Tiger Boy: Portents. By Stacy Dooks Her name is Mary. She sits in a quiet room, the walls white, the light soft. She says nothing. She does nothing. This is the way she passes her day you see. She keeps her eyes shut and mouth closed tight. She struggles so very, very hard to think of absolutely nothing. Mary has been here a long, long time. Once there was a house, a family of happy parents and a brother. A smiling young girl in the mirror with long hair, lustrous, black like a raven's wing. Now her hair is cut close, eyes that once shone-alive and blue as bright as glacial ice-are clenched as she struggles to think so very, very hard of nothing at all. Her room is dimly lit, a heavy curtain covering the one window of her solitary room. She has been alone in this place for many years...so many she's lost count. Mary had a last name once, but she doesn't remember it. She remembers nothing, because she strives to be nothing. She's tried to make herself nothing...but the people here have sharp eyes and needles to make her sleep. She doesn't mind sleeping, but wouldn't mind sleeping forever. Being awake runs the risk of thinking, and the light makes her think of fire...blazing fire, consuming fire... ...vengeance... Mary bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. She thought. Now she would have to start all over again. She whimpered softly, rocking back and forth, mumbling under her breath "Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow. And everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go..." she murmured it over and over with the feverency of a devout Catholic reciting her rosary. She struggled so hard to keep the fear from consuming her. Everything went red. Red as fire...red as blazing flame. Mary's eyes snapped open as she looked into the sunlight making it's way through the slight crack in her heavy curtains. The heat vent running beneath the window must have jostled the curtain just so, allowing the sun to peek through...to fall on her face. Blazing light...flame... Mary's chest began to hitch, her pallid features draining to resemble the face of a porcelain doll as her mouth fell open, the first long, piercing scream cutting through the halls of the Carter Mental Hospital, sending orderlies running. * * * "So? What d'you think?" Anna Jacobs looked up from the ledger she'd been jotting notes in. Her glasses had slipped a bit on her face, hanging on the bridge of her pert little nose in a way Dave Murphy couldn't help but find adorable. If she were any other girl than the one who could see through his bull faster than Superman through Lois Lane's underwear he'd be spitting all manner of game at her. Anna had been Dave's friend since the fourth grade, along with their other partner in crime, Mike Graham. The three of them had grown up together in the suburbs of Red Hart, Montana, weathering the ups and downs of growing up in a town where nothing ever happened. Funny how things changed. Anna brushed an errant lock of hair back from her face, her brown eyes curious. " Sorry Dave, I was miles away. What's up?" she smiled, a little sheepishly. David smirked "You reader chicks. Always with the book-learnin'." He said, his voice dropping into a mock southern drawl. "You should try it sometime. Lots come with pretty pictures." She snickered, then looked at him "Seriously, what was it? I was going over the day's sales, and you know how lively that makes me. You could've told me I'd won the Tri-State lottery and Jude Law had come to profess his undying love for me and it would've sailed right over my head." She said lightly, setting her pen down across the scribbled figures, her eyes moving to look into his own. "I was just wondering if you'd seen Mike lately. I haven't seen him since he booked earlier this afternoon. He said he might be by here today, going over a couple of the...special books." He said, then cast a glance over his shoulder dramatically. Anna smirked. Weird Tales, the bookstore she'd inherited from her uncle, was closed for the day. The only other body in the room belonged to her cat Tibbs, the store's mascot, who was currently looking out at the nighttime streets of Red Hart, the sun having gone down as Anna had closed, Dave 'helping' by reading old Vault of Horror comics while she shooed the last of the hardcore regulars out the door. It had been a decent enough day, and Dave's presence was a welcome one, even if he was a bit of a slacker beneath the jock good looks. She bit her lower lip at the mention of Mike's name. Since his transformation into a demonic being a few months prior, Anna had been using the occult tomes in the Special Collections section to try and find a means of returning Mike to his slight, bookish self. These days Michael spent his time either in his room in the apartment he shared with David, tutoring and teaching courses online for Red Hart College, or here at Weird Tales poring over the odd occult text...or... She sighed softly "I haven't seen him today Dave. You know he doesn't like going out during the day. That big coat only covers so much...besides, he's been doing a lot of...patrolling...lately." She looked out the front door, a series of hanging religious symbols hanging in the window. Dave nodded grimly "Yeah, he's been going after the bloodsuckers over in the Rack pretty hard lately." He said, his eyes downcast "I keep saying he should take me with him, back him up, but he always gives me that 'You'll slow me down crap'. It's not just me is it? He's been getting seriously snarky lately." Dave looked to the floor " Not that I'd be Mr. Sunshine if I'd been turned into Tiger Boy..." Anna rolled her eyes "That nickname is so dumb." She picked up the pen, doodling lightly on the loose-leaf. David smirked. "Oh yeah? Well he's taken it for his e-business you know. Tiger Boy Tutoring. He's even got a livejournal by that name." Dave beamed "Now if I could just get him to approve my proposed merchandise line, we'd be rolling in the dough." He said, smirking lightly, his tone anything but serious. "Anything for a buck." She said, her tone mock-scolding. "A buck or a..." he began, then saw her scowling at him. "Heh..." he rubbed the back of his neck, his expression contrite. "Sorry..." Anna smiled at him. Same old Dave. "No worries. But he's right you know. He's the one with the superhuman strength and agility. Fighting vampires isn't something that needs the Red Hart Roughnecks captain trading his skates for stakes. Mike..."she pursed her lips, tapping the pen against them as she thought. "I think Mike needs this. He needs to feel he's doing something positive with his condition. If he doesn't, he starts to sulk and I really don't want that to happen. He's got enough problems without being down on himself." Dave nodded, but Anna could tell he wasn't happy. It was something she couldn't help noticing with greater frequency as the months had gone by. All their lives Dave had looked out for Mike, who'd been a slight young man bigger on reading than sports. Now Mike could lift the back end of a SUV up off the ground with barely a grunt and leap to the top of small buildings in a single jump. For a lifelong athlete like Dave it had galling sometimes. Add to that Dave's...problems...learning magic the one time she'd tried teaching him a simple warding spell, and it left him feeling somewhat inadequate when it came to the vocation the three had taken up of late: monster hunting. "Yeah, I'm sure whatever's going down tonight, Mike's got the situation well in hand." Dave smiled warmly. "So...wanna get a pizza, rent a flick?" "All right, but I pick." She smirked at his crestfallen expression. "No chick flicks please?" His expression