Date: October 24, 1951

  The waiting room outside San Francisco Police Headquarters was quiet at the early hour.

  The air was dry, carrying the stale scent of dust and cigarette smoke. Wooden floors, worn lighter by years of foot traffic, creaked as Whiskey shifted his weight, and the occasional cough from the few scattered occupants punctuated the steady clack of the Com-Track’s keyboard as the old warhorse of a sergeant processed his credentials.

  “This is idiotic.”

  Whiskey sighed, turning his attention inward.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  Passenger pulsed the mental equivalent of crossing its arms.

  “Right,” it said. “Because you being irrationally and unforgivably blinded by sentimentality is too complex for my feeble mind to comprehend.”

  Whiskey didn’t quite grin as he thought, “Finally, something we can agree on.”

  This time Passenger pulsed an eye roll.

  “Yes, yes, very droll, Kinichiro,” it said. “Thank the gods for blessing you with such emotional depth and maturity. It’s only been, what, four years since you’ve even seen the girl? But go ahead; ignore good advice and wisecrack your way straight into a minefield. I love being proved right.”

  The sergeant pressed a button, and the runes on the glass security door flared with gold and blue light. A loud click signaled the bolt sliding out of place, saving Whiskey from needing to respond. He replaced his fedora, stepped through the door, and walked down the hall.

  Most of the doors along the corridor were closed, but as he passed the crowded booking area, he glimpsed officers armed with twilight sticks guiding prisoners in glowing magi-tech suppression cuffs through processing before sending them to County.

  He kept walking until he reached the stairway, then climbed up to the third floor. Stopping in front of a door marked Investigations: Magi-Crime, Magi-Tech, and Forensics, he pushed it open and almost walked right into a cluttered desk overflowing with wires, tools, and half-assembled equipment.

  Behind it sat a lanky man, his head encased in a contraption resembling a silver mixing bowl festooned with magnifying glasses. He was so focused on soldering a tiny device that he didn’t bother to glance up.

  “If it’s a delivery,” the man said, pointing over his shoulder with the soldering iron, “you can leave it on the table behind me. If not, I’m busy. Come back later.”

  “Good morning, Officer Sadie.”

  Sadie jerked upright so fast the contraption slipped down over his face.

  “Whiskey?” He stood, readjusting the device as he extended a hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m meeting with an Inspector Bruno,” Whiskey replied. He nodded toward the cluttered workstation, conspicuously placed as far from the magi-tech workshops as possible. “What about you? Don’t you have a proper lab for this sort of thing?”

  Sadie gave a sheepish laugh, the many magnifying lenses making him look like an oversized insect.

  “Well… there’ve been lots of… changes… lately. Since—” He hesitated, his expression faltering as his voice softened. “Al was a good man. A great boss. I—I didn’t know about the shoe tracker until after we drove away, I swear. But once Terry told me, I… I just thought…”

  He trailed off, staring at the floor.

  Whiskey studied the man. According to the report delivered before he left his home, Sadie, like Whiskey, had been cleared of any wrongdoing. Yet guilt still saturated the man’s aura.

  “Humans and their emotions,” Passenger said, pulsing an amused head shake. “Gotta love ’em.”

  Whiskey forced what he hoped was a sympathetic smile and placed a reassuring hand on Sadie’s shoulder.

  “The doctor said your tourniquet likely saved my life.”

  “Yeah, well…” Sadie said, wiping his eyes.

  Whiskey squeezed the man’s bony shoulder.

  “You did what you could with the situation you were in, Officer Sadie. And it takes a brave person to run toward danger. If you need anything from me, ask.”

  Sadie didn’t meet his eyes, but he managed a weak smile.

  “At least call me Amos. Everyone else does.”

  Whiskey grinned and offered his hand.

  “Thank you, Amos.”

  Sadie took it, and the strength of the technician’s grip surprised Whiskey.

  “As I recall, Kinichiro,” Passenger said, cutting in, “it was Integrity that saved your life—not anything this human did. So why lie?”

