Date: October 24, 1951

  With its layered history and rich blend of cultures, the eight-block square tucked southwest of Nob Hill, west of Market Street, and north of Mission, the Fillmore District wasn’t particularly nice, clean, or even safe. It was chaotic, wonderful, terrible, and utterly impartial. A world all its own.

  And at night, the otherworldly glow of neon and phosphorescent lights slid over her like a slinky black dress. Blemishes blurred. Temptations gleamed. The worn coquette transformed into the wild, seductive goddess. She didn’t give a damn if you were human or Mythic. Flash some green and come to swing, and she was yours.

  Locals called her the Mo’.

  Whiskey brooded as he moved through the ever-crowded Post Street. The air was cool and crisp, but fatigue gnawed at him. His talk with Isaiah, and the drain from an aborted use of Passion, had left his mind sluggish, his soul worn thin.

  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed the sweat from his brow, ignoring the tremor in his hands. On a good day, the clashing and mingling of so many auras would be tolerable. White noise. But in his current state, it was like driving through a tunnel in a convertible.

  “You know what I hate about you?”

  Whiskey sighed. “I stopped counting a long time ago,” he thought, weaving through the line outside Club Alabam, where bebop spilled into the street. The marquee flashed names like Gillespie, Parker, and Holiday.

  “For someone born to live outside the rules,” Passenger continued, as if Whiskey hadn’t spoken, “you allow yourself to be caged like any other animal.

  “Take this walk, for instance. Here you are, slogging through a street full of prey you refuse to touch, even though your anima’s a quarter depleted, just because George Baptiste told you to take this route.”

  Whiskey shrugged. “It’s a simple ask—and a smart one. It shows George I’m willing to play by his terms and gives him plenty of warning that I’m coming.”

  He let a group of club-goers pass, then used Vigilance to extend his senses back a few blocks. The two men tailing him wove through the crowd. Shifting focus to the rooftop of a club called The Favor, he caught the glint of telescopic lenses. Binoculars. A third observer.

  “If by “terms” you mean “control,” and by “warning” you mean “setting up an ambush” because he’s the one who took Hallie and wants to silence anyone closing in… then I guess we agree.”

  Whiskey rolled his eyes. “Either way, I still need to talk to George to get a clear picture. Unlike Isaiah, whose security’s still getting established, George has had two decades to prepare. Sneaking in and forcing him to talk isn’t an option.”

  “And you’re sure George isn’t behind this entire scheme himself?” Passenger pressed. “If you believe Isaiah, a massive leap of faith in its own right, then George is the next obvious suspect.”

  Whiskey dipped his head in acknowledgment.

  George Baptiste, like his twin brother Felix, was bold, charismatic, and devoted to his cause. He’d earned a reputation as a pillar of his community. But where Felix built his name on trust and respect, George had chosen another path.

  Through sheer cunning and ruthlessness, he’d built the Saints of Samedi into a gang that controlled everything from California to Grove, between Divisadero and Franklin. Racketeering, smuggling, and prostitution were their bread and butter. Fear and oppression were their weapons.

  “I have a hard time believing Isaiah would kill one of his own,” Whiskey thought. “If for no other reason than it’d cost him one of his most loyal followers—right when he needs every ally he can get.”

  He paused, letting the thought settle.

  “As for George… I’m struggling there too. Above all else, he sees himself as a protector of his territory—and that includes the people in it. Especially his family. He’s not shy about violence, but I don’t think he’d use Hallie to get revenge on Isaiah. She’s the reason he let him live in the first place.”

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  Passenger said nothing.

  Whiskey took it as a good sign. He had more reasons—more angles that ruled George out—but didn’t feel like unpacking them while Passenger was in one of its moods.

  “All right,” it said at last. “Then at least go into the meeting on a full stomach, Kinichiro. You, of all people, should know how fickle humans get when emotions run high. Isaiah was a wreck, and he’s supposed to be the stable one. These people are bracing for war. You should be ready. What you sipped from those elves was nowhere near what you should’ve taken.”

  On cue, a burst of laughter rang out nearby from a cluster of club-goers spilling onto the sidewalk, high on drink, neon, and night.

  “Sense that?” Passenger said. “Their auras are practically begging to be plucked.”

  “No,” Whiskey muttered aloud.

  A few in the group must have heard, because they turned, startled. He scanned them. None had any real anima discipline. Their emotions burned unshielded: surprise edged with fear, annoyance tinged with rage, and lust simmering beneath it all. Passenger wasn’t wrong.