was pleading. "Hey, I need a break from another Ryan Reynolds college sex romp." "Van Wilder is my personal religion and I'll thank you not to mock it." He said, giving her a pained expression, hand touching his chest in faux hurt. Anna laughed, the sound drawing Tibbs to her. She scritched his ears lightly, savoring the pleasantly soft purr rising from the feline's throat. Mike would be fine, and he'd come by and join them for pizza and a movie. Besides, he probably won't find anything anyway. * * The vampire roared, a snarling, slobbering sound as it charged forward, it's face ablaze with hatred and hunger, maw filled with glistening fangs. Any sane person would be running for their lives, trying to escape the confines of The Pit, a dive that had at one point been a sports bar, now little more than a smoke-filled room filled with bodies living and undead alike. The vampire charged forward, it's eyes blazing with rage...only to meet a powerful, orange and black-striped fist. The sound of cartilage and bone breaking cracked through the air as the leather-clad biker vampire was sent hurling into a wall adorned with pictures of various sports figures, professional or otherwise. Glass frames crashed to the floor, a table fell sideways as a second vampire biker, a mohawked figure in a denim jacket bearing the legend THE NIGHT RIDERS charged the figure in the midst of the room. His arm was rearing back for a powerful strike, but was caught as a sudden, sharp crack of air filled the room. The biker found his arm wrapped in a strong, flexible appendage ...a tail. A tail whose four-spiked tip gripped into the meat of his forearm. Undead though he was, the nerve endings still registered pain as the vampire roared, being drawn to the massive figure in the center of the room, gripped by the neck of his jacket and the waistband of his shirt and hurled into the oaken side of a pool table headfirst. The figure in the center of the room was a mass of muscle. Six feet, three inches tall, his tail lashing behind him as green eyes blazed in the half-light of the smoke filled hall. His tail whipped behind him as he tossed his horned head, locks of dark red hair falling behind the ram's head curve of that rack. He growled, a low, guttural sound he often tried to suppress in more pleasant company. He made no such effort now. A clawed foot stepped forward, his legs digitigrades at the knee. His fists were clenched tightly, his bearing that of a man who is clearly and righteously pissed off. "All right. Let's try this again. Anyone want to be reasonable here?" he cast a glance at the half-dozen pairs of glowing red eyes staring balefully at him. "Anyone thinking that killing people to get your hemoglobin fix might be wrong? It's the twenty-first frickin' century here guys." He said with a voice like flint on stone, then growled again as one of them leapt at him, going for his throat. He snarled, struggling briefly as another caught him around the waist. He roared (an actual roar, like that of a tiger set upon by jackals...he'd think on that a long time later), wrapping an arm around the vampire's waist and squeezing, the other hand clamping under it's jaw and drawing back... back...back...until a sickening crack filled the air. He threw the broken vampire aside, his hands spreading wide, fingertips gleaming with wicked talons as he drew them viciously across, slashing the throat out of the vampire at his waist at the same time as he gouged its eyes out with the other. It fell to the floor, spurting blood and gurgling rage as he kicked it hard, sending it skittering across the room, into the half-ring of hesitant, snarling creatures before him. Mike scowled softly, his features managing to convey his disappointment even through the anger. "Not gonna go for it huh? This the same kinda mentality that gets you guys attacking innocent people and draining them...after you have your fun?" he growled. "All right. Fine. Let's play." He said, his grin becoming something hard and feral, eyes glinting with a barely contained rage. They fell on him as one, hoping to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. Mike met their charge with a sweeping kick, body dropping to a low crouch in a single fluid motion, sending three of the six remaining bloodsuckers sprawling. He sprang from the crouch into a leap that carried him to a nearby pool table, kneeling as he snatched up the two pool cues, pressing his thumbs midway up the shafts, snapping the tips off into jagged, wicked looking points. He leapt with a snarl, hair wild in his face as he slammed down onto his two earlier dancing partners, one shakily attempting to rise (the spine taking time to knit) as Mike drove the cue hard into its chest. It didn't have time to cry out, exploding into a pile of blood and pus that dissolved like acid into the sawdust-covered floor. The Night Riders fought hard, Mike had to give them that. Wicked slashes lined his side and back as two leapt onto him. He slammed back into a wall, pinning the creature by the shoulder with a hard thrust of his tail before following through with the cue. Three left. One closed on him, Mike ducking low then punching high, the cue punching through bone and sinew, sending the vampire pooling to the floor in a liquid mess. Two. The remaining Night Riders looked around the bar for any sign of support. The Pit was one of the areas in the Rack that was considered 'cool' by the natives, living and undead alike. Mike had learned of it a few months ago after dealing with a particularly nasty band of vamps that thought it was still the '70s and they the baddest brits since the Sex Pistols. He'd made short work of them, and learned of this place, a watering hole this particular tiger had staked out for his (prey) enemies to walk in...and expect some unwelcome surprises if he caught them crossing the line. He rose, the tips of the cues dripping ichor as his eyes flashed emerald green in the half light. "Anyone else want a piece? I'm just getting warmed up." He said, his glare sliding over faces that suddenly found the bottom of their glasses or the bartop before them simply fascinating. "Forget this man, this ain't worth it! I'll leave, I swear I'll never come bagggh..." the bloodsucker looked down, saw the broken cue jutting from his chest, then exploded in a fountain of gore that fell to the floor with a heavy, wet splat. The other was turning to run, but Mike was on him before could move, driving the stake hard and up, piercing the heart, sending it puddling to the floor. He wasn't even breathing hard. He stood there, still as carved marble, then dropped the cue to the floor. "No second chances." He growled, passing the bar with a scowl, shoulders hunching as he passed. On a whim he paused, reaching into the left pocket of his stretched jeans, pulling something from his pocket. He flipped the quarter to the stunned bartender, a sneer on his face at the stunned, dully hateful expression on the older man's face. "That's for the mess." The bartender looked down, then up, his face scrunching for a retort straight from the Algonquin Round Table, obviously. But looking up he saw nothing but the door slamming shut. The old man thought the wiser of it, and simply plunked the quarter into a large jar marked simply TIPS. He looked over his shoulder at a younger man tending bar, wearing a Whitesnake t-shirt. "Get the mop 'n bucket." * * Mike leapt high, spanning the rooftops of Red Hart's downtown core with practiced ease. It never ceased to amaze him how powerful his new body was, how easily everything came to him now. He'd never thrown a punch in his life; now he could walk into a room and handle eight undead