To his surprise, unit twenty four was on the ground floor, tucked in the farthest corner possible. He’d just started to knock when the door was opened. “Hello officer,” Fox purred, giving him a seductive smile. “Have I been a naughty boy?”

Roan simply glared at him, and Fox started laughing, unable to keep a straight face. “Well, come on in, before the neighbors think I’m mixing with the wrong crowd.”

With some reluctance, he took him up on the invitation.

Fox - Holden - was a solid six footer, somewhat wide across the shoulders, although invariably lean. This was really easy to see now since he was wearing only baggy blue velvet pajama pants (or did they call those “lounge pants” now), loosely tied low on his waist, and about a half dozen various necklaces that made him jingle slightly when he moved. The necklaces were kind of interesting, mainly because Roan was certain there was a story behind every piece, from what appeared to be a pair of dogtags - obviously not his, since Holden was never in the military - to a small gold skull and crossbones, and oddly enough, a pendant that appeared to be a single silver wing (bird or angel he couldn’t say). In spite of the necklace collection, the pants and the fact that his hair was sticking up in all directions seemed to indicate he’d just gotten up, even though it was early evening.

As if to confirm this, Holden wandered into his kitchenette yawning. “Want some coffee?” he asked, turning to his fancy espresso maker.

“No thanks.” Holden’s living room was far more elegant than he would have expected. The carpet was sand colored and fairly new, while the coffee table looked like a curved piece of chrome, and his sofa and matching loveseat were black velvet. His curtains were open, showing off a surprisingly pleasant view of an overgrown back garden extending off towards the park. “You often sleep in this late?”

He made a small noise of amusement. “No. I was just up ‘til after four last night. Me and Andre and five of the girls had to show up at the Sheraton for a party. Some big company wanted us at their soiree to make the stockholders happy.” He yawned again, padding back out to the living room with a steaming coffee mug. “Go ahead and sit down. Mi casa is sue casa.”

Fox wasn’t traditionally handsome, but there was something very striking about him that was hard to quantify. He had an All American jaw line, cleft chin, and blue eyes, while his pale eyebrows and eyelashes indicated he was a natural blond, although he dyed his hair to a high white-blond that was strangely pure and totally unrealistic. He had a small mole near his left eye, although Roan was never sure if it was real or a cosmetic affectation. He also oozed sex so casually and reflexively it was almost difficult to believe he did it on purpose. “Have you heard about the guy beating up the boulevard boys?”

Fox had a seat in one of the armchairs, folding his long legs beneath him like a child might, as Roan perched on the edge of the sofa, kind of ill at ease and not sure why. “Yeah. Going after the twinkies, huh? That’s just too easy. I bet, when the cops find this guy, he has a dick so tiny it can only be found with an electron microscope.”

How many hustlers could use “electron microscope” in a sentence? But that’s exactly why Roan could never quite trust him - Fox was way too smart for the strata of society he had settled for. Why would he do that unless he had something to hide … or a deep desire to lord his superiority over others? And which was worse? “Probably. The cops have no leads because most of the victims took off before they could make an official report, and the latest victim was beaten nearly to death. He’s in a coma in the hospital.”

He grimaced sympathetically and shook his head. “Too bad. But are the cops actually gonna look for a guy preying on fags? My impression is they find us gross, like we all have cooties or are contagious or something.”

“The victim is fifteen years old.”

Anger flared to life in Fox’s eyes, infusing his face with genuine energy. “What? That motherfucker. You leave the boys alone. You catch this guy, give me five minutes alone with him. Then you guys can have what’s left.”

At least he could count on that from Fox. He didn’t like anyone fucking around with minors - he was always very protective of the really young kids on the street. Roan had no idea if something had happened to Fox when he was young or if he just had a strangely healthy sense of morality for a man who sold his own body to the highest bidder. As people went, he was one of the more puzzling contradictions. “So you’ll help me? I’m trying to dig up some solid leads, and while I’m not sure all the hustlers will talk to me, I know they’ll talk to you.”

