everyone froze.

  From the dance hall, How Many More Years drifted through the walls, merging with the groans of the downed merrow curled on the floor.

  “Hmm… well,” Passenger said. “This is a mess. I recommend a strategic withdrawal.”

  Whiskey swept the room. Gilgamesh was bleeding, and tension was poised to snap.

  “Agreed. Time to go.”

  What about Dunn?

  Whiskey’s eyes locked on the inspector. The man stood trembling, his aura pulsing with fear and self-doubt.

  The sight made him feel…

  He wasn’t sure.

  If Dunn had just listened, they’d have had a deal. A clean exit. A secured meeting place. Instead, he’d ruined it.

  Yet, he still hesitated.

  “Leaving him is not The Way.”

  Passenger pulsed an eye-roll. “Yeah,” it said. “Lucky for him.”

  Whiskey nodded.

  “Mr. Fats,” he began, “I believe it’s time to—”

  He was cut off as two sets of doors burst open.

  The half-troll bouncers charged in from the entrance they’d just used, clubs raised, while behind Gilgamesh, a hidden panel slid open and two more merrow stepped out, guns drawn.

  “Wait—” Passenger started, but Whiskey was already turning, instinctively angling the shotgun away from Gilgamesh.

  Pain lanced through his leg. He staggered, eyes dropping to the merrow he’d floored earlier. The sneaky fish-man, claws now slick with blood, had slashed the back of his leg.

  The moment was all Gilgamesh needed. “Kill them!” he roared.

  The room exploded into chaos.

  Whiskey triggered Vigilance and Ambition at once. The world slowed. Every detail sharpened into crystal clarity as his Gifts forced his perception of time into syrupy, deliberate motion.

  He shifted his weight and drove his boot into the skull of the merrow clawing at his leg. Pain flared in his calf as the impact jolted through him, but the creature shrieked and reeled away.

  Gritting his teeth, he chambered a round, channeled anima through the weapon, and fired.

  Runes along the barrel flared violet as the gun roared, unleashing a blast of heat and light. When the smoke cleared, the merrow was gone. Just a charred stain remained.

  Thaumaturgic whiplash clamped over him like a vice, stealing his breath, but Passenger screamed in his mind, wild and urgent.

  “What are you waiting for? Get Gilgamesh!”

  Whiskey swung the barrel toward the war chief, but whiplash caused his vision to blur, forcing him to release Ambition. The world snapped back to full speed, and in that instant, Gilgamesh vanished behind furniture.

  “Too slow. Dodge left—now!”

  Whiskey dove. Bullets shredded the air behind him. He hit the floor hard and rolled behind an overturned table, chest heaving.

  Across the room, a merrow lunged for Dunn.

  The inspector’s eyes flared silver, and he flung out his arms toward the creature. Wind shrieked as a hurricane-force gale tore through the hall, flinging chairs, tables, and the attacker backward.

  It crashed into the wall with a wet, snapping sound, and didn’t get up.

  “All exits blocked,” Passenger reported, merrily. “You’ve got six seconds before they flank you. Incoming—seven o’clock, low. Turn now!”

  Whiskey spun. Another merrow lunged from the shadows, claws bared, but he intercepted it with the business end of the shotgun and pulled the trigger. At point-blank range, its head turned to mist.

  He chambered another round just as Dunn’s wind attack faltered. Another merrow lay crumpled on the floor, but the inspector was staggering, obviously drained. Then the one with the scanner broke cover behind him.

  Whiskey raised the shotgun, but had to duck as a half-troll bouncer swung a heavy club at his head.

  As he twisted away, he glimpsed the merrow strike Dunn, and the man dropped.

  Cursing, Whiskey dove inside the bouncer’s next swing and slammed the shotgun stock into its chin. It reeled long enough for Whiskey to spot Dunn’s limp form being dragged away.

  “I need a shot!”

  “Why bother? With them distracted, you could—”

  “Passenger!”