marauders without breaking a sweat, his reflexes so attuned and sharpened it felt as though he'd been walking with lead weights around his arms and legs before the change. He lighted on a rooftop, the faded sign of the Salvation Army thrift store backlit by a flickering light as he took stock of himself. His Red Hart Rebels jersey had a light sheen of gore on it, and two wicked looking gouges from where one of the vamps had clawed his side. His skin was unbroken, and he bore no cut or scar. Even if they'd managed to tag him in the fight, his body healed so quickly he probably never felt it. Move over Hugh Jackman...Mike smirked ruefully, then looked down at his hands, the claws caked with gore, his hands bloody from the pool cues' dirty work. He scowled. He'd need to make a pit stop before heading to Weird Tales to see Anna and Dave. He wasn't so far gone in his (hunting) vigilantism that he didn't just stroll in to Anna's apartment looking like he'd slaughtered a calf. Mike crouched, then leapt high, moving in a series of long leaps toward the Red Hart College campus. He patted the right pocket of his jeans after a particularly graceful landing (he weighed more than 250 pounds, all muscle, but he barely made a sound lighting on rooftops. It was weird, and something he kept meaning to ask Anna about...). The key to the sportsplex was still there. He'd borrowed it from Dave a few weeks after the change and the events dealing with the Red Rock and Mallick, to test his physical capabilities. After learning there was no weight he couldn't lift, no piece of gymnastics equipment he couldn't master in moments, and that he could swim like a bottlenose dolphin, he hadn't made a habit of going back. It was too weird for him, a lifelong sedentary sort of guy, to suddenly find himself performing triple summersaults with the ease of an Olympian gymnast. But there'd be showers there, a chance to clean up, and the campus was close enough to the apartment that he'd be able to change out of his battle-worn clothes and into something more suitable to socializing with friends. Now if this could just be the last bit of Weird for the rest of the month, that'd be great. Mike thought ruefully. Those term papers aren't going to grade themselves and Professor Norrington isn't going to accept another deferral. It wasn't helping that the rent had been due last week and Dave (as the new ambassador for the two roommates; given his lovely new 'skin condition' Mike found it best to stay out of the sight of sweet-but-nosy Mrs. McPhearson), had had to beg for a week's clemency on the rent. Mike didn't doubt that he could lick the piles of paperwork waiting for him in his computer's mailbox, but between looking for a cure for his 'condition' and quashing the increasing number of supernatural menaces in the city, Mike had found his 'real' time and 'weird' time thrown thoroughly out of balance. He landed on the Grad House roof, swinging lightly from the branch of a nearby tree. Beneath him he could hear loud music, the sounds of laughter, a college drinking hole on a Friday night...a few months ago he might've even been there with Dave, listening to the Chump in the Circle story for the umpteenth million time, watching his friend flirt shamelessly with Sheila (Shelly?) the weekend bartender who was a creative writing student in one of the classes Mike had been a teacher's assistant with. Sheila with the beautiful blue eyes and soft blond hair... He frowned softly. Some days he felt like he was beginning to get a handle on his new life. Others...he sighed, dropping into the network of alleyways between campus buildings. He moved like a shadow, away from the light and life around him, skirting the bright lights of the sportsplex before him. Could be worse I guess...not sure how, but it could always be worse... * * John Bernsen hated mysteries. Hated them with a passion. He'd never liked puzzles as a kid; especially riddles. He'd struggle to find the answer and then be told that it was just something so utterly and ridiculously simple, which usually led him to his throwing the book of riddles or Sherlock Holmes story down to the floor with a muttered 'That's retarded.' It came as no surprise to him that he became a cop. Cops solved crimes, not mysteries. Mysteries were for the armchair literati crowd that salivated at the latest M is for Murder or V.I. Warchowski novel. Half the time in police work whoever committed the crime was someone close to the victim, and it wasn't all that hard to start from A and get to B and then C. The Sherlock Holmes type of cases never happened outside of PBS television and the minds of paperback writers. Bernsen liked making order of chaos, of putting the pieces together that fit and getting the job done, putting the bad guys away. It was simple, it was direct, and it was why he was a sergeant on the RHPD with a solid case record, working his way ever so gradually toward his pension with a (mostly) clear conscience. He sat at his desk, staring down at the open file folder before him and trying his ample best to piece together the stories before him into some kind of coherent sense. He ran a hand over his salt and pepper beard, running his tongue over his lips as he thought about the pipe tucked away in the bottom drawer of the desk...a pipe he'd promised Linda he'd never use again. Fifty-two years old, twenty of those years smoking a pipe without hassle, but she didn't want him doing it anymore. Why tempt fate? "You stare at those papers any harder you're gonna burn a hole in them John." Bernsen's head snapped upward, then relaxed. His partner Sarah Hayes gave him a playful smile, every bit as lovely as thirty years old and a rookie detective could be. She'd been placed with him as his partner two years ago when his old partner Steven Chambers had been given the gold watch. A sharp kid, fit, and hungry to learn the ropes. She reminded him of a brainier version of himself. He smiled back, sighing as he leaned back in his chair, removing his glasses to pinch his nose with a tired sigh. "You know me Sarah. I don't like things that don't make sense. Lately, that's all this town's been making these days: no sense at all." He rummaged through the clippings and statements before him. "Terry Lee, convenience store owner of the Foodway Grocery off 27th ave, gets his place busted in on by a bunch of toughs hepped up on something and looking for a quick score. The old man's not looking for trouble, but they don't want to hear it and start shooting at his feet, wanting to make him dance after he empties the register." Bernsen's normally fatherly face turned to a scowl that had intimidated its fair share of young toughs. "Next thing you know, the door bursts open and...something stops the punks. Stops them cold. That something takes 12 bullets to the chest and head without breaking pace, grabs the kids and throws them around like rag dolls. Their guns become scrap, Lee gets his money back, and the kids end up at the top of a lamp post with the pole wrapped around them like a damn bow tie." Bernsen leaned back in his chair, tugging at his tie. "Which is where our maybe-vigilante case crosses over into X-Files territory." Sarah said, her expression sardonic as she picked up the manila folder, moving to sit in the desk across from her partner. "A 'big freaky thing with horns, claws, and a 'expletive deleted' tail man!' is what the thieves describe as the attacker. A story that's corroborated by the victims. Which is crazy, of course. Detectives on site chalked it up to the full moon or a loose gas line." She smiled, dropping the file lightly to her desk. Bernsen's expression soured "Well that's great, except