“Ah, so there it is. I wondered what you wanted from me.” He took a sip of his coffee and put the mug down on his metallic coffee table, which had nothing on it but a TV Guide, an Entertainment Weekly, and a well read copy of Albert Camus’s “The Stranger”. Fox fixed him with a sleepy, sly smile. “I was kind of hoping this was a personal call. You know, there’s three guys I’d do for free. You’re one of ‘em.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, suddenly aware of why he felt so uncomfortable. “You don’t need to come on to me. It doesn’t impress me.”

“It’s not an act. I’ve always found you a bit fascinating. You were way too smart to be a cop. I mean, you were never a Lieutenant Dangle, were you? You deserved so much better; you could have aimed so much higher. Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t you?”

That made Fox smile deeply, like Roan had just passed some sort of test. “Ah, see? We probably have more in common than you ever realized.”

He was still flirting with him. Unbelievable. “Will you help me, Holden?”

“Ooh, reduced to real names are we, Roan? Aren’t you doing the cops’ job for them? Shouldn’t they be out looking for this limp dicked perv?”

“Without any leads? They can’t. I’m trying to scare some up as a favor to a friend.” He had no choice but to be honest with him, as if Fox picked up a hint of deception, he’d probably stonewall him. You could do a lot of things to Fox, but you could never insult his intelligence; that was the deal breaker. And frankly, he respected that about him.

Fox tilted his head to the side and studied him for a moment, like a cat might examine a mouse before pouncing on it. A lazy smile crept across his face, making Roan’s guard instantly go up. “How about we make it a trade? I help you in your investigation, and you do a favor for me.”

“What kind of favor?”

“There’s a person I want found. Do you think you can do it?”

“Sure. But why do you want them found?”

“Now now. Let’s make an agreement before we get into any particulars. Deal?” He reached a hand across the coffee table to shake hands. At Roan’s openly skeptical look, he smiled. “Trust is important in partnerships, don’t you think?”

Roan knew he’d regret this, but he shook his hand, which was still exceedingly warm from the coffee mug. “Fine. Now who am I supposed to find?”

“My sister.”

That honestly surprised him - he’d braced himself for something sinister. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted, with a rueful smile. He retrieved his mug and looked past him, out the window, as he told him, “I bet you didn’t know this, but I was adopted as a baby. Apparently I was found in an apartment with my dead mother when I was a few weeks old, I don’t know if it was an accidental drug overdose or suicide, I don’t think they ever determined that, but I was adopted straight out of the hospital by a well meaning pastor and his wife.” His eyes scudded back to him, and his smile became wicked. “Yeah, I’m the son of a preacher man. It’s a horrible cliché, isn’t it? I honestly think there’s something about growing up in a strict, repressive environment that triggers a latent gay gene into full, flamboyant life. That’s why so many Republicans and Born Agains have gay sons and dyke daughters, but let’s not tell them that, shall we? I’d hate for our population to go down. Anyways, a bit over a month ago I showed up for my usual HIV and kitty flu tests at the hospital, and by chance there was a nurse who was having her retirement party that day, and she recognized my name. She was at the hospital I was adopted from lo those twenty six years ago; apparently my story was heartbreaking and tragic and everybody wondered whatever became of me. Well, she dropped a bomb by asking me how my sister was. That was the first I ever heard of a sister, but yeah, I was found with my dead mother and a three year old sister. Her name was Zoë, but she said momma hadn’t given me a name, leaving me as “Baby Boy Williams” until the Krauses came in and gave me a name. According to this nurse, my sister had to remain in the hospital longer than me, ‘cause she had a staph infection, but she just assumed that the Krauses adopted her too. They didn’t. They didn’t even tell me I had a sister.” He scoffed. “Hell, they only told me I was adopted when I came out to them, and my dear old daddy blamed my junkie genes for permanently warping me. And before that, he liked me. I used to be the star of my baseball team and he was so damn proud of that. I was - of course - a pitcher. A damn fine one if I don’t say so myself.”