  “Fine. Three o’clock. Three feet up. It’s on top of him.”

  Whiskey dropped to one knee and fired. Purple flame tore through wood and bone, and the merrow pinning Dunn crumpled to the floor.

  The whiplash punched the air from his lungs, and his limbs went leaden, but he forced himself upright.

  Movement flickered at the edge of his vision, but it was only Bernie fleeing toward the exit, the last bouncer dragging his injured comrade behind.

  “They’re gone,” Passenger said. “But he’s not.”

  Whiskey turned.

  Gilgamesh stood behind Dunn’s body, his claws poised against the man’s throat.

  “Move,” the war chief said, “and I tear your friend’s head off.”

  “Oh, dear,” Passenger said, its chuckle twisting into a low growl. “Whatever will you do?”

  Whiskey’s finger hovered over the trigger. But he hesitated.

  The merrow saw it and grinned.

  “Good. Drop the gun.”

  “What are you doing?” Passenger nearly screamed. “Shoot them both.”

  “Quiet,” Whiskey thought, glaring at Gilgamesh.

  “You’re lightheaded, woozy, running low on anima, and I know you feel the blood seeping through your pant leg," Passenger pressed. "Unless you—”

  “I said, quiet!” Whiskey commanded.

  He knew Passenger was right.

  The smart move was to capitalize on Gilgamesh’s mistake and cut them both down with the Remington. But then he looked at Dunn.

  He could feel the man’s terror. See his pain.

  And it made him feel…

  He didn’t know.

  “I must follow The Way.”

  He exhaled, clicked the safety, and tossed the shotgun aside.

  Raising his hands, he said, “You win. Let him go.”

  Gilgamesh sneered. “I think not.”

  And tore Dunn’s larynx from his throat.

  Blood sprayed. The body dropped.

  “No!”

  Whiskey’s heart dropped, and his mind went blank. He collapsed to his knees, staring at the leaking sack of meat that used to be a man.

  “Poor fool,” Passenger whispered.

  Heavy footsteps pulled his gaze from Dunn’s corpse, from those terrified eyes, to the smirking Gilgamesh looming over him.

  The war chief chuckled.

  “Now, now,” he mocked, resting a clawed hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. “You’ll join him soon enough. But first…”

  He slashed for Whiskey’s face, razor-sharp claws whistling through the air.

  Or he tried to.

  Whiskey’s hand shot up, catching his wrist mid-swipe with bone-snapping force.

  “You shouldn’t have killed him, Gilgamesh,” he said, rising to his feet.

  The merrow snarled and tried to wrench free, but Whiskey’s grip held firm.

  “And why is that?” Gilgamesh spat, swinging his free hand in a savage arc.

  Whiskey triggered his fourth Gift, the Gift of Wrath. Anima surged. Violet energy crackled down his arm as a whip of pure fire snapped to life in one fluid motion.

  It lashed forward, coiling around Gilgamesh’s wrist with a sharp, echoing crack. Whiskey yanked, and with a flash of searing light and the stench of scorched fish, the merrow’s hand hit the floor with a wet thud.

  Gilgamesh screamed.

  But Whiskey wasn’t done.

  The whip struck again, curling around the merrow’s torso.

  It tightened.

  Bound.

  Burned.

  Whiskey stepped in close, eyes glowing like polished amethysts, his pupils slitted.

  “Because,” he whispered, a hungry smile playing on his lips, “it placed you on The Way.”

  Gilgamesh cursed and screamed, thrashing in panic. But there was no escape.

  The whip flared. Violet fire surged.

  And Gilgamesh, Lord of the Depths, Slayer of Bahram the Mighty, Warlord of the Asnan Hada Clan, exploded.

  When the light faded, nothing remained but smoking chunks of meat. Whiskey let the whip gutter out, the crackling energy vanishing into silence.

  He staggered.

  Then collapsed.

  And as the darkness closed in, the last thing he heard was the scream of sirens—

  And Passenger’s laughter.

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