reports of this 'freaky thing' as it was ever so scientifically described have been reported periodically across town over the last few months. It's the damn boogieman." He said with a soft grunt. "Or Spring-Heeled Jack." Sarah said. "What?" "Spring-Heeled Jack. Some kind of creature that terrorized the countryside in England in the 19th century. Scared a couple of women, assaulted them...then one day it just disappeared. Could be Red Hart's got itself jacked up." She laughed. "Hilarious. You and Bob Farris should found a branch of the Improv in the downtown core with that kind of material." Bernsen scowled. "Oh come on now John, you can't tell me you buy into any of this crap do you? It's just one of those urban legends that crop up. One kid starts talking about a monster he saw, then another posts it on their blog and it becomes a classic friend of a friend story." Sarah crossed her arms. "Okay...so explain how one of them ended up wrapped up in a lamp post." He said, taking a long sip of his tepid coffee. "...there I tend to get fuzzy. But a monster John? In Red Hart? You look up 'sleepy community' on Google and you'd get this burg every time." Bernsen sat up, looking around to ensure they weren't being watched amidst the bustle of the squad room. "How long have you been here Hayes? Six, seven months?" "Tom and I moved her about six months ago. Why?" Sarah said, canting her head slightly. "Red Hart has...an unusual history. A lot of strange stuff happens here, mostly disappearances. We're not as high up as some small towns in California or Cleveland, but an unusually high number of people come to this town...and then they're gone." Bernsen rubbed his hands together, looking out the window at the city lights. "Well kids run away, people get new jobs..." Sarah said evenly, but Bernsen could tell she was reaching, and he knew she knew it too. "Whole families Sarah. Men and women with good jobs, no prior history of reckless behavior. Sometimes we find their bodies outside town. Other times they're just gone. Cars in their garages, money still in their accounts. How do you explain it? How does anyone?" Bernsen ran a hand over his face "I moved to this town about fifteen years back. Nobody talks about this stuff, save to make excuses. It's like the damn pink elephant in the punchbowl. Nobody talks about it, can't be there right?" he breathed air through his teeth, reaching down to the bottom left-hand drawer. He drew the pipe from its depths, holding it for comfort as he noted his partner's expression. "You can't be serious." "Check the cold case files. Check the archives. Hell, the entire population of this town disappeared one winter in 1936. People said it was the Depression...but none of those 1300 souls were ever seen again. Red Hart has an appetite for missing people Sarah...and I think it's getting hungry again." Bernsen moved the pipe slowly from one hand to another. "And...what...you think this 'freaky thing' is connected to it somehow?" He looked up into her eyes, noting the challenging spark there. Good. He'd need someone to help him keep his feet on the ground. "I don't know. But I plan on finding out." He said evenly. * * The water was hot; the showers of the men's locker room a fog of steam as Mike bathed, running his hands over his chest and shoulders, pushing his face into the spray. The shower was turned up as high as it could go and he could only just feel it, a pleasant heat that cleansed him, and would have easily worked the kinks from his muscles if he'd had any to begin with. He ran a hand through his deep crimson hair, his fingertips brushing against the pair of ram's horns atop his skull. A great, heaving sigh escaped his chest as he lathered himself with the bar of Irish Spring he'd brought to the sportsplex during his last few trips. His looked himself over head to toe, marveling. His body, his normal body, had been that of a slight, bookish young man who'd had trouble lifting three heavy textbooks, let alone throw around large burly bikers. Now he was built like a Mack truck, his body knowing how to handle itself instinctively in a conflict where Laura and Robert Graham's son had never won a fight in his life, let alone been in one to start with. He leaned forward, pressing his face to a powerful forearm as he breathed deeply, the steam and the heat soothing him, making him feel nicely drowsy. An early discovery had been his body's ability to go without sleep for days on end. It'd been a boon to his work; grading papers and advising students online had been easy when he could be up all hours of the night. He did have to sleep eventually; about two to four hours a week usually held him over just fine. If it hadn't been for all the vampire hunting, he wouldn't have had to keep brushing Norrington off. He sighed, pushing that guilt back down into the depths. He relaxed, allowing his mind to drift, enjoying the pleasant feel of the water running down his body...the feel of soft, feminine hands sliding over his chest, rubbing into his muscles, the feel of a soft, sleek body pressed to his back...God how long had it been? Since his breakup with Lisa...so long ago...and now, now with this body... "And just what's wrong with your luscious body, pretty kitty?" A feminine voice purred in his ear. A voice Mike had come to know only too well. His eyes snapped open as he whirled. Sure enough, Slate was before him, her expression nebulous as always, but her smile was as wide and white as ever. He sensed rather than saw her body; the ebony pool of blackness she walked in did its ample best to accentuate her hourglass figure, devoid of her usual black dress. Her body not so much concealed by darkness as composed of it, save for her ivory-white smile. "You! What're you...how're you...hey! Hands!" Mike said, stammering with a sheepish blush as he all but bolted from the shower, grabbing a towel to drape around his hips. "So bashful, this one. And here I was hoping I could take those...impressive...endowments of yours for a test drive. Such a shame you're so conservative. You seemed to be responding so nicely." She giggled, an innocent, tinkling laugh that put Mike's nerves on edge. "Very funny. My sides are splitting. Can you please spout your inane cryptobabble and get out of my head? I'm guessing I fell asleep in the shower and get to have another Skinimax-meets-Twin Peaks episode." Mike said, his lip curling in a soft snarl. He was looking firmly at the lockers, doing his ample best not to stare into the shower. He heard the note of anger in Slate's voice, with a hint of what he could almost swear was hurt. "You're no fun, you know that? I could give you a night that'd set your dreams on fire for a thousand years, and you reject me. You're lucky I'm so nuts about you kittycat." She stepped from the shower, her body clad in its usual body-hugging dress, her body showing no sign of the moisture from the still-running shower. "If anyone else spoke to me in such a manner, I'd have them fed their own liver." She smiled, giving his cheek a light patting. "And I've come all this way to warn you too. Now I'm not even sure I should..." Mike scowled "Just say your piece so I can wake up." Slate smirked, making a point to cross her arms beneath her breasts. "Fine. A man is coming to town. He's a priest, a member of a secretive order within the Catholic Church. He's coming here with the best of intentions, because he believes that your arrival is a bad thing. Imagine that." Slate's smirk became a knowing grin. "Okay, so all I need to do is show the father I'm not evil. I've been kicking evil's ass since I got this form foisted on me. I've held a cross, I do right by people whenever I