Somehow it figured that Holden was an ex-jock. He seemed like the type, and he had the long, finely muscled torso he associated with them. In fact, if he didn’t shave his chest, it would have been really attractive. Roan dug the small notebook he usually carried with him out of his pocket, and flipped it open, pulling out his pen as well. “Her name was Zoë Williams? Any idea of her middle name?”

“No, she didn’t say.” He leaned forward and looked a bit more closely at his pen. “What is that?”

“Oh, it’s a souvenir that they give you when you try out for Jeopardy.”

Holden grinned at him, so guilelessly goofy that he knew it was genuine. “You tried out for Jeopardy?”

He shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. “Paris talked me into. I got into the final testing round but I didn’t quite make the cut. Honestly, I have no idea what I was thinking with that.”

“I’ve thought about trying out for it myself, if only to announce on national t.v. that I’m a male prostitute. But I bet I’d be edited out of the finished broadcast.”

“I bet you would be. What was your mother’s name?”

“Catherine Jane Williams. Both my father and Zoë’s father were unknown. She claimed Zoë’s father was dead on her birth certificate, but she didn’t name names, apparently. She was never married, and died at twenty five. If she had living family, they never came forward.”

Jesus. He was willing to bet Catherine Jane’s life, no matter how brief it was, was spectacularly tragic. “What hospital were you adopted out of?”

“Saint Joe’s.”

That was farther north of here than he expected, but it explained why he’d never heard of a Pastor Krause. “What was the date of your arrival there? Do you know?”

“No, I don’t. But I was born on November fourteenth, 1981, if that’s a help.”

“It is, yes.” If he was only a couple of weeks old when he was found, that probably put him being taken to Saint Joe’s around the first week of December of that year. Those records shouldn’t be too hard to turn up. “What about this nurse? Did you get her name?”

He grinned at him, showing perfectly bleached white teeth. “I saw it on her cake and her name badge. Marylyn Thomason.”

At least Holden was one of those thinking witnesses, the ones who knew that what was going around them might have some future significance. “Is there any way I can get a copy of your adoption papers? Some of the information on there might be useful.”

He nodded. “I’ve got them with all my other legal paperwork in a safe deposit box. I’ll get you a copy later today.”

“Great.” A safe deposit box? Again, he was too crafty by half. Roan folded up his notebook and tucked it back in his coat pocket. “Now, what you can do for me.”

He probably shouldn’t have put it that way. Holden gave him that languid, sensuous smile again, settling back in his chair in a pose that he obviously knew showed off his long torso to its best advantage. Roan was just able to read the printing on one of the dogtags: Lieutenant G. Rogers. “I have some suggestions, if you’re open to them.”

“Cut the crap, Holden. The latest victim was dumped on Royal Avenue. I’m thinking that might be a good place to start asking questions.”

He nodded amiable. “Do you have a theory on who we’re looking for?”

“What do you mean?”

“A psych profile, an idea of what kind of damage this guy may have.”

“I’ve got nothing but irresponsible speculation.”

“So? There’s no one here but us foxes.” His grin was wide, eyes sparkling. There was something about him that reminded him - just a little; just a tiny bit - of Paris. That sense of nostalgia and need was dangerous, and he knew why he felt like running screaming from the apartment.

“I’m a lion.”

“We’re all predators here.” The grin remained, unchanged.

Here was the bizarre thing - Roan really wanted to bounce ideas off of him. Who knew more about people and their seamier quirks than a man who made his living off of them? While that didn’t guarantee insight, Holden was still the type to have it. “The most obvious conclusion to draw is that the man who’s doing this loathes himself - he can’t accept he’s gay and hates himself for it. So he’s taking out his own rage on these poor boys he picks up.”

