‘Those who plan will live; those who don’t life-give.’

An old soldiers’ rhyme. The cadence brought him some comfort. Made him feel an ounce of control in a world where no control existed.

When he reached the west side of the road, at the top of the hill, the Adder moved inside the nearest apartment complex. Hermon Heights was a standard project slum – a dilapidated building, screaming of neglect and falling down all around him. But it was no doubt cheap on rent and, even better, Hermon Heights had no onsite manager.

Inside the slum, the air was just as cold as out. The halls were dim and the walls felt uneven, giving the corridor a slanted feel. In fact, everything felt off-kilter, warped.

Or was that just him?

The Adder walked down the eastern hall of the main floor and opened the door to the last room. Unit 109 was unoccupied, and the residents of the other units were smart enough to leave each other alone.

One of the unwritten rules of the projects.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him, then turned to face the room. Straight ahead was his collection of electronic equipment, already set up and ready to go.

The computer with external drive and signal receptor.

The monitor all hooked up with a colour feed of the target suite.

And, of course, his supplies.

He grabbed the cans of varnish. Four for the job; one for the police. Then he snatched the can of Coke from the table, popped the cap and chugged some down. The sweet caustic liquid burned his throat wonderfully. Outside, the sky was so big and so clear and so icy pale blue. It made the sounds of laughter invade his head once more, and the Adder could feel tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He picked up the screw gun. Gave the trigger a squeeze. And listened to the soft steady whirr of the motor.

He closed his eyes and listened to it for a long moment. Until the laughter faded and he could think again.

It was time to get to work.

Forty-One

They were halfway to Sarah Rose’s address when Felicia gave him a jab.

‘We need to make a pit stop first,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘Ladies room. Any place.’

Striker was concerned about getting there. ‘Can you hold it?’

‘I wouldn’t ask if I could.’

Striker just nodded. A few blocks later, at the corner of First Avenue and Rupert, he pulled into the Chevron lot. The owners of the gas station were police friendly and gave cops free coffee. More importantly, the bathrooms were normal – clean, tended, and free of black lighting and discarded needles.

Felicia hopped out and ran inside.

As Striker watched her go, he felt his cell buzz against his side. Hoping he was receiving another text or email from Larisa, he immediately pulled out the iPhone and read the screen.

It was an email:

. . . I saw them first in Afghanistan and Kandahar. In human form. They came in rows, wave after wave of masks.

But I KNEW what they were. The other soldiers may have been blind, but not me. I saw through the shells. And I took them all down. A soldier. An emissary. The HAMMER OF GOD!!!

Then I was, as I am today.

There is only one way to kill a daemon. A goddam Succubus. And that is through the heart.

You’re moving downward. Into the mouth of hell, Hero. Can you kill your daemons?

I know I can mine . . .

The Adder

Striker frowned on reading it. More riddles, more gibberish. Though when compared to the last, more stable message, the sender seemed to be spiralling out of control.

He got on the phone and tried to trace the message. Within seconds, the tech provider told him exactly what he expected to hear – the email was untraceable, most likely sent through an offshore proxy server. Striker nodded absently as he listened to the man. He hung up, called Ich, and the VPD tech said he would look further into it.

Moments later, Felicia returned to the car. She brought with her a pair of gas station sandwiches – egg salad – and a couple of chocolate milks. She dropped a sandwich in Striker’s lap, gave him a quick look and knew something was up.

‘What now?’ she asked.

Striker showed her the message, and she read it through slowly as she tore the wrapper from the sandwich. Striker did the same.

‘Friggin’ creep . . . How did he get your number?’ she asked.

Striker shrugged. ‘Who knows? Probably through the work directory.’

‘But this is your personal phone.’

‘My work phone forwards to my personal one, and the work phone is listed.’

Felicia thought this over, then swore. ‘I don’t like this.’

‘The sooner we get Mercury, the sooner this entire nightmare can end,’ Striker said. ‘But first we have to make sure Sarah Rose is safe.’

He tore a bite out of his sandwich, put the car into Drive and hit the gas. He wanted to get to Sarah Rose’s place. Suddenly, it seemed like they were running out of time.

Forty-Two

The address for Sarah Rose – the one Striker got from Dr Ostermann – was in the two hundred block of Princess Avenue, and the building was aptly named Princess Place. It was essentially a social assistance-funded, outpatient programme for the drug addicted and mentally ill, with assisted living and onsite medical staff. The exterior was made from faded pink stucco that was now reinforced with white smears of spackle that looked like scars on skin. Dark iron bars lined every window.

Princess Place.

Where no princesses lived.

Felicia got out of the car first. She looked for a long moment at the building in front of them, then met Striker’s stare. ‘Last time we were here, Thunderchild tried to stab you with a sword.’

Striker smiled. ‘Ah, the memories. We could reminisce forever, but hey, duty calls.’ He headed across the road to Princess Place. Before he reached the sidewalk, the front door of the facility flew open and crashed into the wall with such force that all the windows rattled. A small woman, terribly thin with red-dyed spiky hair, came stomping out, turned south and then marched on towards East Hastings Street.

‘Stole my fuckin’ ROCK!’ she screamed, and gave the building the finger.

Striker barely gave her a glance; this kind of behaviour was all par for the course in the Oppenheimer area. Before partnering up with Felicia, he had spent three long years here, during his time in Patrol, dealing with everything from the never-ending clumps of passed-out drunks to the cocaine-psychosis stabbings that were commonplace in any one of these slums.

He gestured to the building ahead. ‘You ready for a walk down memory lane?’

‘I’m still trying to forget my last time here.’

Striker smiled at that. He pulled open the front door and walked through the opening into Princess Place. He took in a deep breath, and winced. As always, the place smelled of body odour and piss.

The foyer around them was busy with crackheads and crazies – all of whom were one step from life on the street. Princess Place was the end of the housing line for most. It was cluttered and dirty and never seemed to hold a moment’s peace. And the angry screams from the floor above were a testament to that.

‘Fight up there,’ Felicia said.

Striker didn’t hesitate. He bounded up the stairs to the second level, then found his way down the hall to unit 212. Sarah Rose’s room. When he reached the unit, the door was wide open and the room was empty. Completely. Not even a chair was left inside. The place smelled of bleach, like it had just been cleaned.