“Do you still love her?” I asked after a moment.

  “Yeah,” he said. He looked away, fighting the tears, jaw quivering. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

  “Maybe I’m easy to talk to.”

  “Maybe.”

  It’s okay to cry, I told him.

  And he did now, but not very hard. It wouldn’t be very becoming for the town sheriff to weep loudly at the little coffee shop. But the tears flowed anyway, silently; he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  “Yeah, I love her, but I can’t...” He cried a little harder now, and this time, he did reach up to wipe his cheeks and eyes. “I can’t forgive her, Ms. Moon. I can’t. I don’t know how to. I just don’t...know how...”

  One or two people looked over at us. I telepathically told those one or two people to mind their own business. They did, turning their backs to us.

  I considered what to do, even as the spirits swarmed around the grief-stricken man. Their future father. One even tried to wipe the tears from his face, and I knew what I had to do.

  ***

  Give me your hands, I told him.

  He blinked rapidly, eyelashes beaded with tears, then held out both of his hands. Thick, calloused hands.

  Look at me. Good. Now, can you hear me?

  “Yes.”

  Speak to me only in your mind.

  Like this?

  Yes. Good.

  I slipped deeper into his consciousness, and pushed through the pain and confusion and loss and hurt, deeper than I had any right to be.

  There, buried under the jealousy and grief was something bright and glowing and spinning slightly. I knew what this was from my experience with Russell, my boyfriend from two years ago, the man who had inadvertently become my love slave. Of course, finding Russell’s higher self or soul had been a lot harder, for it had been buried deep, deep beneath the curse that was, well, me.

  Sheriff Stanley was only a few layers down, although his grief was real and, if left unchecked, it would be lifelong. Grief like this would, I assumed, give him issues for the rest of his life, from distrust of other women to never feeling secure and loved and worthy.

  And so I spoke to him directly, to this higher aspect of himself. I told him to find the courage to let it all go, to find the courage to forgive her and to accept the responsibility of his own actions. I reminded him that he had a family to build with her, and with my words, I flamed his love for her back to life. The love was real, and it was deep, and it was easy to flame to life.

  Most important, I told him to forget he ever met me. When I was done, when I slipped back out of his mind and found myself sitting across from him again, I released his hands and sat back.

  He blinked, blinked again, then said, “I have to go.”

  “Figured you did,” I said, and grinned.

  He stopped as he was getting out of the booth. “Wait, who are you?”

  I waved him away. “I’m not really here, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  And then, he was gone, dashing through the coffee shop to, I assumed, his wife. The three staticy, small entities trailed after him. They were holding hands and skipping.

  Chapter Twelve

  I was at the park ranger station just outside Arrowhead.

  This time, I made it a point to get to the point. My last meeting had gone precisely nowhere, although I might have helped to salvage a relationship. And helped to build a family.

  Both of which, I knew, pissed off the demoness within me, which was exactly why I had done it. Well, one of the reasons. What can I say? I happen to be a romantic at heart.

  Ranger Ted sat behind a dented, metallic desk. A coffee mug was warming in an electric coaster that might have been the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Ranger Ted was graying and thin and didn’t look very intimidating. Then again, I didn’t think his job required him to look very intimidating. I think I could have taken him, vampire or not. The aggressive, competitive side of me was relatively new. I suspected it was her bleeding into my personality.

  Oh, joy.

  At the moment, Ranger Ted was looking through a thick blue folder, which was sub-divided further with little plastic tabs. When he was done flipping through the folder, he looked up at me.

  “Nineteen missing,” he said, “since 2010. And twelve missing from 2000 to 2010.”

  “So nineteen in the last four years,” I said. “And twelve in the ten prior to that.”

  He frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Yup.”

  “It went from just over one a year to almost five a year.”

  He nodded and looked pained. “Troubling as hell, I know.”

  “Any theories?”

  He blew some air out, then shrugged. “The mountains are as popular as ever. More hikers means more disappearances.”

  “Quadruple the hikers?”

  “I thought you said five times,” he said.

  “Caught me,” I said. “I couldn’t think of the word for increasing fivefold.”

  “Quintuple,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That word.”

  The ranger almost grinned. In fact, he might have if the missing hiker stats weren’t still depressing him. “I’m not sure how I know it, myself. I guess there are benefits to getting old. You come across enough shit over the years, and some of it even manages to stick.”

  I nodded and felt a sudden surge of relief. Relief knowing that I would never age, never wrinkle, never grow old. Ideally, my memory stayed as sharp as ever, even while I accumulated more and more knowledge. Not a bad deal.

  I said, “Are the disappearances centralized anywhere on the mountain?”

  “Well, the San Bernardinos are a chain of a dozen mountains. But I would say the bulk of the disappearances are along the popular hiking trails near Arrowhead.”

  “Who oversees the searches?”

  “The San Bernardino County Sheriff. We provide support and aid.”

  I nodded. “Have any of these hikers ever been found?”

  “’Bout fifteen years ago, we found a college professor who’d gone missing for about three days. Found him in a cave, half dehydrated.”