  “The man’s lack of resolve nearly got me killed,” Whiskey thought. “But encouraging him now might help him make better choices later. Choices that could save lives. Showing him The Way.”

  Passenger gave a thoughtful hum.

  “Incoming,” it announced.

  Whiskey stepped aside as two men entered, nearly spilling their coffee in surprise.

  “Watch where you’re going, you—”

  Terrance Gordon froze mid-sentence.

  “Y-You! What are you doing here?”

  The man looked like being near Whiskey caused him actual pain—a reaction Whiskey wished was literal.

  “Good morning, Officer Gordon.”

  Gordon turned to the man beside him.

  “Here’s another example of what I was just talking about, Inspector. He’s one of them.”

  Whiskey’s gaze shifted to the man standing next to Gordon.

  If man was even the right word.

  The figure towered over the 6’3” Sadie, standing at least half a foot taller. His massive frame stretched his navy suit to its limit, muscles bulging as if carved from stone.

  Whiskey would’ve had to stand on his toes just to meet the man’s tartan plaid bowtie.

  He arched a brow.

  “Inspector Bruno?” he asked, forcing another polite smile while offering his hand. “How do you do? I’m—”

  One bright blue eye fixed a glare on Whiskey, while the other, a darker blue, glowed red.

  The red eye moved independently, scanning Whiskey up and down with mechanical precision.

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  Once it stopped, Bruno’s brow furrowed.

  “I know who you are,” he said, his thick Boston accent rounding the last word into ahh.

  The massive man made a dismissive sniff and flicked his eyes to Gordon. “We’ll talk later, Terry.” Then, turning back to Whiskey and Sadie, he jerked his head toward an office still labeled Inspector Dunn.

  “You two. Follow me.”

  Whiskey’s smile dropped as he watched Bruno stalk inside.

  Gordon’s piggy eyes gleamed as he called after the immense man, “You got it, Chief! Thanks again for all your help, sir.”

  Flashing Whiskey a triumphant smirk, Gordon strode off through the double doors marked Forensics/Magi-Tech.

  Sadie exhaled and followed, but Whiskey hesitated.

  “What was that scan?”

  “Hmm…” Passenger mused. “That ocular implant isn’t top of the line, but it was good enough to sweep your aura. He’ll know you’re not human.”

  Whiskey nodded.

  “And you scanned him back?”

  “Naturally.”

  Whiskey’s lips twitched.

  “And?”

  “Like most cops, his aura’s tough to read. But… there’s something unique about his defenses. They taste… different. If I had to bet, I’d say he’s not fully human. Giant blood, most likely—because, well, look at him. Which begs the question: why is he cozying up with that bigot, Gordon?”

  Whiskey shrugged.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  The office looked almost exactly as he remembered—same layout, same furniture. But where Dunn had kept everything in meticulous order, Bruno had let folders and reports pile up in scattered heaps.

  “Close the door.”

  Whiskey raised an eyebrow as Sadie obeyed, lowering the shade.

  The instant the office was sealed from view, Bruno let out a deep breath.

  “Sorry about the show,” he said. “The man’s directly involved in the death of a superior officer, yet somehow he walks away with a promotion. I’d call it un-fuckin’-believable if I hadn’t seen it myself. So, for now, I’m playing by his rules.”

  He raised a finger thicker than some nightsticks.

  “For now,” he repeated, then offered a grin that might’ve seemed oafish if not for the shrewd glint in his bright blue eye. “Doug Bruno, nice to meet you.”

  He turned to grab a thick folder from one of the piles, pointing it at Sadie.

  “Your reputation’s all over the map, Mr. Mononobe. Some people, like Amos, think you’re a hero. Others… well, they tell a different story.”

  He flicked through the pages, then shifted his attention back to Whiskey.

  “So, I pulled your file. Half of it’s redacted or removed, leaving me to wonder why. One thing’s clear. You’ve been playin’ the game for a while, so you understand how this bullshit works.”

  Bruno leaned back, testing the desk’s weight allowance, and crossed his arms.

