The fire itself seemed to come out of nowhere.
“Spontaneous building combustion?” I said. If it could happen to people, why not structures?
“There’s usually a reason a place catches fire like that,” Jules said. “I talked to the investigators about this. They haven’t finished their report, but they haven’t found anything obvious like a gas leak or faulty wiring, or ignition of flammable materials, which is usually what happens. In an older building like this, there’s any number of things that can go wrong, but there’s something else. I didn’t see it until I went through it frame by frame. The investigators wouldn’t have caught it.”
He proceeded to show us, backing up to the point where the fire started and clicking forward, a half second at a time. The flames moved almost like they were alive, dancing, swaying, each step and unexpected flicker captured on a split second of video. When the fireball burst, a brilliant sphere of light expanding out, searing my eyes, it was almost beautiful. Like some cosmic event rather than a destructive earthly force.
Jules hit pause and pointed, his excitement clear. “There, do you see it?”
I’d never have caught it. No one who didn’t have the investigators’ experience in looking for weird shadows, blips, and anomalies in video like this would have seen it.
A human figure stood outlined in the middle of the billowing flames.
It was off-color, a slightly more golden tinge than the fire surrounding it, a heat mirage within a heat mirage, shimmering at a different angle. But it had a head, body, legs, and arms, spread in something like ecstasy.
A frame later, it vanished, melting into the rest of the fire. The image only lasted for a split second. At full speed, the clip just looked like flames changing shapes.
Jules backed the clip up, so that we were all staring at that figure, unreal, undeniable.
“Is it someone in a suit?” I said. “Like one of those fireproof stunt-guy suits?”
“Except that it just disappears,” Jules answered. “Granted, fire does strange things, it’s unpredictable, but it’s right there on the video.”
I should have been happy to see a form, an actual enemy—the demon. We now had an image, a being that reveled in fire, maybe used it to destroy. But that also meant we were dealing with something sentient, with a mind, a will, and a mean streak. My gut felt cold.
Jules, at least, seemed happy at the discovery. “This is proof. It’s proof.”
“Proof of what?” Ben said.
“The impossible.”
Ben pointed at the screen. “Just so you all know, the insurance company is buying that it was an accident. So I don’t care if there’s the slightest hint of supernatural nastiness going on with this. I don’t care if you find Casper the Friendly Ghost playing with matches. If any of you talk to the insurance company, it was a gas leak due to the age of the building. That’s what’s going on the paperwork, that’s the story, and we’re all sticking to it. Got it?”
Full-on lawyer mode. That was my honey. “Got it,” I said.
From the sofa, Gary shook his head. “A video like that is too easy to fake. It’s not good enough for proof.”
“That’s the trouble,” Tina said. “Everything we discover is too easy to fake.”
For my part, I felt like I was finally looking my enemy in the eye. Not that I could tell whether this thing had eyes.
“But this gives us something,” I said. “It’s a thing. A being. It has a shape. Maybe it has a mind. That means we can lure it out. We can trick it. Trap it, maybe.”
Tina huffed. “I can see us standing there with fire extinguishers blasting it. Why do I get the feeling that won’t work?”
“Maybe we can talk to it,” I said. “Maybe we can just ask it to stop.”
“True to form,” Ben said. “Always ready to talk it out.” His voice was sarcastic, but his smile was sweet.
“I’m not sure I like that idea,” Gary said. “This is out of our league.”
I shrugged. “So change leagues. I want to try another séance. I want to talk to this thing.”
Nobody said anything. If they didn’t like the idea, they could have at least argued with me, but everyone stared, eyes kind of buggy, expressions taut. The anxiety was tangible. We all saw the monster, but nobody wanted to face up to it.
“Come on, we want to lure this thing out. Use me as bait! I’m the focus of all this anyway,” I said.
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t be acting like bait,” Ben said. “Sure, maybe this thing wants you—so the last thing you should be doing is throwing yourself at it.”
“Aw, honey, that’s sweet. You trying to protect me and all.” My smile was probably a little too sarcastic.
“Somebody has to,” he said, curt.
We glared at each other a moment, a couple of not entirely happy wolves in people clothing.
“What does your contact say? The one who gave you the protective potion?” Jules said.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to get ahold of him. Give me a minute.” I called Grant’s number again. And again, no answer. I needed to find another way to get in touch with him. I had to know if he was okay, so I called the Diablo, the Vegas hotel that housed the theater where he performed. I keyed my way through the phone maze until I reached a real live person at the theater box office.
“Hi, I was wondering when Odysseus Grant’s shows are today,” I said to the clerk.
“Oh, I’m sorry, all his shows have been canceled for the next couple of days,” she answered.
Damn. This couldn’t be good. “Oh. Do you know why?”
“I think it’s illness. I wasn’t given any details.”
Then Grant was in trouble, too. My hair prickled.
“What’s wrong?” Ben said, after I put away my phone. I must have gone especially pale.
“I can’t get ahold of him,” I said. “His shows are canceled. He seems to have disappeared.”
“So no help there,” Tina sighed.