Holden nodded, his posture in the chair so casual and yet so studied it was like he was posing for a calendar. “That does seem obvious.” He paused briefly. “Since when are you obvious?”

He sighed in defeat. “I have no information to go on, at all. There’s not much other speculating I can do.”

“None of his previous victims said a word?”

“Most of them took off at the appearance of blue.”

Holden made a noise that was almost a laugh, but not quite. “Poor kids. They’re so young and green they don’t even know they can report this guy without getting run in.” His next pause was brief but thoughtful, and when he looked at him again, his eyes were bright. “What if he’s counting on that?”

Roan felt something click in his own mind. Wasn’t that an interesting thought trail to follow? “Using their naiveté against them?”

Holden nodded. “Maybe he’s not just a self-loathing queen taking out his issues on the twinks. Maybe he’s counting on them helping him get away with his crime.”

“But he can’t possibly know that all of them are new at the game just because they appear young. You and I both know that’s no way to judge.” Roan considered the possibilities as he flipped over the few facts he did know in his mind. “Shame. What if he’s counting on their shame? If you feel like a complete fucking idiot, you’re not gonna go out of your way to admit it to anyone.”

Holden’s smile was indulgent. “We’re hustlers, honey. We have no shame.”

“If you’re fooled, you do.” His mind raced for a scenario that could fit this, and he found it. “What if he said he liked it rough? Offered them extra money for a bit of a slap and tickle, and things got way out of hand.”

Holden sat up straight in his chair, clearly latching on to the thought. “Maybe he had no intention of stopping at a slap and a push. He tricked the kids into thinking it’d be a bit of spanking, and then he’s beating the shit out of them. Maybe this guy gets off on other people’s pain.”

“Which makes him extremely dangerous. If that’s true, it’s amazing he hasn’t killed yet.”

Holden’s eyes seemed to fix on the framed art he had hanging on the soft violet walls, a print of Franz Marc’s expressionistic “Blue Fox” (which was actually a lovely piece, although Roan took points off for Holden’s use of his own nickname in decorating his home), but after a moment, Roan realized he wasn’t looking at it. He was thinking of something, looking inside his own mind, and his eyes just needed a place to rest. “Ignoring the safe word,” he muttered.

“What?”

Holden looked back at him now, a sudden knowing in his eyes. “Oh my god, Rocky was telling me last week about a guy who got kicked out the club because he ignored the safe words.” He levered himself out of his chair and headed back to his kitchenette, where Roan had noticed he’d left his cell phone on the counter.

“Rocky?”

“A leather daddy. A scenester, not in the game, we’re working on this internet project together. Anyways, he’s in this S&M club. It’s both gay and straight; they’re people united in their mutual love of the same kink. They’re actually remarkably harmless as a whole. They’re all doctors, lawyers, cops, accountants, dentists - people who secretly get off on being beaten or beating someone else, and kind of enjoy having this dirty little secret. But that’s why you won’t find a scene that plays by the rules more rigidly than the SMBD crowd. They are totally fucking serious about having a safe, welcoming place to play. You break their rules, and you’re no longer invited into the sandbox. Anyways, Rocky was telling me the other week about this freak, this guy they not only barred from their clubs but warned people about on the message board.”

Roan wished he was surprised, but no, he’d been alive and in this job too long. “They have a website?”

Holden smirked. “Honey, I have a website. Anyways, Rocky was telling me about this guy ‘cause it was really weird. I mean, they have the Dungeon, you know? An entire nightclub devoted just to them on Friday nights. If you want to be spanked and humiliated, you can go there and get it done for nothing more than a two drink minimum - it’s S&M paradise. They’ve had to warn and occasionally send away the curious or the frat boy gawkers, but they’ve never had to turn away one of their own, at least not while he’s been around.”

Roan could see where this was going. “But this guy ignored the safe words.”