  “But none in the last fifteen years?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I guess we don’t have a good track record up here.”

  I said nothing, and looked again at the topographical map hanging on the wall behind him. It was looking more and more like the missing hikers would never be found.

  Especially with a hungry werewolf prowling the woods.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was nearly dusk.

  I hiked alone along a sometimes winding trail, although mostly it meandered through ponderosa pine, cedar, black oak, white oak and dogwoods. I knew this because I had read the posters that lined the park ranger’s office. I was a little sketchy on which were the black and white oaks, but other than that, I was fairly proud of myself for picking out the different trees. Granted, none were as big as the pines in the Pacific Northwest, but that was to be expected. This was—according to the chart—a transiticonifer forest, which meant little to me, although it probably got botanists all hot and bothered.

  I picked up my pace, although the forest was getting darker by the minute. Luckily for me, light particles danced and swarmed before my eyes, lighting my way, enough through the darkest of nights...or along a darkening forest trail.

  Not quite light particles, I thought, as I picked up my pace even more. God particles, maybe. Spirit energy, definitely.

  Tree trunks flowed past me. Ferns and smaller bushes swept by. I picked up speed, hitting the trail hard and fast. I could have been on a rollercoaster. Up and down and around tight corners and through mud puddles, up steep slopes and down sharply angled trails that led down into ravines.

  Faster, I ran. And faster.

  I adjusted my footwork on the fly, supernaturally fast. I should have broken my ankle a hundred times over. Instead, I sidestepped small holes, rocks and tree roots. I pumped my arms and laughed and could have sworn that there were times that my feet didn’t even touch the ground. I could have been flying through the forest.

  I knew I was grinning from ear to ear as I ran, but I didn’t care. No one could see me. I was in the deep, dark woods, which was only getting darker by the minute, although it was becoming more alive to me, alive with flashing light.

  Critters scattered in my wake. I surprised two deer on the trail. I moved between them, smelling their musky coats, and hearing them dash off after I was dozens of yards past them. I could have grabbed one. I could have broken its neck. I could have feasted on it. And then what? I would have been covered in deer blood. But it would have been...exciting, invigorating, thrilling.

  I pushed past the feeling and continued running. As much as I enjoyed fresh blood, I was enjoying this night run even more.

  I found a trail that seemed to lead up, and up I went, higher and higher into the mountains, hurdling logs and boulders and running up a trail I was certain few humans had ever used. A game trail, surely. High above, the quarter moon appeared within a thick stand of Douglas firs.

  How far had I run? Two or three miles? Five? Ten? I didn’t know, but I knew I was lost as hell...and I didn’t care.

  Up I went, higher and higher, and, if possible, my speed seemed to only increase.

  At one point, I finally did hit a hidden tree root, and I tumbled head over ass, skidding on my face. I got up, spitting out dirt and twigs and laughing. Nothing broken. I wasn’t even scratched. I dusted myself off, then started running again, zigzagging up the trail, knowing I was nothing more than a blur to anything watching me, and feeling like I was on the ride of my life.

  No wonder I was grinning like a fool, all the way up past the treeline, and over loose rocks and boulders until finally, finally I stood at the top of Old Greyback, the highest peak in the San Bernardinos. At 12,000 feet I finally stopped and looked down upon Southern California far, far below.

  I wasn’t even out of breath.

  I found a cluster of boulders and climbed to the top and sat there and relived my mad dash up the mountain. It had been exhilarating, thrilling—and it had all been possible, courtesy of the demon within.

  No, I didn’t hate her. She had, in fact, shown me a side of life that few would ever see.

  Of course, I knew now that I hadn’t been randomly picked, that my bloodline reached all the way to the greatest alchemist of all time, Hermes Trismegistus.

  Yes, my bloodline was desirable.

  For what, I didn’t exactly know, although some of it had to do with helping the dark masters back into this world. Directly. And not through hosts like myself.

  Directly and permanently.

  I pulled up my legs and wrapped my arms around my knees. There was a hole in my pants. My running shoes were kinda ruined, too, I saw. I didn’t think Asics had something like me in mind when they field-tested their products. I flicked a hanging piece of the rubber sole. I needed new shoes anyway.

  The wind was strong up here, and infused with a mix of desert and mountain scents. After all, one side of the mountain sloped down into Joshua Tree, one of the more epic of Southern California’s deserts, which just so happened to be the name of my favorite U2 album. Yes, I’m showing my age.

  Then again, a hundred years from now, with music coming and going and my kids long since dead, I would still have a fondness for 80s’ and 90s’ alternative rock.

  Suddenly depressed, I considered my case. Which was the reason why I’d come up here in the first place.

  That something was stalking these woods, I had no doubt. There had been no witnesses, and no evidence of foul play. The bodies had never been found. Something or someone had either consumed them completely, or had been damn good at hiding the evidence. I figured, it was probably a little bit of both.

  A gust of hot wind blasted me, whipping my hair into a frenzy. I let my hair flap and felt the wind on my neck and skin, relishing the feeling. I figured the thing inside was relishing the feeling, too. Through me. Sensing the physical world again through me.