I was about ready to run back to Vegas to deal with this at the source, despite all the warnings. “What about you? Surely you have some kind of . . . I don’t know, psychic hunch or something? ’Cause that would be really useful.”
Another long and meaning-filled silence descended. Tina blushed, and Jules intently studied the laptop screen.
“I’m still waiting to hear about the psychic-hunches thing myself,” Gary said. “Tina keeps telling me she’ll explain how she’s the only person I’ve ever seen get a Ouija board to act like that when I feel better. Tina—honest, I feel better.”
“Huh. I assumed you all had already had that conversation,” I said.
A loud, insistent pounding on the door started right about then. Good timing there, and I wondered how far Tina’s psychic reach actually extended. Mind control of room service, maybe? Convenient.
Ben went to the door, checked the peephole, looked back. “I don’t recognize him. Young guy, kind of scruffy. Anybody order a pizza?”
Nobody had. Ben called through the door, “Can I help you?”
“Tell Kitty to let me in,” a voice answered. I recognized the voice and made a dash for the door.
“Why am I not surprised?” Ben grumbled.
“I’ll talk to him. It’ll only take a minute.”
I cracked open the door to find Peter Gurney, young, intense, focused, slouching in his canvas army jacket, standing on the porch outside the room. This was such bad timing. I didn’t know what he wanted—to accuse me of lying again or to demand more information that I didn’t have—but there had to be a better time for it.
We regarded each other for a moment. “Peter. As much as I’d love to talk to you, this really isn’t—”
“I want to talk to them,” he said and pointed into the room behind me.
I looked at the PI team, who were now staring at us with interest, and back at Peter. I fought past the cognitive dissonance—what did Peter even know about them? “Oh? Why?”
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“I’ll tell them,” he said, almost surly. He was nervous, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. He had to work to summon this bravado.
“What’s happened?” I said. “What have you been up to, besides following me around?” He had the grace to look chagrined at that. That didn’t stop him.
“I need to talk to you.” He called this over my shoulder, toward the table where the Paradox team gathered. This couldn’t have been great timing for them, either. I wondered: Was Peter a fan? Did they get accosted by fans a lot?
I said, “Peter, I’m sure you’re upset, but this isn’t a good time. Maybe you could come back—”
“I have a job for you,” he said to the team, glaring at me as an afterthought. I blocked the doorway, or he might have shoved his way in.
“Sounds serious,” Tina said.
“Maybe not to you,” Peter said. “But it is to me. I want to hire you.”
“Got a place that’s haunted, then?” Jules said.
“No. Not really.” He was still nervous, his gaze darting. I got the feeling he really didn’t want to be here, but he was desperate. He said, “I need you to talk to my brother.”
“What?” I said, disbelieving. Of all the ridiculous . . . Desperate didn’t begin to cover it. My sympathy ran out, all at once. This wasn’t grief—this was not being able to face reality. “Peter, what are you thinking?”
“I’ve been following you—”
“I know,” I said.
His gaze was stone cold and dead serious. “If you were lying about Ted, I’d follow you and maybe you’d lead me to him.”
“Except he’s dead,” I said, more harshly than I wanted. T.J. was dead, and I didn’t want to keep dwelling on it.
He shut his eyes tight and marshaled words. “I know . . . I know that now. I believe you. But since I’ve been trailing you, I’ve been watching her.”
He gestured to Tina.
“I know about you. If there was another way to try this, I would, believe me. But I don’t think there is. I want you to try to talk to him. Maybe . . . maybe he can tell you what happened. I just want to talk to him one more time.”
God. He was a kid again. That was all he wanted, for his older brother to tell him he loved him. Some reassurance that he hadn’t been abandoned. I understood the feeling. I kind of wanted to talk to T.J. right now myself. Maybe ask, Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother? Why didn’t you tell me you ran away from your family? Why didn’t you tell me anything?
The Paradox crew watched him, silent.
Peter kept trying. “I can pay you. I’m not looking for a conversation, I just want . . . something. A sign. Some kind of proof.”
“You and every other bloke in human history,” Jules muttered.
“It’s not that easy,” Tina said, soft, serious, diverging from her bubbly on-screen persona. “It’s not like making a phone call. So, no. I can’t do it.”
Peter grit his teeth. He was almost shaking. “But I know you can do it. Please, I don’t want a séance, I just need . . .” And he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t finish the thought, and none of us tried to finish it for him. He could have meant anything: closure, comfort, some assurance that his brother hadn’t forgotten him, when all the evidence suggested that he had.
He turned away, hiding eyes that were shining with tears.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, and couldn’t tell if he’d heard me. “But if you’ve been following us, you know what a really bad time this is.”
Jules said, “Right. We’re in the middle of something here. But later, maybe we can set up an experiment—”
“It doesn’t work on command,” Tina said. “I can’t promise anything.”
Peter had pulled himself together, but that only meant he was back to his surly, fidgeting self. “Thanks. Don’t do me any favors or anything. I wouldn’t want to put you out.” He turned and stalked out.
I went after him. I wasn’t letting him get away again.
“Peter, wait!” I said before he was halfway down the sidewalk, and I must have growled it, because he stopped in his tracks. I faced him. “I need something, too. I need to know about T.J.”