“Oh yeah. He was a dominator that wouldn’t play by the rules, and blackened someone’s eyes. He was bodily thrown out, and told never to return.”

“And he had no other place to go to get his kicks.”

Holden had flipped open his phone and appeared to be scrolling through a phone list. “Except maybe the streets.” He pressed a button and scowled as he waited for the person on the other end of the line to pick up. “Rocky? It’s Fox. Call me back as soon as you get this; it’s serious. I need the name of that freak you tossed out of the club. Call me back on the main line.” He flipped his phone shut with a sigh. “He’s not home.”

Roan knew that he would regret this, but he had no choice, did he? Not when someone’s life was possibly at stake. “Is the Dungeon open?”

Holden turned to look at the digital clock on his microwave. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is.”

“You want to show me where it is?”

That lazy, sensual smile crawled back on his face as he realized what it was Roan intended to do. “You be Dante, and I’ll be your Virgil.”

Right. He looked over at O’Leary to find him slumped over the steering wheel. “Cal?” he asked. There was no response.

Check his pulse, Hugh instructed.

Gryphon rolled his eyes. “I can never find a pulse and you know it.”

Fine. Let me take over.

That idea was a relief, and he wasn’t sure why. No, scratch that - he knew exactly why. Even he was tired of being in his own skin. “Yeah, fine.”

The process of letting the others take over had become easier. It was just like letting go, although of what he wasn’t sure. He just felt like he was momentarily falling, and then he was in the back seat, a passenger behind his own eyes. It didn’t get any less disorienting with time, though.

Hugh looked at his arms and patted his chest before undoing his seat belt and reaching across to check O’Leary’s pulse. What the hell was that about? Gryphon asked.

“Trying to figure out if you were hurt,” Hugh said. “Your chest hurts a little.”

It does? He didn’t remember that.

“Yeah. It’s not a sharp pain, though, so maybe it’s just a bruise from the belt.” Hugh put a couple of his fingers on the side of O’Leary’s neck, and he found a pulse right away. How did he manage to do that? “He’s alive. His heartbeat’s a little rapid, but a guy his age and girth probably has hypertension.”

And now you’re the medical expert, Ray carped.

“Trust me, I know bodies,” Hugh said, opening the cab door and getting out. The big thing that hit them was slammed up against the guard rail, steam hissing out from beneath the crumpled hood. As Hugh crossed the street to the wreck, a young Indian guy driving a Volkswagen pulled over and shouted out his driver’s side window, “Need help?”

“Not me, but this guy might,” Hugh replied, approaching the wrecked SUV. He was about within a dozen feet of it when he saw a colorful display on the pavement, blue and red and yellow, and saw that a body was laying splayed out on the shoulder, half in some brush, about fifteen feet from the vehicle itself. Shattered safety glass sparkled like blue and white diamonds strewn at his feet. One of his arms was splayed out, and the other was bent under him in what would have been a painful manner had he been conscious.

It was a man, although he was laying face down on the ground, which added a bit of doubt. But women just didn’t have that type of pipe cleaner body shape, except in odd occurrences. He had short brown hair that sparkled with shattered glass. Hugh knelt beside him, and getting a good look at his bloody face, groaned audibly. “Kid, he’s about your age.” Hugh was right; beneath the hair and the blood, he looked about twenty or so.

Hugh found his pulse in his neck, but it was a lot more erratic than O’Leary’s. It was like a little hummingbird frantically beating its wings against the inner skin of his throat. He’s dying, isn’t he? Gryphon guessed. He supposed if he was in the driver’s seat, he’d be able to sense it, but he wasn’t quite connected to himself right now.

“Possibly,” Hugh reluctantly replied. “He did a header through the windshield, and that ain’t great for your longevity.” He leaned down, and whispered, “Don’t die, kid. I think Gryph’s at full capacity.”