  So we both sat there on the rock, enjoying the night breeze, as the nocturnal creatures came out, although not as many this high up, above the treeline with little vegetation. Still, I heard the scurrying, the scratching, the vocalizing. It was late fall and I should have been cold. I wasn’t.

  Of course, I had a good bead on who was stalking the hikers up here. Nancy wasn’t lying to me. She believed what she was telling me. Whether or not her ex-boyfriend was killing the hikers—or that he was, in fact, a werewolf—remained to be seen.

  I closed my eyes and felt the wind ripple my clothing and rock me gently. I rested my hands on my knees and let my mind slip away, far away from here. Where it went, I didn’t know, but there on the mountaintop, far from anyone and anything, I found a rare moment of peace.

  And I treasured it.

  Then, when I was back, I opened my eyes, took a deep and useless breath, and then did what any other lost girl would do on a mountaintop.

  I stripped off all my clothing and used a much-honed technique of wrapping my clothes, including my shoes, inside my shirt and tying it all together with the legs of my jeans. Just add a stick through it, and I could have been a hobo.

  Then I summoned the single flame and saw the giant creature I would soon become.

  A moment later, in a process that was painless, unlike in the movies, I was very much not just another lost girl. I was something monstrous and far too scary for this world.

  Using a clawed foot, I hooked my makeshift traveling satchel, gathered myself there on the rocky outcropping, and then launched high into the sky...

  And spread my wings wide.

  Now, I thought, as I caught a hot gust of wind and sailed out over a dark valley, Where did I park my car...?

  Chapter Fourteen

  We were in bed.

  It was past midnight, and the evening had been invigorating. Thanks to my little tirade last year—a tirade which involved the impaling of Kingsley’s hand with a fork—we had been forced to look for a new hangout. We had found it by way of The Cellar restaurant in downtown Fullerton. More accurately, under downtown Fullerton, as the name was indeed fitting. It was also underneath the offices of our local congressman, which, I think, might have been cooler than it really was.

  The Cellar was more our style. Dark, gloomy, isolated. I probably still couldn’t get away with impaling Kingsley, but at least we could probably sneak back in.

  Afterward, we had walked around downtown Fullerton, holding hands, looking in windows, avoiding drunks and rowdy college students, often one and the same. It was, after all, a Friday night and nearby Fullerton College was in full swing. Harbor Boulevard was lined with white lights, in a sort of year-round Christmas décor. We walked past Jacky’s gym, which was presently dark, other than a small, muted glow in the back offices. Maybe Jacky was going over the books.

  Spirit activity was everywhere. Downtown Fullerton was particularly old for Southern California. Lots of activity here over the years, lots of death and crime, too. Lots of heart attacks and car accidents and muggings. In fact, one such accident kept replaying itself, over and over, on a nearby street corner. Two cars coming together in an explosion of light. Over and over. I watched three spirits separate from the wreckage and stand together, looking down and looking confused.

  Kingsley saw the spirits, too, but rarely let them get to him, and never did he feel a need to help the truly lost souls. Early on, I had. I wanted to go to each one, and urge them to move on. To the light, and all of that. But I have since come to realize that I can’t help them all.

  And the truth is...

  Well, the truth is, I am caring less and less these days about whether they move on or not. Their plight is not my plight. I have my own issues. Yes, I know some of the uncaring was coming from her within me. Then again, it was because of her that I could even see the damn spirits in the first place.

  After our stroll—and after Kingsley had tossed aside a young punk who had pinned a girl to a wall and had been talking to her a little too aggressively—we had made our way back to his place.

  Once there, and once Franklin had taken our coats, we somehow, magically, ended up in his bedroom. From there, the clothing was optional...and mostly optional.

  Thirty minutes later, the big oaf lifted himself off me. Damn good thing I didn’t have to breathe. Afterward, we had gotten a midnight snack and eaten it over his kitchen counter. I was wearing his long shirt. He was wearing no shirt. While we talked, I might have giggled one too many times, because Franklin had appeared in the doorway, looking none too pleased. Then again, he rarely looked pleased to see me. Of course, he also sported a scar that literally wrapped around his neck. A scar that implied, well, that he’d lost his head at some point.

  Someday, I would get Kingsley to open up about Franklin.

  Anyway, we both apologized to the patchwork butler. Franklin sneered, turned his head, and loped away. That one leg seemed longer than the other or that one ear was actually a different skin tone than the other, was disturbing.

  Now, back up in his room, I lay next to Kingsley, with one hand propping up my head and the other veritably buried in his chest hair.

  “I get that you are a werewolf,” I started. “I also get that you change each full moon. I even get that you play host to your own highly evolved dark master, as do I. What I don’t get is why you are so damn hairy.”

  “It goes back to what I said a while back, Sam.”

  “That you continue to grow.”

  “With each transformation, I’m just that much bigger. That much closer to the beast within.”

  “And that much hairier?”

  “In short, yes,” he said. “Will that be a problem?”

  I didn’t have to think about it. “It won’t be a problem for me,” I said. “But I can’t vouch for your shower drains.”