can..." Mike said, pushing off the wall, moving toward his clothes. "Why is it the cute ones are always so dumb. The Order of Saint Michael is not known for it's compassion toward the supernaturally gifted dear boy. They're from the Exodus: 22 school of thought. Something about not allowing a witch to live? They don't care what you are, they only care about what you and Chalk's little pet project represent." "That's the second time you've mentioned this Chalk guy. What was the place you said his work was focused on? Miscellaneous?" Mike blinked, looking at his Red Hart Rebels jersey. One of the biker's had been lucky with a beer bottle, a large tear was in the side of the fabric. He frowned, hoping Anna wouldn't mind stitching it up again... "That's neither here nor there. What's important is that you intercept him before he gets to the Carter Mental Hospital, fourteenth floor, ward six, and finds a young miss named Mary. If he gets there and says a few choice phrases in certain arcane tongues...well, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if that happened. And it will, in about nine hours and change." She smiled grimly. "What's your game Slate? Why are you helping me? What do this 'other' and I represent? Is he a demon too?" Mike' s eyes narrowed. Slate threw back her head, her laughter echoing off the tiled walls as she advanced on him. "Oh dear, sweet boy. You represent something that the Order hates: change. The rules that have bound the world for so long...well, they're starting to come loose at the edges. The Michaelites are scared witless at the thought of magic and wonder coming back to the world. Chalk's little project...well, yes...she's a demon. You both are; point and counter-point in a little debate Chalk and I are having." She smiled up at him, and for a brief moment Mike could swear he almost saw her eyes, playfully mocking...but sincere. " You're not just any old fiend from some obscure corner of the abyss, my little tiger. You are the hand. Now wake up." Her grin grew brittle, her hand cracking across his face in a sharp slap. Mike gasped, sputtering water as he drew back from the shower wall. He shut the shower off, stumbling from the stall, his eyes drawn to the clock. It was barely twenty minutes since he'd arrived. He toweled himself off as best he can, dressing, a frown on his face. He needed to talk to Anna, and fast. * * He had a pleasant face. That was the main thing Jessica Langley recalled about the passenger in seat 14D on British Airways flight 751 out of Heathrow. An older man, his black shirt and white collar easily marking him as a member of the clergy. His hair was thinning brown, close cropped and rapidly going salt and pepper. She imagined he had to be at least early to mid forties. She noted all the physical data as anyone who worked with people for extended periods of time do; who were liable to be problem passengers, who were pleasant, and so on. Jessica's impressions of the man had been largely positive, until she took the time to pay attention to him, closely. He was pleasant enough, if a bit on the taciturn side. No...it was the eyes. Definitely something in the eyes that set her nerves on edge. Those blue-gray eyes didn't so much look at you as through you with an odd light to them, and while he talked pleasantly enough and made the usual small talk about visiting a diocese in the states, she knew beyond knowing that she mattered about as much to him as gum on the bottom of her shoe. He gave her the creeps, and when they finally did land in LaGuardia and the older man was sent packing to his connecting flight with the rest of the passengers, Jessica surprised herself with a long, relieved sigh. One would've thought the plane was about to explode at any moment during the eighteen-hour junket. She gathered her things, nodding to the cabin crew as she made her way toward the nearest airport bar, looking for a good stiff drink, the better to forget those odd, not-quite-there eyes with. * * " 'You are the hand'? What kind of cryptic crap is that?" Mike scowled, looking up from a book of demonology with an irritated expression. Dave was chewing on a mouthful of pizza, doing his ample best to keep Tibbs away from the pepperoni and extra cheese sitting on Anna's kitchen table. "If I knew, do you really think I'd be here poring over these books? Whatever Slate's game is, I want to know exactly what's going on." He flipped through pages, grumbling softly. "Anna, are you sure that's everything from the basement?" he cast his hand over the piled books, small towers amidst the cluttered chaos of Anna's living room. She walked in from her bedroom, sheets of computer paper in hand as she looked at him absently. "Mm? Sorry Mike, I was just consulting Demons, Demons, Demons online. They don't have any listing of anything called 'The Hand'. A couple of demonic summoning ingredients include hands of various types and sizes..." she grimaced "...but nothing referring to a specific demonic type. I hate to say it, but I think it's most likely this is another one of her attempts to rattle your cage." She patted his knee lightly as she moved to sit, scooping up her cup of tea to sip at it. The expression on her face made her grimace from earlier look like she'd gotten a papercut. "Ugh. Cold." She rose, making her way toward the stove. "Mike, hate to beat what's most likely a dead horse here buddy, but have you ever stopped to consider that this Slate chick might...y'know...not exist?" Dave said, dropping his crust lightly in the almost-empty pizza box. Mike glared at him, his green eyes flashing. "So I'm not just a monster, but I'm a crazy monster too? You're just a boatload of moral support tonight Davey." He grumbled, using the childhood nickname he knew for a fact Dave couldn't stand. Surprisingly, Dave didn't rise to the bait, slipping to his feet to brush crumbs from his jeans and Anthrax t-shirt. "Look, I'm not saying you're nuts. But you're the only one who gets these little flashes, and they only show up every once in a while. Yeah, you had that card from the first time but who's to say you didn't just write it up yourself in some kind of somnam...sonamb...Anna?" he said, looking to her pleadingly "I think you mean sonambulistic Dave." Anna said with a tolerant smile, pouring herself some hot tea. "You got close." "Exactly. Like you were sleepwalking or something. You've been through some weird, wild stuff since you touched Red Rock, there's no telling what it's done to your subconscious mind. I'm not saying she's not real, I'm just saying you think she's real, when she might not be. Slate could be your own personal Mr. Snuffleupagus." Dave said, nodding sagely as he raised a can of Dr. Pepper to his lips. Mike gave him a withering glance. "Snuffleupagus turned out to be real Dave." "He did?" "Yep." "Crap. But you get what I'm saying man..." Dave smiled sheepishly as Mike sighed. "Yes, I do. And I can understand your concern, really. But I'm not crazy. And even if I were having dreams, no dream is this detailed. The Carter Mental Hospital? Fourteenth floor, ward six? The Order of Saint Michael? A girl named Mary? Tell me you at least got something on those Anna?" Mike said, looking to Anna pleadingly. "All resemblance to Barbara Gordon with a couple pounds on her aside, I'm not Batgirl y'know. The Order of Saint Michael is mentioned in a couple of Catholic Conspiracy texts, but nothing concrete. I'm still tracking some leads." Anna huffed, adjusting her glasses as she strolled back in the room, nimbly avoiding Tibbs, who'd been laying in wait to brush up against her calves. She sat with her steaming cup of tea, going over her notes. "As to the