The Indian guy came over, looking nervous enough to jump out of his skin. “I called 911,” he said, looking down at the guy splashed on the road. A brief wave of nausea turned his face pale. He was wearing the dark slacks, white shirt, and bright tie of someone in middle management, but everyone tried not to hold that against him. “Should we, uh, move him off the road ..?”

“No. He could have neck or head injuries that we’d just make worse, so leave him for the paramedics.”

The guy looked down nervously at the accident victim and nodded like his head was on a spring. He seemed relieved that someone else was taking charge. But he stopped his odd loose necked nod to stare at him wonderingly. “You’re bleeding.”

Hugh wiped his face, and saw small smears of blood on his palm. “Just glass cuts. We - I’m fine.”

Nice save, Ruby said.

“Fuck,” O’Leary snapped, getting out of the truck and slamming the door. He looked at the front of the truck, grimacing at the smashed headlight and crumpled front bumper, and grabbing his side as if he were in pain. “Son of a bitch.” He turned towards them, and fixed a laser gaze on the Indian man. “Did you do this? Did you hit me?”

“No, he’s a good Samaritan,” Hugh told him, and then pointed beyond the SUV. “The guy who hit you is over there.”

“Oh.” He saw the man’s body partly on the road and scowled. “Shit. My insurance rates are gonna skyrocket.”

“Wow, and they called me cold,” Hugh said.

O’Leary swiveled the scowl over to him. “I didn’t mean ‘cause of him, I meant … oh forget it.” He sighed and rubbed his broad forehead. “Is he dying?”

“He’s working on it.”

O’Leary gave him a look like he thought he was shitting him and he didn’t find it particularly funny. But then a new expression crossed his face, something akin to understanding, and he asked, “You ain’t Ashmore, are you?”

“Nope. Hugh D’Ancanto, dead guy, at your service.” Hugh added a small, sarcastic, two fingered salute to this. “What gave it away?”

“You’re smiling. Ashmore doesn’t smile.”

“Oh, I know. He’s a gloomy gus. Totally Goth.”

I am not, Gryphon protested.

You so totally are, Taneesha countered.

The Indian guy was looking between him and O’Leary nervously. “What are you guys talking about?”

Hugh opened his mouth to say something, and Gryphon was genuinely curious what he would say, but he never got a chance to find out, as a truck barreled around the corner at an incredible speed. It was newer and wider than O’Leary’s sad excuse for a truck, and painted an ominous shade of black. They were all standing in the road too, so O’Leary had time to curse, but Hugh remained where he was, and simply focused his will as he shouted , “Stop!”

The truck stopped all right. It hit an invisible wall about ten feet in front of him, coming to a dead stop as the front bumper curved like tusks and the headlights shattered into a gentle shower of glass dust, the body of the truck creaking and straining violently under the inertia of the sudden stop. The airbag deployed with a muffled “pop”, hiding the driver, and probably preventing them from seeing the hood of the truck crumple ever so slightly at the front. Smoke was starting to waft from under the hood in faint gray tendrils. “Hot damn,” Hugh said. “That’s fucking cool. I feel totally like Jean Grey.”

O’Leary was glaring at him in a complex mix of fear and disbelief. “Who?”

“Jean Grey. You know, X-Men.” O’Leary continued to stare at him blankly. “You never even saw the movie?”

“No.”

“I, um, I have,” the Indian guy said nervously. “What did, uh, what did you do to that truck?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Hugh lied, with a big shit-eating grin on his face. He then turned to O’Leary and asked, “Do you have a fire extinguisher?”

It took him a moment to focus on his question, but he finally said, “Yeah, a vehicle one, under the front passenger seat.”

“Good enough.” He went to get it as smoke started pluming out from under the hood of the black truck far more seriously. As Hugh reached under the passenger seat, he muttered, “I probably fried the wiring. But that was cool. Damn kid, you could have so much fun with these powers if you let yourself.”

They’re not my powers, they’re yours. You’re the dead ones, not me.