  “Sure, I’ve got an agenda. And yeah, if it gets the job done, I’ll take the bows when the results are aces and pin the blame when you roll craps. That’s how the game’s played. Stick around long enough, you’ll see it’s not just for kicks. I believe this force oughta be a shield for the folks who can’t fight for themselves. They deserve better than Terrance Gordon and all his rotten friends.”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a half-shrug.

  “But you know the score. Words don’t mean a dime. So here’s the deal—you stick to doing what you’re good at, and you can count on me as a friend. For now.”

  Whiskey arched an eyebrow. “And what’s that, Lieutenant?”

  Bruno held up three meaty fingers.

  “Work alone, close cases, and keep your mouth shut. Stick to that, and we’ll get along just fine.”

  Silence settled over the office.

  Whiskey’s eye flicked to Sadie, then back to Bruno.

  The man had a point. Whiskey rarely took words at face value; trust was something only time could earn.

  Either way, Whiskey would do his job.

  He’d follow The Way.

  He allowed a small smile to touch his lips as he extended his hand.

  “I can do that.”

  Sadie beamed, and Bruno grinned. Whiskey did his best not to feel like a child shaking hands with a grizzly bear.

  The big man dropped into his chair with enough force to rattle the desk.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Whiskey and Sadie took their chairs as Bruno leaned back, grabbed another folder from the pile, and slid it across the desk.

  Whiskey opened it to find a black-and-white crime scene photo staring up at him.

  “October seventeenth. Anonymous tip comes in. Dispatch gets a call about a possible 187 at Joshua Norton Park in the Tenderloin. Officers arrived to a mess. Real grisly stuff. Body parts scattered like fertilizer. Ground torn to hell. It took three days to confirm the remains belonged to Jordan Bryant.”

  Whiskey turned the page, revealing a grainy mugshot of a handsome man with dark skin, wearing a cheap but well-fitted suit. As he flipped the page, he noticed a third photo escaping its paperclip.

  “Bryant was last seen leaving a bar with a young woman matching the description given by the caller,” Bruno said. “We cross-checked with missing persons and got the name Hallie Baptiste.”

  Turning the photo over, Whiskey found another poor-quality mugshot.

  “My, my,” Passenger mused. “Look who’s all grown up.”

  Whiskey’s eyes narrowed. Hallie had indeed changed. Scanning the records, he saw she’d been arrested for shoplifting and public intoxication.

  He exhaled through his nose.

  What happened to the girl he’d met four years ago? The one who’d taken a chance on an unknown investigator? Did Felix know about this?

  He flipped through the rest of the case file, noting a handwritten entry from the dispatcher who had taken the call. As he scanned the note, his eyebrows lifted at the description of the individual the caller claimed had led them to the scene of the crime.

  Passenger hummed.

  “That is certainly interesting.”

  Whiskey nodded and looked up to find Bruno watching him.

  “The vic is connected,” he said.

  Bruno grunted and raised an eyebrow.

  “That gonna be a problem?”

  Whiskey shrugged.

  “I don’t know. But I’ll tell you when I find out.”

  Bruno’s broad, oafish grin returned.

  This time it was also satisfied.

  “Good enough for me.”

  ?

  Later, walking back to his car, movement caught Whiskey’s attention.

  “Hmm,” Passenger said. “What do you suppose he wants?”

  Whiskey grimaced but kept his pace steady, acting like he hadn’t noticed.

  He slid into the driver’s seat, but the moment he closed the door, he whirled, Smith & Wesson .38 already drawn, aiming the barrel at the figure sitting in the back seat.

  The man’s plain brown robe did little to soften the unsettling sight of his eyes—pitch-black from iris to sclera.

  “Kinichiro,” he said.

  Whiskey tightened the grip on his pistol.

  “Get out.”

  The monk was below average height with sharp Asian features, and not a single strand of hair on his head. He flicked a speck of dust off the patch on his chest: a winged serpent coiled around a sword.