Carter, yeah, there's a lot of stuff on record, but for the kind of obvious patient detail you're looking for...well, we'd have to get a little creative." Anna grinned mischievously, causing the two men to share a worried look. "Uh-oh...she's got that look in her eye." Mike muttered. "Last time that happened, boy's locker room, ninth grade." Dave grimaced. "Stink bomb." "At night I still hear the screams." Anna giggled. "Oh it's no big deal. A couple of faked Red Hart Gazette badges, Mike's digital camera, and we're totally ready to go undercover." She smiled, giving Dave a significant glance. Dave blinked around a mouthful of pizza. "Whmf?" Mike grinned "It's not like I blend into the background. I'm not built for covert ops anymore. This one's all yours...Face." Dave swallowed, grinning widely. "If you've got a problem..." "...and no one else can help..." Anna said with a smile. "...maybe you can hire..." Mike smirked. "THE A-TEAM!" They crowed in unison, then began singing the opening bars of the television show's theme song before breaking down into peals of laughter, Mike's swinging tail sending Tibbs skittering under the sofa for cover, remarking to himself in his own feline way on the insanity of mammals and their mystically altered brethren. * * "This isn't going to work." Dave muttered softly, tugging on the collar of his ill-fitting Red Hart College sweater. It had been a gift from his mother a couple Christmases ago and had never really fit him properly. Mike's digital camera bounced lightly against his chest, silver casing glinting in the morning sunlight as he and Anna made their way through the main doors of the Carter Mental Hospital. Anna smoothed a wrinkle in her best skirt, giving Dave a withering glare when she saw no one was looking. "Why didn't you say so before?" she said in a low murmur. "I did say so before." Dave shot back just as they reached the front desk. A matronly looking young lady looked up at them, placing a clipboard to one side of her cluttered desk. "Can I help you two?" she said with a smile. "We sure hope so." Anna smiled back, adjusting her glasses "I'm Alice Johnson and this is my partner Donald Mayburn. We're students at Red Hart College doing a paper on mental health care in the 21st century, and we were hoping it'd be possible to take a tour of the facility, maybe peek around a bit, see how things have improved in terms of psychiatric care in Red Hart over the last thirty years or so. Would it be possible to have a tour of some kind, or maybe some brochures?" Anna put on her most ingratiating smile, hoping beyond hope the seemingly nice lady bought her story. The nurse-whose nametag read SALLY-smiled brightly. "Sure! We've got some pamphlets and brochures just in the back. We don't tour though; it disturbs the patients. We only allow legal guardians or family members past the visitor's area. But I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have." Sally said, her voice that shade of syrupy peppy that immediately set Anna's molars grinding. "Sounds great!" Anna chirruped back "We'd love to take a look at those brochures, if you wouldn't mind...?" she looked around, noting the seemingly deserted lobby. "We're a little understaffed this week due to some accrued vacation time, but I can just duck into the supervisor's office and grab those papers for you. Won't take two minutes." Sally grinned again, then rose to make her way down a small corridor behind the front desk. A door opened into a side office, and Sally was gone. "Dave..." Anna was already slipping up the small wooden gate between lobby and front desk open, the latch giving easily as she sat at Sally's computer. "On it." Dave positioned himself at the mouth of the hallway, checking the viewfinder on Mike's camera every few seconds, as if setting up for a shot of the lobby. "Just hurry up, willya?" Anna's keys flew across the keyboard in front of her, grateful to whatever gods were listening that Sally hadn't been so swift on the uptake as to lock her computer. A few clicks and keystrokes and she found the patient manifest. "Okay...one excel document, hit CTRL-F...fourteen, six...got it!" Anna allowed herself a moment of smug gratification. "Mary Smith...age 21...acute agoraphobia and catatonic dementia...charming girl." Anna closed the file, her fingers flying across the keys as she accessed the system further. "Hssst...Anna...ixnay on the omputer-cay...she's comin' back!" Dave hissed, spotting the approaching figure of Sally from his peripheral vision, still fiddling with Mike's camera. "Almost...there..." Anna clicked a key, then beamed, scooping up the items she'd found on the rack before her and slipping them into a pocket. Careful to leave everything as much as she'd found it as possible, she rounded the corner to resume her post in front of the desk, just in time to smile to Sally as she laid down a small pile of brochures on the counter before her. "Great! This'll be a real help, won't it Donald?" Anna smiled, then looked to Dave. He blinked, fumbling with the camera. "Oh yeah! Yeah, definitely. Helps the cause all right." Dave nodded with a smile that looked painted on. Anna made a note to inform him in the car his 'Face' needed serious work. Fifteen minutes later, after learning far more intimate detail about the admittance procedures and history of the Carter Mental Hospital (called the 'Carter Mental Health Care Facility' by the staff, of course) than she'd ever imagined possible, Anna and Dave made their way back to his car. Anna plopped in the front seat, a weary smile on her face. Dave peered at her. "Um...why're you so happy? We didn't get jack in there. Sure we've got a name to go with the cell number, but whatever Slate's bugging Mike about, it goes down in..." Dave checked his watch "two hours, eight minutes." "Oh I'd say we got exactly what we need. One name, one location..." she grinned, removing two plastic cards from her jacket pocket "...and two all access security passes that'll get us right where we need to be. All that and we've got enough time to swing by and pick up Mike so he can talk our reverend father out of doing anything to that poor girl..." Anna's face went grim "...or putting him in no condition to do much of anything while in traction." Dave blinked, looking at Anna askance. "You really think Mike 'choir boy' Graham would raise his hand to a priest? His mom was way religious, and more of that rubbed off on my boy than he likes to admit." Dave said, placing his key in the ignition. "Maybe. But do we really want this guy going after some poor catatonic girl and not do anything about it because of a collar he's wearing?" Anna frowned. "Point taken. Let's go get the big guy." Dave turned the key, putting the Impala in gear. * * Mike Graham looked out the window, his clawed fingers parting the blinds. It was a fairly nice day, as they went. Sunny, a little cool for the early spring, the kind of day he'd be wearing a light hoodie or sweater as he walked the campus a few months ago. The sun was bright and shining; a few kids making their way back to Levesque Elementary after going home for lunch. A typical day. Mike scowled softly. Accent on day. He hadn't been out in broad daylight since his change, except for a few brief excursions to the roof of their building or that of Weird Tales. The times he had been out he'd had to be smuggled in the back seat of Dave's car, bundled in blankets like the Elephant Man. His lip curled back in a soft snarl, tail lashing as he paced the room. It wasn't fair. He busted his hump for this town, had fought off transformed cultist professors and a boatload of walking leeches, and if he wanted something as simple as