  With Passion, he could twist any of those emotions and take what he needed.

  And he needed their anima.

  He should—

  “No.” He shut the impulse down before it took hold. “I’m fine.”

  “But—”

  Whiskey exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “They’re not The Way, and you know it.”

  The group cast him confused glances but moved on.

  “Finding Hallie before this spirals into an all-out gang war, however, is. So stop distracting me, and help.”

  Passenger pulsed the mental equivalent of crossed arms and went quiet. A few steps later, its tone shifted from prodding to wary.

  “It just got real quiet around here, didn’t it?”

  Whiskey slowed, scanning his surroundings. The usual buzz of the Mo’ had vanished. No music. No chatter. No laughter. Just the crunch of his shoes on the pavement.

  He stopped at the intersection of Post and Steiner. Shops and clubs that should’ve been open were dark. Windows shuttered. The entire street had gone still, as if someone had shut off the flow of humanity.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted the two men who’d been tailing him. They’d stopped at the last intersection, lingering just outside the crowd, making no move to follow.

  “And you’ve picked up a few more sets of eyes,” Passenger added. “Inside the locksmith a few doors down… and another from the roof of Winterland.”

  Fighting the urge to scratch the spot on his chest where a sniper’s sights might be trained, Whiskey kept his pace steady as he headed for the bulky silhouette of the Winterland Auditorium—the heart of the Saints of Samedi’s power.

  Usually a catchall for live events, the old auditorium and ice rink was a hulking structure of no particular distinction. Tonight, like the rest of the street, it stood dead.

  Under a rust-stained awning, he reached a side door marked RINK CLOSED in bold black letters. Without hesitation, he opened it and stepped inside.

  The moment he crossed the threshold, something lunged from the shadows. Passenger yelled something, but Whiskey was already moving. He triggered Ambition—speed and power surged through his limbs.

  He darted toward the nearest wall and called Wrath. The energy whip snapped through the dark, coiling around the attacker’s neck. With a sharp tug, he yanked, and the figure’s head popped off, clattering to the floor.

  It wasn’t until Passenger burst into laughter that Whiskey noticed the plastic jack-o’-lantern face grinning up at him from where it had rolled to a stop.

  He groaned. The “attacker” was a scarecrow in a flannel shirt and straw hat, one limp arm clutching a pumpkin bucket filled with candy. A laminated sign dangled from its wrist:

  WELCOME TO WINTERLAND’S WACKY HAUNTED HOUSE!

  Looking around, he saw the entire lobby decorated in cute, kitschy Halloween frippery. Signs welcomed patrons to the Spooooky Snack Shack.

  “Threat neutralized,” Passenger chortled. “Oh wait… there are some of those stupid laughing bats by the soda fountain. Take those out too!”

  The scarecrow tipped over, collapsing into a pile of cloth, wire, and bunched-up newspaper stuffing.

  Panting, Whiskey resisted the urge to put his face in his hands and, pretending the heat in his cheeks didn’t exist, gathered what dignity he could and swept his gaze across the lobby.

  Cheap cardboard cutouts, dangling strings of plastic bats, grinning pumpkins, and other gaudy decorations in every shade of orange littered the space. He sniffed, catching something beneath the layers of buttered popcorn, carpet cleaner, and spilled snacks. Soap and lit cigarettes.

  “Smell that?” he thought, eyes shifting toward the hallway cloaked in shadow.

  “Ah yes,” Passenger murmured, amusement mellowing. “Greeters.”

  The thin, threadbare carpeting muffled each step as he wove past the gaudy décor and timeworn columns, past faded drapery and curling posters for upcoming attractions.

  As he neared the edge of the lobby, the atmosphere shifted. The air turned heavy, dense. The faint hum of tired electric lights swelled, drowning out all other sounds.

  Shadows didn’t just gather—they bloomed, pooling in corners, crawling up walls, clinging like ink suspended in still water. They didn’t dim the light; they devoured it.

  Whiskey paused at the threshold. One more step and the darkness would swallow him whole. Passenger chuckled again, but the sound had changed. The earlier amusement was gone—replaced by something deeper.

  Heavier.

  Menacing.

  A slow grin crept across Whiskey’s face. He adjusted his coat, eyes narrowing on the dark ahead.

  Then he stepped forward.

  Thia by cactusroom, then allow me to offer you a treat! Thia is a cozy, weird, and quietly heartfelt story with great characters that I know you will enjoy. Check it out!