“But we’re all in you,” Hugh replied, finding the tiny canister and pulling it out. It was as red as your typical fire extinguisher, but was roughly the size of a summer sausage; it looked like a joke fire extinguisher. “There’s gotta be some benefit in that.”

Besides all our voluminous wisdom, Mr. Aronofsky joked.

As Hugh went to the black truck and opened the hood, spraying the contents of the fire extinguisher over a smoking, crackling nest of frying wires near the engine block, the driver of the truck was out and ranting at him. It was a middle aged woman with a strangely round figure and a rat’s nest of bottle blonde hair that made it look like she was wearing a poodle pelt on her head. “What the fuck didja do to my truck?” she ranted, growing angrier and more agitated by the second.

“Hey, lady, back off,” O’Leary snapped.

She ignored him, and got in Hugh’s face as he closed the hood. “This truck is new! What the fuck did you -”

“Back off!” O’Leary demanded angrily. “I’m a cop and this is an accident scene! Don’t make me arrest you for obstruction.” Funny how he didn’t mention he was a retired cop, and couldn’t actually arrest her for anything.

The woman frowned at him, giving him a death look, but backed off. By then, the scream of sirens was audible and approaching fast.

Gryphon let Hugh continue to be in control as the police and ambulance arrived, and Hugh chatted with the ambulance driver, a petite Asian woman, while the others worked on the driver of the SUV. Hugh was flirting with her, successfully it seemed, while she put bandages on his glass cuts and checked his ribcage for possible fractures. He did have a rather nasty looking bruise, but after listening to him breathe through a stethoscope, she winced and said, “Sounds like you have fluid in your lungs. It’s probably not worth bringing you in about, but you might want to go to the doctor as soon as you can.”

“Will do,” Hugh agreed cheerfully.

Not on your life, Gryphon snapped.

Once O’Leary was ready to go, he approached the truck, only to find the Indian guy waiting there, nervously wringing his hands. “What -” he began haltingly, so scared by his own questions he looked nauseous. “ - how did you stop the truck? Are you really … are you actually telekinetic?”

Hugh grinned at him, flashing him the winning smile that got him on the cover of a couple of firefighters charity calendars. “Come on man. That shit doesn’t exist outside of comic books.”

You are a cruel man, Sylvio said.

The car accident fucked up their day, so O’Leary just drove him back to Clay’s house, where Shane was. They’d responded positively to the home exorcism request, although Clay was still wary about it. Shane wanted to know if he was up to doing it tonight, and Hugh was going to say no, but Gryphon insisted on a yes. He just took the time to clean up and take back control of his body before they left, changing his shirt since his shirt was speckled with blood. It was only after he’d done that that he discovered Hugh had gotten the phone number of the paramedic. When had he done that?

I work fast, Hugh admitted.

Supersonic speed fast. Damn, he was dangerous.

Gryphon was surprised to find himself starving, probably because ceding control and the use of psychokinesis seemed to burn through his energy reserves. He grabbed some kind of granola snack bar from Clay’s kitchen (it wasn’t very good, but it was food), and then went out to join them in the Spirit Guide’s van. Shane had painted that on the sides of the blue van and everything - it looked very professional.

He got in the back and laid down amidst the inactive equipment as Shane and Clay sat up front, and Shane told him a bit more about the couple who now owned the house, the Jones’s, and the known history of the house. The most interesting bit brought up by Shane was that there were several deaths at the house over its history, although none were murders - there were three suicides, though, one in 1939, another in 1956, and the last in ‘72. (Hanging, slashed wrists, and drug overdose, respectively). Shane was of the opinion that the suicide in ‘72 was most likely the source of the poltergeist, which was a possibility, but Clay said that wasn’t a sure thing, as perhaps the poltergeist shoved the other people into committing suicide. It was possible, but Gryphon tagged it as unlikely.