the sun on his face, well that was just too damned bad? He growled, noted it, then sighed heavily. Every time he thought he was beginning to come to terms with his new existence, even enjoying it little, things like this came along. It was all he could do not to sink into despair. He walked across the room, placing the phone back on the charger. Dave and Anna were on their way to pick him up, and together they'd head to the hospital and make sure the priest didn't do anything untoward to the girl...to Mary Smith. Mike rubbed his hand over his jaw, the hand with the three-slash glyph upon it, as he sometimes did when pondering a problem. Something about that name...it rang a faint bell in his memory. He made his way to his room, sitting down at his desk and booting his computer. A few minutes later he was on google, entering in the search terms: RED HART, MARY SMITH. He pulled his glasses from their plastic case, putting them on his nose. He didn't need them anymore, but he liked their presence on his face. If he ignored his talons clacking on the keys and the striped patterns of his arms he almost felt like himself again. He smirked ruefully, giving his horned head a light rocking side to side. Okay, myself in a hard hat, but still. His half-smile died on his lips as he read the article, face falling as the search results sat at the top of a long, rambling list of near misses. "Oh hell." * * * "So let me get this straight. Mary Smith is one of the Smiths? The lumber barons from back in the day?" Dave frowned, driving capably through the midday snarl, sparing a glance at his wristwatch as he finished cutting off a woman who clearly had no business driving, and ill manners besides if her hand gesture to him was any indicator. Mike adjusted the hood of his long coat, making sure most of his face was buried in the folds. "Yeah...remember the fire from five years ago? It was in the papers. 'Massive Blaze destroys Family Estate', that sort of thing? Mary was in there. With her family and their servants. Of the seven people in the house, she was the only one to make it out alive. They found her outside the burned-out husk, the fire department was too late to do anything more than dampen the embers." Mike said, frowning. "That poor girl." Anna said, her face crestfallen. "No wonder she's in that place. But why does this Order of Saint Michael want her? What's the motivation?" "I'm not sure. But from what I gathered from the Gazette the cause of the fire was never fully determined. The official explanation was some kind of explosion, maybe as a result of a gas leak...but that doesn't make sense. The Smith Mansion was built in 1900, and it wasn't set up for gas. They burned wood until about 1909, when they wired in to Red Hart's electrical grid." Mike shrugged. "The explosion could've been anything. Some kind of ritual maybe? Something the Order was cooking up across the pond? The records do show that a Father James Wade was the first to arrive on the scene...he was there before the fire trucks. That strike anyone as coincidence?" Mike said, his face sardonic. "These days? Not so much." Dave said, turning a hard right off main street, going a little over the speed limit as his radar detector under the ashtray gave him the all clear. "So this priest did something to the kid? And not 'did' in the usual sense some priests do..." he said, ignoring Mike's sharp look. Anna looked up the street, toward the hospital doors. Getting Mike inside had been on her mind for a while now...how they were going to pull it off...she'd mentioned as much to him earlier in the day. "We'll figure something out." He'd said, his expression grim. The car pulled to the curb, Mike tapping her shoulder. "Roll the window down." Mike said, his expression keen beneath the hood. Maybe a little too keen. Anna thought, a shiver running down her spine as she complied. Mike poked his head out the window, his hood shifting a bit as his horns brushed the frame. He breathed deeply, sniffing a bit before smiling softly. "Two men. They ought to do nicely. Ann?" he looked to her eagerly. She opened the door and hopped out. Walking briskly up the walk toward the rear entrance. Sure enough, two orderlies were talking and sipping coffee outside the double doors, one sitting in the back of the van as they laughed at some witticism. This has got to be the most clichˇd plan of all time. She sighed, then looked toward the approaching Mike and Dave, the alley walls obscuring them from open view. "Hey over there!" She called out, her voice even as they turned to see her in the light. "Could you guys give me a hand? My car's got a flat." She said, her grin sheepish. The two men approached her, their faces curious and concerned. She braced herself for the guilt as Mike and Dave coiled like springs. This girl better be in serious trouble, for the sake of my karma she thought with a sigh. * * James Wade was a man of God. There was never a doubt in his mind that his cause was a righteous one. He'd served the almighty all his life, his demeanor stern and vision clear. He'd known of evil since his earliest days, raised by an alcoholic mother and a derelict father. Church had been his escape, his salvation. He had come to the house of the Lord and been made welcome. He had struggled hard to live a life worthy of its gift, to be a pious servant. The Order of Saint Michael had approached him years ago, as a much younger man. They'd informed him of the struggle going on beneath the surface of reality, of the need for vigilance and the consequences of failure. They'd shown him evidence of the Infernal on Earth that had chilled him to the bone. He had sworn fealty to the Order, to the Pope, and to God almighty, and had fought in His cause. Yes, some of the actions the Order had taken were sometimes questionable. The business with the Smith girl...he frowned, adjusting the coat on his shoulders as the elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor (really the thirteenth, an omen not lost on the old man). He strode down the hall, his bible in hand as he thought of the work to come. Mary Smith had been such a bright, precocious girl. She'd been a marvel, a prodigy really; intelligent, charismatic, full of life and with a faith that lived vibrantly. Intelligent enough to question but devout enough to believe. She'd been a favored member of his congregation in the brief time the Order had allowed him to serve in Red Hart to see to their plans. To plant the seed he was about to reap. He moved toward the door of the sixth cell...called a 'guest suite' by the bubbly young woman at the front desk. He sighed softly, his stern expression hardening into a resolute mask, praying softly that whatever tattered remnant of Mary's mind that had been left by the ritual five years ago would understand. She would be consumed, and be reborn. It was the will of the Order, and the Order was the instrument of God. Yes, she would understand. He told himself that, over and over as he opened the door, looking upon the huddled, rocking body on the bed before him, her long black hair matted over her face. He believed it was true. Mostly. * * "I can't believe that worked." Dave said, watching the doors of the elevator close. "We're just lucky Sally is on her lunch break right now. I doubt even these confiscated uniforms would do us any good if she made us." Anna said, cinching her belt a little bit further around her waist. "This guy was huge! The legs practically cover my feet. If I have to do any running I'm going to be falling all over myself." She said, frowning. "'t fud ee 'urse." a muffled voice rose from the closed bodybag on the gurney between them. Anna jumped, then