The Guardian. Connie Hall

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СКАЧАТЬ a radio squawked for a dispatcher. She noticed the benches in Processing sat empty; no criminals handcuffed, waiting to be booked. No lawyers or bail bondsmen. No hookers. It was like being thrown onto the set of 28 Days Later.

      She walked past the desk and sniffed the air. Her keen senses detected the metallic scent of human blood. Then the supernatural vibrations struck her with such force it felt like she’d walked into a hive of hornets, a very large one. The same eerie, negative energy as at the park.

      She bent and touched the floor. The trail of energy was fresh, the underworld darkness in it palpable. Evil vibrated through it. Her hand began to tremble, her fingers on fire from the dark magic. She jerked her arm back and stood, gripping her .45. Adrenaline raced through her. Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears. And she heard her grandmother’s warning: Be on your guard. Had she brought this evil to the station? A sick, guilt-ridden feeling swirled in her gut. Was anyone left alive here?

      Her stomach clenched hard at the thought, then she felt the amulet vibrating against her skin.

      Tumseneha was here.

      Had he come for her? All the horrible images of him from her numerous nightmares flashed in her mind: a shifting, faceless shadow that fed off fear, a beast with four heads and fanged teeth; the one she dreaded the most was the normal male faces. He had sneaked up on her in those dreams, stepped out of crowds to grab her by the neck or plunge a knife in her back. He was, after all, a shape-shifter, and unlike her he could change his physical appearance into anything his heart desired. Her white magic was limited only to the bear totem. What form had he assumed at the park when he’d killed the girl? Was it the same one at the station now? She recalled the missing girl’s body and shuddered.

      A crash sounded in Processing. Screams followed. At least people were alive.

      A growl rumbled through the station, so menacing and so guttural it vibrated along her nerves. She had heard the howl of many beasts, natural and supernatural, but never one that sent dread through every nerve in her body like this one.

      She crept down the hall, her temples throbbing, a knot in her throat.

      As she drew closer to Processing, she saw the five-hundred-pound solid metal door, ripped clean from its hinges, the edge of it sticking out through the jamb. It was one of those “proof” doors, bulletproof, atomic-bomb proof, 9/11-afterthought proof. Too bad it wasn’t evil-sorcerer proof.

      She paused at the glass windows that ran along the wall separating Processing from the hallway. Her keen senses detected the sporadic thumping of human hearts inside, their fear jack hammering the air.

      Another crash and more shrieks as she peeked inside.

      Utter chaos. Desk and filing cabinets overturned. Civilians, cops and what looked like everyone in the building had hit the floor, some pretending death, some not pretending. Mannie was among them, pinned beneath an overturned desk, his cell phone still in hand. She zeroed in on his heartbeat. Still alive, but barely. Tumseneha had attacked him with ruthless accuracy.

      At the front of the room she spotted Detective Brower cornered by a lycanthrope. A werewolf, a ravehai in Patomani lingo. And right now this thing conjured from the underworld’s darkest reaches looked like the embodiment of pure brute force and viciousness. Sinewy strength bulged from its muscles. Gray, matted hair covered its body. Five-inch claws curled along its gnarled half-human, half-wolf hands. She could see the life-force aura the beast emitted, a nexus of pulsing, deep burgundy and black demon light.

      Hollywood had perpetrated a lot of contemporary myths regarding werewolves. The one that angered Fala the most was that werewolves didn’t know they were killing while in wolf form. Heck, yeah, they knew what they were doing. They reveled in carnage.

      The whole biting thing and silver-bullet hoax were just as laughable. Werewolves didn’t just walk the earth, biting and propagating its kind. They had to be conjured from the underworld like any parasitic demon that inhabited human bodies. A sorcerer powerful enough to call forth a werewolf spirit was also powerful enough to control it and protect it. Killing the host human never destroyed it, and an innocent life was always lost in the process. But the werewolf spirit could always slip into another human until the cycle was broken, either by destroying its master or by an incantation that could command it to leave the human vessel and return to the underworld, to await another resurrection. Fala had lost count of the number of werewolf spirits she’d dispatched to hell. So much for getting the facts straight.

      The difference here was Tumseneha had not only conjured this lycanthropic spirit but also inhabited the human form it infected. Two puppets for the price of one body. Not bad change. He couldn’t have chosen a more fearsome creature to attack the station, she’d give him that.

      Brower was a giant of a man, all of six-five, but the werewolf dwarfed him. Blood and spittle dripped from its huge mouth and long fangs as it backed Brower deeper into the corner.

      Fala had never seen Brower afraid before, and what she saw now was way beyond fear. Tears streamed down his square face, but he seemed unaware of them. He wore a crazed look of disbelief as he stared into the lycanthrope’s red, glowing eyes. Brower had wet his pants. He trembled all over, stumbling backward. The first sighting of a werewolf tended to make people a little nuts.

      Fala went to tap the barrel of her .45 against the glass and draw the werewolf’s attention away from Brower, but no need. The creature sensed her and turned.

      Their gazes locked.

      Cruel eyes narrowed slightly in recognition, as if he were sensing a target. The medallion throbbed and burned between her breasts like a divining rod, almost branding her chest. She could feel the world of opposites colliding within her, Tumseneha’s red underworld power writhing behind the werewolf face, coiling to extinguish her white-blue magic flames. His power was so strong it made her head throb, and her skin felt as if it were being peeled from her body.

      You are mine. I have marked you, Tsimshian. You and all your kind will die by my hand. Tumseneha’s voice pounded in her head, the same voice from her nightmares.

      We shall see, won’t we? Her heart banged her ribs, years of fearing this confrontation converging on her like a downpour.

      I have already won…

      Not while I’m still alive, she answered with more bravado than she felt. And like the coward you are, you’ve chosen to prey on weak mortals. Let’s see how well you do against an equal.

      I’ll destroy—

      Fala grabbed the amulet and meditated on an image of the Maiden Bear, clouding her mind to his words. White magic flashed from her core and burst from her body, jettisoning his thought transference out of her consciousness. She felt the aftershocks of his cloying essence leave her. Her mind grew suddenly clear, as if someone had wiped a slate clean. The amulet pulsed in her hand, energy still throbbing from the ancient metal, its heat comforting her skin. She hadn’t been prepared for the power of the amulet and how it enhanced her own. But damn, it sure felt good.

      She waited until he sprang through the doorway. His werewolf-form moved toward her with stalking, effortless grace, muscles pumping beneath a pelt of fur, eyes never leaving her.

      She ran for the front doors. She had to lure him outside, away from these people so she could fight him.

      “Duck, Fala.” Joe’s voice came from behind her.

      “No, Joe!”

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