“Yes!” Gunther said into the silence. “Fake vampires!”

Then came a slight buzz at Keith’s wrist. Without lowering his mage pistol, Keith glanced at his watch. Numeral nine blinking green.

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you kidding? Look at them.” Gunther waved dismissively at the trio, then said, “You three idiots are under arrest, by the way.”

“Master?” The guy wearing the cat’s-eye contacts finally spoke but not, Keith thought, to them.

“Blinking green nine, Heartman.” Keith kept the mage pistol trained on the three wannabes while scanning the room. In the upper corner of the room, a shadow moved against the ceiling. “Nosferatu. Ten o’clock.”

The black shape moved like a spider across the ceiling toward them. Its strange, shapeless jaw undulated. He didn’t know if this was Sounder or the remaining concubine.

It didn’t really matter.

“Freeze, asshole.” He retargeted his mage pistol. The vampire slid along the ceiling, still coming toward them, saying nothing. Saying nothing was a bad sign.

Gunther seemed unperturbed, even slightly annoyed by this. He said, “I order you to stop and identify yourself.”

The vampire launched himself at Keith. Gunther threw himself between them. The vampire sank its teeth into Gunther’s shoulder, narrowly missing his neck. The three humans bolted, running toward the back entrance. Keith slammed the butt of his mage pistol into the vampire’s head. He couldn’t risk firing while the vampire was still attached to Gunther. Though trans-goblin, the mage pistol would still have an effect on him.

“Get off him, you fucking lamprey.” Keith pried but couldn’t loosen even one of the vampire’s inhumanly strong fingers.

He wished he’d had the sense to bring a wooden stake or flamethrower.

Flamethrower…

He shoved his hand into Gunther’s inside pocket, groping for the flask of lighter fluid there. He got the top off and sprayed the vampire with it, straight into the eyes and down its undulating throat. The vampire released its grip and sprang away out of range of any lighters. Keith brought his mage pistol up immediately and fired. Three spell-inscribed bullets spiraled out, leaving blue tracers. The first shot went wide, but the next two found their target.

The vampire shrieked as the bullets penetrated its flesh, writhing against the ceiling like a vortex of angry smoke. Then, abruptly, the sound ended and a ring of plastic dropped to the floor. Carefully, keeping his mage pistol trained on the traces of lingering smoke overhead, Keith bent to read the name.

He stood and turned back to Gunther, who stood with one hand pressed against his shoulder to stanch the blood trickling out.

Keith holstered his pistol and phoned the ambulance.

Chapter Twelve

PPB apprehended the fake vampires within a mile of the warehouse. Although the transformation from human to vampire was technically impossible, all three fake vampires claimed to have been made Nosferatu by Sounder. None of them was anything but a misguided human.

“Sounder really did a number on them,” Gunther said. “He used the administration of methotrexate to induce photoallergic reactions when any of these kids went into sunlight. He let movie mythology do the rest of his convincing. After that he had himself a nice little set of minions.”

“And we got this from the remaining concubine?” Keith glanced at the clock. Ten minutes till checkout. Not enough time to have one last hurrah with Gunther. Not that Gunther was in any shape for sex. His shoulder was a mess of stitches and bandages. Keith gathered up the last of his clothes and shoved them into his suitcase.

“She made a deal. Her lawyer claims that she was acting with Sounder under duress. I believe her.” Gunther shifted in the stiff-backed hotel chair.

Keith nodded. “Well, we saw what happened to the concubine who didn’t cooperate.”

“Exactly. Administration at the Portland Saturday Market confirms that Azalea Point Creamery was next on the waiting list for a market booth. It’s hard to believe that Sounder would do all this just for money.”

“People have done worse for less,” Keith commented. “Ultimately, Sounder only ever saw humans as prey.”

“That doesn’t explain why Bullock went ahead with it.”

“She was just sick, like every other gourmet looking for the ultimate thrill. PPB managed to round up a couple of people associated with Forbidden Pleasures. They’ve been handed over to NIAD. I’m pretty sure at least one of them will be willing to talk, once they’ve found out what kind of death sentence they’re looking at.” Keith zipped his suitcase. Time to checkout. Time for him to head back to DC.

“Want to ride to the airport with me?” Keith squared himself, assembling his expression into professional cool. Gunther didn’t appear to be fooled. He reached out, smoothing Keith’s lapel.

Gunther said, “So it’s over, just like that?”

“I already saw housekeeping lurking in the hallway.” Keith knew that wasn’t what Gunther was asking, but he’d never been good at saying good-bye.

“There are literally dozens of portals between DC and San Francisco,” Gunther said. “It would be easy to pop over there. Maybe you could make me dinner sometime. Or even breakfast, if you’re in the mood.”

Keith caught Gunther’s hand and pulled it to his lips.

“I think I could be in the mood.” He heard the creaking of a disinfectant-laden trolley outside in the hallway. “Time to hit the road.”

They made their way down to the parking lot, passing by a line of food carts just opening for lunch. Keith felt a familiar pang of loss as he watched them open. He missed that world. He missed it a lot. But then again, being an Irregular wasn’t so bad. It had its perks. And watching Gunther slide into the passenger seat beside him, he thought maybe he’d found a regular customer to cook for again.

Gunther folded a smoke into his mouth, then unwrapped the Carnivore Circus CD he’d left on the dashboard.

“Want to find out what they sound like?”

“Why not?”

Massive, heavy beats exploded out of the speakers. Growls and screams like the howling of the damned pounded through the rental. Bombastic blasts of sheer sound vibrated from the speakers.

Above the noise, Gunther shouted, “I kinda like it.”

Keith nodded. “Me too. What’s the track called?”

Gunther searched the homemade packaging a moment, then said, “Chunderfuck. Next one is: Thy Doom Approacheth, Shithead.”

They listened to the song. It didn’t take long, being comprised of only seventy-two seconds of bowel-jangling guitar. Keith turned the volume down. Gunther gave him an inquisitive look.

“I’m not a nice goblin boy,” Keith said, then added, “I’m not even nice.”

Gunther gazed out the windshield, smiled in that slow way he had, and replied, “I know, but you sure can cook.”

Green Glass Beads

Josh Lanyon

They are better than stars or water,

Better than voices of winds that sing,

Better than any man’s fair daughter,

Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Overheard on a Saltmarsh

— Harold Monro

Never trust a goblin.

Even a child knows that much. But there are times when you’ve got to take the chance, when the prize is worth the risk—which is how Archer Green happened to be in a drafty warehouse on Quebec Street in Vancouver a few minutes before midnight, waiting with a goblin named Ezra for the Moth Man to turn up.

Why the goblins called the Moth Man the Moth Man was a mystery. He was an albino, so maybe that had something to do with it. That, and his predilection for the bright and shiny, especially things that easily caught fire or exploded. The Moth Man had a way of finding artifacts that were, in Archer’s opinion, better left lost. It was probably a strange opinion for the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver. Not that the ordinary man—or woman—on the street would know anything about MoSSA.