He napped until they got to the house, and he woke up the second Shane and Clay opened the back door to retrieve some equipment. Clay studied him skeptically and asked if something had happened while he was out with O’Leary, and he lied and said no, as he saw no reason to mention the car accident. It didn’t matter right now. (He’d already lied and said the scratches were from stumbling into a bramble bush. Very lame as lies went, but explained the uncovered, tiny scratches on his face.)

The house looked old and kind of imposing, a converted farmhouse that still had the vague shape of a barn, with a high ceiling and squared off walls, with wild roses creating a serpentine nest of high shadows against the walls, creeping under the window frames like they were trying to break in.

But he barely noticed the exterior. As soon as he was on the cracked stepping stones that made up the front walk, he felt it. The house - no, something in the house - was just seething with reflexive hate. It wanted everyone to go away and leave it alone; it wanted to be all by itself. There was fear under the anger, but it was mostly aimless rage.

Gryphon didn’t think he reacted to it, but he must have, as Shane and Clay, who were bracketing him on either side, asked, almost in unison, “Got something?” They then shared the embarrassed glance of actors who had stepped on each other’s line.

“Stay here,” he told them. “Somebody really doesn’t want visitors.”

“You see them?” Shane wondered.

“Not yet; they’re hiding in the house. But they know we’re here.” As if to emphasize that fact, Gryphon walked through a cold spot on his way to the front door, a patch like the arctic in the dead of winter. But although he convulsively shuddered, he continued on through it, unimpressed.

“Is it safe for you to go in alone?” Clay wondered, although both remained at the head of the walk. They both knew by now when he told them to stay put, he meant it, and they had to listen.

Gryphon scoffed before looking back at the pair of ghostbusters with a rueful smile. “I’m never alone.”

As soon as he got up to the door, he tried the knob - which was, of course, ice cold - and found the door wouldn’t open. “They give you the house key?”

“They said the house key doesn’t work,” Shane reported. “They had three different locksmiths over here, who claimed the key should work, but none of ‘em could do it.”

“I see. Holding the door shut.“ He turned back to the whitewashed door. “Not very creative, is it Mr. Poltergeist? Guys, open it up.”

They hardly needed any prompting - Ruby was right there on the edge of his consciousness, ready to take over and kick some ass. He’d told her to wait for it, but he didn’t know if she would. He could feel the surge of energy leave him as the door suddenly slammed open, thudding against a wall and shaking the pane in the nearest window.

As soon as he was inside the foyer, which was naked of everything save for a coat tree that looked like it had been there since the beginning of time, he could see his breath coming out in plumes, the air so cold it was almost crystalline. The door slammed behind him with a loud, tooth rattling bang, but Gryphon hardly glanced at it. “You have parlor tricks? So do we. Guys?”

All the doors inside the house slammed. Every door, from kitchen cabinet to master bedroom, slammed shut as if on cue, the closed ones throwing themselves open and banging off walls. Gryphon got a sense that the angry ghost was upstairs. “See? We could do this all day. You’re outnumbered, friend. There’s one of you, and over a half dozen of us. Why don’t you talk to me, instead of hiding?”

He headed for a wooden staircase that looked dusty and positively ancient, and as he stepped on the first stair, an old Bell canning jar came straight out of nowhere, flying towards his face. Oh no you don’t, prick, Ruby said in his mind, as the jar froze in midair, inches from his face. As Gryphon reached out and took the jar, which fell easily into his hand, Hugh said, See? Isn’t this psychokinetic shit cool?

Gryphon put the jar down on the step, and continued up the stairs. “Nice try, but let me remind you once again, I look like one person, but I’m actually a torch wielding mob in a handy economic package. So stop the bullshit and reveal yourself. You’ll have to anyways.”

But did he? As he came to the top of the stairs and saw that the whole upstairs hallways was covered with a glossy white coating of ice, as unnaturally smooth and even as if an artist had been up here trying to paint a snowscape, he wondered if a poltergeist could actually resist his pull. And what would happen if it did.