shot Dave a look as he bit back a fit of laughter valiantly. Reaching down, Anna unzipped the bag, revealing Mike's pained features. "Oh, you have no idea how much that sucked..." he said, a shudder rocking his large frame. He sat up, getting out of the bag and indulging in a bodily shiver from head to tailtip, strands of his deep crimson hair hanging in his face before he brushed them behind his horns. "I am never, never doing that again." Dave blinked. "Uh, dude? Maybe you should wait until we're on fourteen...?" he said, looking up into Mike's incredulous eyes. "I'd rather they see me. That bag smells like death." Mike said, his face a pinched grimace. "Like dead bodies?" Anna winced. "No, like death." Mike's face was pale. "Just trust me on this." The elevator continued its crawl...10 became 12...the elevator coasting to a smooth stop as it reached 14. Mike didn't hesitate, moving his bulk into the hallway, peering up and down the halls. "Anybody else getting the feeling this place is seriously understaffed?" Dave said, peeking around a corner. "I mean, I watch Scrubs and ER, aren't hospitals usually really busy?" He fell in step behind Anna and Mike, His tail tucked beneath his long coat, hood up on the sweater he wore beneath it. "From what I've read, Carter has a pretty high history of employee turnover." Anna said, her eyes tracing over the ward numbers, making their way down a long corridor branching off into a dozen smaller arteries. "Apparently people don't last very long in this place. Some complain of bad dreams..." Anna finished, her expression grim. "Man, we have got to get into a less creepy line of work. Can't you just fight the Legion of Doom like a normal superhero Mikey...?" Dave said, his expression pensive. Mike smirked over his shoulder. "Hey, if Doctor Doom needs a new sparring partner, I'll be up front with my res-wait." He snapped, stopping so suddenly Dave almost crashed into him. Mike canted his head to one side, the stripes on his face illuminated by the afternoon light through the large bay window. "Mike...?" Anna said, looking up at him curiously. "Something's coming. He's started, whoever he is. I've felt this before, with Mallick. Something's coming." He began to run, his clawed feet clacking on the tiled floor, darting down the ward marked 6. "Aw crap. I swear, if this is Mallick 2: The Quickening I am so out of here..." Dave grimaced, falling in step behind Anna as they bolted after him. * * When he was eight years old, Mike's parents had taken him on a trip to Medicine Hat to meet his great-uncle Roger. Roger Graham had been a pleasant enough old-timer, part of a logging crew in his youth. Time had weathered the older man, but he'd known a few tricks of the outdoors his father had taught him. One of them had been making dowsing rods. Mike had been skeptical of the odd-looking sticks and their ability to find water, but Roger had whittled one for him and asked him to try it. Indulging his elders, the boy had taken the Y shaped stick and pointed around the sprawling grounds around Roger's summer cabin. Sure enough, the rod had tugged at the youngster's hands, urging him toward the earthen well Roger had dug with two of his buddies years before. It'd been his first real brush with something magical, and the impression had never left Mike's mind. The feeling inside him was similar to that tug, but more insistent. Something that wasn't was about to be, something ancient, something terrible and wrong...he barely caught the placard reading SMITH, MARY on the door before he burst through it, finding the figure of a priest murmuring words that sounded like a mixture of latin and...something else over Mary's prone body. "Stop! I don't know what you're doing to that girl, but it's over!" Mike said, taking a step toward the older man. The older man took a step back, surprise replaced by a look of steely resolution. "Demon." His grin with thin on his lips, reaching into a satchel at his side. "You're too late. It's done. The link has been reestablished, and there's scant little you or any of your kind can do to stop it!" The man drew vial from the pack and threw it, Mike raised an arm in time to have it shatter over his coat. "Look, you've got the wrong idea here! I'm not some demon, I'm a person. My name's Mike Graham, my friends can vouch for me. I'm not here to hurt anyone; I got turned into this by accident..." Mike blinked, wiping the water from his sleeve with a hand. "It doesn't burn?" the priest said, looking confused. "See? I told you. Now if you could just undo whatever you've done to that poor girl and leave her alone, we could sit down and talk about this reasonably. What do you say?" Mike smiled hopefully, offering his hand. "No." A third voice spoke from the corner. Mary's head rose, and there was a glow to her eyes. The glow's intensity increased, becoming brighter and brighter as heat filled the room. Her lips parted in a feral grin and Mike felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. "No compromise with the wicked. No mercy for the damned." Mary said with a voice like slate scraping over steel. "Oh crap." * * "He never...used to be...this fast...did he?" Anna panted, following the sound of Mike's voice, talking to someone else. She heard the sound of glass shattering as she slowed to a stop, sticking an arm out to catch Dave in mid-jog. "He's pretty speedy these days. Of course, if someone here wasn't addicted to the odd Hershey binge..."he said with a smirk, then blinked. "So why aren't we charging in after him? If he's gonna convince this padre he's on the side of the angels shouldn't we be testifying for him?" "Remember what he said? He hasn't felt anything like this since Mallick. I don't know about you, but the last thing I want is to have either of us getting our bones broken. We'll hang back for now. Mike's the toughest of us, so I'm sure whatever it is he can ahhh!" The wall exploded. One moment it was fine, the next plaster, wood, and wiring was bursting outward, onto the floor and down the halls, sending them both sprawling. Mike's body hurled from the opening, slamming hard into the adjacent wall, sending a painting of a moonlit night crashing down on his head and shoulders. His body slumped to the ground, hitting the tile like a puppet with its strings cut. "Mike!" Anna's voice was a concerned cry. She glanced over at Dave, rubbing the back of his head while on his knees, clearly still out of it. With a strength she didn't know she had she stumbled to her feet, making her way to the fallen man's side. "Mike, speak to me!" She tried to shake his shoulder, but it was like pushing at marble. "Step away child." A voice said. A voice that turned Anna's blood to icewater. It was a mixture of speech and crackling, and it was then she noticed how bright it'd become in the hall, much brighter than the afternoon sun further up the corridor and the harsh fluorescents should've allowed for. She turned...and gaped at what she saw. It was easily the most beautiful and most terrifying thing Anna had ever seen. A figure easily as tall as Mike, wreathed in flame, her eyes ablaze with fire but managing to look as cold as glacier ice. In her hand was a sword of fire, and behind her toned shoulders two large, fiery wings filled the gaping crevice that had once been an everyday wall. "The spawn of the Infernal is mine to execute. The Concord has been breached, and the guilty will be struck down by the righteous. So swears Muriel, steel of the Host!" She said, her voice loud and level. Anna's eyes caught Dave's as he leaned heavily against a nearby wall. "Man...where's the Legion of Doom when you need 'em...?" he muttered. To be Continued...