  “Manners, Kinichiro,” he chided, voice dripping with superiority. “You were taught better. Or perhaps your upcoming birthday has you out of sorts? Sixty-two is quite the milestone.”

  Whiskey cocked back the hammer, the barrel glowing as the runes etched along the metal thrummed with anima.

  The monk made a low, croaking click—his version of a tsk.

  “I expected you hadn’t changed,” he sneered. “We both know shooting me is not The Way, little demon spawn. Now put the gun away. Someone might see it.”

  “Now’s a perfect time for something unexpected, Kinichiro,” Passenger murmured.

  “I’m in no mood for games, Jonetsu,” Whiskey said, his voice dangerously quiet.

  Jonetsu’s condescending mirth vanished as if it had never existed. His black eyes narrowed.

  “That’s Master Jonetsu, Initiate. I don’t care how rare Nintai claims you are—disrespect me again, and I will remind you of your place.”

  The words hung heavy between them before Jonetsu’s expression smoothed back into imperious calm.

  “I wouldn’t waste my time on an Oni, even a tamed one, unless Sewanin wished it.”

  Passenger snorted.

  “Shoot the damn bird.”

  Whiskey would’ve loved to oblige, but he wasn’t convinced a bullet, enhanced or not, would do more than irritate Jonetsu. He exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his fingers as he lowered the gun.

  “Complete your business, then. And be gone.”

  Jonetsu’s lips curled into a mirthless smile.

  “Sewanin has decreed that you must report to the monastery.”

  Whiskey cocked an eyebrow, quirking a faint smile to mask the unease creeping down his spine.

  “That’s a bold decree. You planning to enforce it yourself?”

  Jonetsu’s alien features twitched.

  “Your lack of gratitude to the order that raised you from the filth of your lineage is enough that I’d see you dead, but now you refuse the request of the great one?”

  His voice dipped lower.

  “The rest of the brotherhood wouldn’t hesitate if I told them I had to kill you. They’d assume you’d turned feral. They’d celebrate me for ridding the world of another monster.”

  The air inside the car grew heavy, crackling with something close to violence.

  Whiskey’s periwinkle eyes locked onto Jonetsu’s pitch-black stare.

  A long, tense moment stretched between them before Jonetsu looked away.

  “You’re fortunate my task is only to deliver the message.” He straightened, voice turning smooth again. “Sewanin, in his infinite wisdom, has ordered that you decide when to answer the summons. He knows you will obey. He didn’t say when, but he knows you will.”

  Whiskey smiled.

  “Very well. I have heard your message. You may leave.”

  Jonetsu returned the smile, stretching it unnaturally wide until his face distorted into something monstrous.

  “You may think Sewanin’s patience is eternal,” he whispered, “but it is not. And when he grows tired of your insolence,” His voice dropped into a snarl.“ I will be there.”

  BANG!

  A heavy thud on the hood made Whiskey whip his head around. A large crow had landed, cawing loudly.

  Too loudly.

  Whiskey whirled back. But Jonetsu was gone.

  “He slipped out through the open window,” Passenger reported.

  Whiskey climbed out, scanning the street, but it was empty. The crow let out another grating, cackling cry before taking off into the sky.

  “Anything?” he muttered.

  Passenger made a frustrated noise. “No. The damn crow’s always been too quiet. Maybe if you’d been using Vigilance…”

  Whiskey sank back into the driver’s seat, working to steady his breathing.

  His hands trembled as the adrenaline drained, leaving him raw, frayed.

  “What do you suppose the old serpent wants?” Passenger asked.

  Its tone was light, but Whiskey wasn’t fooled.

  It was nervous.

  And so was he.

  He’d not been home for years. No messages. No summons. No contact from the Brothers of Futsunushi.

  So why now?

  He took a long breath. His headache was back, digging in behind his eyes. Pinpricks of sweat gathered at his hairline. His gaze drifted to the manila folder sitting on the passenger seat.

  “Whatever it is,” he muttered, starting the car. “I’ll deal with it later.”

  Right now, he needed to talk to Felix.

  Adventurers Between the Apocalypses by Teller.

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