“You know Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies? He didn’t think it was possible for a couple of little girls to fool everyone with a cheap camera and paper cutouts.”

“You know the other side of that story, right?” said Jules. His British accent was regional, distinctive. From somewhere in London, maybe. “That the girls really saw fairies. They just couldn’t get anyone to believe them until they did up those photos. Funny, isn’t it?”

“You can ask for proof all you want,” Gary said. “But can you trust it once you have it? That’s the tough part. Especially where the paranormal is concerned. So much of it is taken on someone’s word.”

“At least until the day we can get a ghost to sit in front of the camera for an interview,” Tina said. They all made noises, huffs and groans, like this was a long-running joke. In fact, I remembered a scene on a past show: Tina pointing the camera at empty space, asking silly questions, And what made you decide to become a ghost? How’s the food? Any word from Elvis?

I decided the Paradox PI guys weren’t just the stars of a TV show—they were in earnest about their work, and I could take them seriously. We were on the same page, and I wanted to get them on my show more than ever.

“How’d you all get interested in this? Ghost hunting, paranormal investigation, whatever.”

Gary, it turned out, lost his brother when he was young. Since then, he’d been searching for some kind of hope, some evidence, that his life hadn’t simply ended. If I recalled correctly, Arthur Conan Doyle became obsessed with the paranormal when he lost his son. The same story playing out. Conan Doyle had turned to mediums and séances. Gary turned to science. Tina told a story of a ghostly encounter when she was a little girl, a young woman in antique clothing appearing in the attic of their old New England house. She was a believer through and through, but Gary’s methods appealed to her more than those of the table-rapping set.

“That, and I like trying to scare people,” she added with a grin. “It’s amazing: Someone can be the most hard-nosed skeptic in the world, but you tell them something’s definitely there, you can actually watch their hair turn white. It’s awesome.”

“Jules has the real credentials here,” Gary said. “He’s a fifth-generation member of the SPR—”

“Which is—”

Jules answered in a patient, humoring-toddlers voice. “Society for Psychical Research. The oldest and most respected group of its kind.”

“Except for maybe the Catholic Church,” Tina said.

“That’s different,” Gary said.

I leaned forward. “Slow down. What’s the Catholic Church have to do with paranormal investigation?”

Again, the humoring-toddlers voice, from Gary this time. “We hunt ghosts, they hunt demons.”

This conversation just went around the bend for me. But I’d sort of asked for it. I sat back and let it happen.

Jules said, “The society has always tried to bring scientific reasoning to bear on the subject of the supernatural. With varying degrees of success...”

“They believed the fairy photos, didn’t they?” I said.

“Only some of them,” he said, almost pouting.

“The society represents a lot of experience,” Gary said.

Tina, I noticed, had started staring off, distracted, through the French doors to the main area of the restaurant.

“Tina,” I said. She flinched a little, startled. “Are you okay?”

She looked at me, looked back through the door. Pursed her lips and furrowed her brow like she was trying to figure out a problem. “Yeah. It’s just this place is really... I don’t know. There’s something weird here.” She shook whatever thought it was away. “Do you know if there have been any reports of activity?”

Like, besides all the activity that goes on in a busy restaurant? “You mean ghosts? I’m not sure.”

“It’s just...” She set her jaw, and I caught her looking out at the dining room again. Specifically at a couple sitting at the bar, and another by a table in the corner. Back and forth, then at me. Like she was comparing.

I had a lightbulb moment. Tina was looking at all the other lycanthropes, werewolves who were members of my pack who were here. She was looking at them the way she’d looked at me earlier—nervous, tense. Could she see what we were? I’d have to find a way to get her alone and ask her about it.

“I think it’s just this building,” Tina said dismissively. “It looks old. I bet it’s haunted.” She looked around at her colleagues hopefully for confirmation.

“I don’t know,” Gary said. “You know the history of this place?”

“Not a clue,” I said. I wasn’t about to blow my friends’ cover by announcing that it was popular with werewolves. “Now. Tell me what I have to do to get you guys to come on my show. Hey, I’ve got a great idea. You’ll still be in town Friday, right? How about this...”

Two birds with one stone. I’d come along on one of their haunted-house trips, broadcast my show remotely, and talk to them about paranormal investigation. At the same time, they’d interview me as part of their show—the supernatural’s take on the paranormal, if that wasn’t too confusing.

Jules looked across the table at Gary. It was a sinister look. “How ’bout we take her to Flint House?”

Gary gave a low chuckle. “Oh, that’ll be perfect.” Tina nodded in agreement. They all had eager gleams in their eyes.

“What? What’s Flint House?” I was starting to feel like the butt of a joke. “I’ve seen that look on people’s faces before a really brutal hazing.”

“Tell her,” Jules said.

Gary said, “It’s an old house, an old neighborhood. It has a long history of well-documented activity. Somebody died there—”

“I thought that was one of the prerequisites for a haunted house,” I said. “Somebody died there. Ergo, ghost.”

“This is different. This was just a few years ago, and the person who died was a paranormal investigator. Some of us think the house killed him.”

And I couldn’t complain, because I’d asked for it.

Our plans set, I saw the PI crew off and headed for home.

I’d parked a couple of blocks down from the restaurant. Night was full dark now, and the air had turned cold. I kept looking over my shoulder as I walked. It had occurred to me more than once over the last week that maybe no one was out to get me. Maybe the Band of Tiamat hadn’t sent anyone to kill me, they’d just gotten someone to burn that message on the door, and that was all. I’d done the rest myself, assuming it was a warning, an opening salvo, and that something worse would be along soon.

Nights like this, though, chill and dark, I could convince myself that I heard footsteps. Heavy steps on the concrete, claws scraping with every movement as some hulking beast stalked me. Since Vegas, I’d done a lot of reading on Tiamat and her band of demons. None of it was pretty. She was supposed to be the mother of the elder gods, one of the creators of the cosmos, a personification of salt water, who blended with Apsu, the personification of fresh water, to create life. It was all very symbolic and Freudian. Then war came, with the founding gods and the newer gods trying to destroy each other. Tiamat created a horde of serpents, dragons, and monsters to do battle for her. They were defeated. She was cut in half to form heaven and earth, and her tears formed the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.

I had to ask: Was this supposed to be literal? Did this really happen at the dawn of civilization, inhuman demons lumbering across the landscape, doing battle? Or was it a metaphor, and if so, a metaphor for what? I’d spent a lot of time discovering how many of those old stories of gods, demons, witches, vampires—werewolves—and magic were true. Not all the stories were. So much of an ancient myth like this was metaphor that was repeated across stories and cultures. What metaphor was the Tiamat cult worshipping? How far would they go to get me?