He didn’t answer—but then, he didn’t leave, either, so I begged.
“Please,” I said. “He was my best friend. I survived becoming a werewolf because of him, because he helped me. And now I don’t even have a picture to remember him by. Please tell me about him.” Watching him, face locked in a scowl, head bent, unwilling to stand tall and look at me, I thought this was what T.J. must have looked like at this age. Before he mellowed, before he grew comfortable in his skin. Before coming to grips with what he was. Peter hadn’t acquired any of that confidence yet. But I wasn’t going to let him walk away. I blocked his path to the parking lot.
He took a breath, steeling himself. “I’ve got some things I can show you. They’re out in my bike.”
Of course he rode a motorcycle, just like T.J. had. We walked to the parking lot, where he’d pulled his bike into the slot next to my car. It was an older model, not too big, not a muscle, speed, or status bike. Something tough and functional, with a helmet strapped to the back and saddlebags over the rear tire. T.J. hadn’t worn a helmet. As a tougher-than-human werewolf, he hadn’t thought he needed one.
Peter opened one of the saddlebags and removed a thick accordion file, setting it on the bike’s seat like it was a desk. “It’s been impossible getting a straight answer about him from anyone. I don’t know why I thought the psychic would be willing to help.”
“They’re good people,” I said. “They just don’t want to treat it like a tool. It’s not an exact science.”
“It’s like being a kid again. It’s like everyone’s keeping secrets, everyone knows something, but they won’t tell you, because you’re not old enough, or smart enough. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not knowing anything.”
“You seem to be a pretty good detective. You figured out their secret. You’ve figured out a lot of this.” I nodded at the file.
“And if he were alive I could have just asked him. If I’d found him sooner—” He shook his head. His frown was deep. “He was eight years older than me, so we weren’t real close. But it’s like you said, he looked out for me. Helped me. He was good at that. Our parents weren’t too involved, I guess you’d say. Kind of distant. We had two sisters, but I couldn’t talk to them, so I always went to Ted. When he turned eighteen, he came out. Announced he was gay over the dinner table to the whole family. Mom and Dad didn’t take it so well.” He chuckled; the sound was bitter. “That’s an understatement. They kicked him out. Wouldn’t speak to him again. I think he expected it, because he already had his bag packed. He left, and that’s the last time I ever saw him. But God, I would have gone with him. I wanted so badly to go with him.
“We weren’t allowed to even say his name at home. I kept hoping he’d call, or maybe come back to take me with him. I left home last year. That’s when I really started looking. Trying to track him down. I didn’t think it would be this hard, but he didn’t leave much of a trail. No credit card, no jobs—he only ever worked for cash under the table. I can’t imagine him in a life like that. I don’t think I ever really knew him.” He did wipe a tear away, then.
“But you tracked him this far.”
“By luck, mostly. The name isn’t all that common.” He pulled pages out of the file. T.J.’s life, all wrapped up in a neat little package. “He was in motocross racing for a while, working as a mechanic, fixing bikes, that sort of thing. I found some people who knew him then.” He showed me sheets of paper with names and contact information typed out, a few pages with handwritten notes, probably from interviews, records of conversations. Grainy black-and-white photos—photocopies of photos. He set them aside to reveal a couple more pages, these ones typed forms. “I didn’t start to worry about him until I found these. A couple years after he left home, he had an HIV test. It came back positive. A second one confirmed the positive.?
??
I shook my head. This definitely wasn’t the T.J. I knew. “T.J. wasn’t HIV positive—I would have known that. Aren’t these things supposed to be confidential?”
He turned a cocky smile, crinkling his eyes—and for a flash looked just like his brother, the way I remembered him. My breath caught.
“I got a job at the records department of the clinic. That’s how crazy I’ve been over this. But here’s the thing.”
A few more pages down in the stack, he pulled out another sheet, an almost identical medical form. “About eight months later, another test came back negative. The odds are slim, but I’m guessing the first two were both false positives, or lab error. Something like that. So he wasn’t really HIV positive. If he was, there’d be more medical files on him. Wouldn’t there? But that third test is the last time he ever went to a doctor, I think.”
Holding up the pages, I stared at them side by side, my mind tumbling. Lightbulbs of understanding flared to life. T.J.’s life, gathered together in a stack of papers. It shouldn’t have been able to explain anything, but it did. It explained everything.
“The first two tests weren’t wrong,” I said softly.
“How can you tell?”
I pointed to the dates on the last two pages, the tests that showed the switch from positive to negative, from HIV infected to healthy. Eight years ago now. Just a few years before I met him. I explained, “Within this stretch of time, he was infected with lycanthropy. That’s when he became a werewolf. Lycanthropy makes someone almost invulnerable. They’re very hard to injure, they heal rapidly. They don’t get diseases. He cured himself of HIV by infecting himself with lycanthropy.” And how had he found out about werewolves? How had he found one who would bite him without killing him? The address on the letterhead of the test forms was in California. What had brought him to Denver? And what about the positive test in the first place—what kind of trouble had T.J.—a gay kid kicked out of the house, maybe living on the streets, doing who knew what—gotten into that led to getting HIV?