dochermes

"The Sad Fate of Yokel Ono"

6/28-6/30/2001

I.

From the outside, nothing indicated the weathered old cinder block building was a bar. There were no signs at all, and the windows had been painted black. You had to know about this place beforehand. It was by no means the only such underground establishment in this part of downtown Manila.

Late in a miserable afternoon where the temperature and humidity were both high, Jeremy Bane made his way down narrow streets toward this nameless bar. Even the alleys were crowded with giggling half-naked children playing tag, sullen-faced women hanging up damp laundry that would take forever to dry, vendors trying to sell obscure snacks or cheap watches and jewelry. Ripped open plastic garbage bags were piled five high, after everything that could be of any use had been scavenged. Many people were just standing about in small clusters, not seeming to be doing much of anything in particular. Bane had grown up a street orphan in the poorer neighborhoods of Manhattan, and none of this was new to him.

Bane opened the unmarked door and met a big man taking up most of a vestibule. The wide acne-scarred face reacted with instant hostility and the man straightened up with his fists tightening. But then he hesitated.

He found himself facing an American in his late thirties, six feet tall and lean, dressed all in black. Under heavy dark brows, a pair of cold clear grey eyes stabbed out at him. Something in the stranger's quiet confidence was unsettling. Without a word, the guard pulled open the inner door and moved aside to let Bane enter.

Cigarette and marijuana smoke made the barroom as hazy as a foggy night. None of the scattered tables or chairs matched each other. In an instant, Bane's Kumundu training made him assess the situation... He spotted the doors, the exit, possible places where an assailant might be concealed. He took in the poses and body language of the men and women who were playing cards, arguing in low voices or drinking. Mostly, drinking. None seemed an immediate threat, although he could tell that some of them were armed.

One of the doors in the far wall opened and a barefoot woman in a flimsy sundress popped out to speak with the bent old -mustached bartender for a second before vanishing again. Bane knew that places like this had backrooms for gambling and prostitution, but they were not his targets today. He had Midnight War business on his mind.

Bane stepped up to the bar, put down a twenty and ordered a shot of Tequila, which he gulped down. He repeated the action and seemed satisfied. The bartender of course had no way of knowing about Bane's enhanced healing ability. Twenty years on the Tagra tea found only at Tel Shai had elevated Bane's recuperative factor so far that minor wounds or injuries disappeared within minutes. He could not be poisoned. Bane could safely drink pure alcohol and not feel any effects as his system easily processed it. But downing two shots like that made the bartender feel more at ease.

He placed another twenty down on top of the first one, drank another shot of Tequila and leaned forward confidentially. "You must know by now I'm here for information."

That produced a toothless grin from the old man. "It's the usual game. But, sir, I have to say you are not a policeman. Not a spy. Not an underworld killer, either, and we have enough of them here already. I cannot say exactly what you are."

"I have a sort of nickname, the Dire Wolf."

"Oh. Oh, I see...." The bartender had unconsciously stepped back a pace but he regained his nerve. "Of course. I have heard stories. Eyes the color of steel. Black clothing for hunting in the night. You are here to face the unholy creatures, then?"

"I'd like to talk with a man named Mikage. He's Japanese. He has a war name too, the Bronze Ronin. Can you give me one word to point me in the right direction?"

"No," said the bartender. "But I'll give you a friendly tip. Stay away from Bronze Ronin. He's not a kind or a gentle man, my friend."

The Dire Wolf decided against putting down more money. "Well, I've been all over Downtown today asking about him. By now, the whispers should have reached him...."

"Or at least the whispers have reached ME," said a husky female voice.

At that point, the barkeep decided that all the glasses needed vigorous wiping and he occupied himself with the chore. Bane knew a woman had approached him from behind. Even with all the heated conversations and arguments in that bar, no normal Human could set foot close to him without his being aware of it. The Dire Wolf seemed casual, but his weight was perfectly balanced to move in any direction and both arms and both legs were poised to block or attack.

To any observer though, Bane merely turned around to face a woman standing just behind him. She was apparently not a Filipina. The oval face was very pale, accented by delicate red lips and rich glossy hair that was so black it had a blue sheen. Her eyes were deep green, shaded by heavy natural lashes. A black dress, classic in its simplicity, fit snugly without being too obvious.

Most people would guess her age to be in her early twenties, with that clear skin and taut figure. But Bane glanced at her throat, the backs of her hands and the whites of her eyes and judged she was a well-tended forty years old. A small brown canvas handbag hung lightly enough from one shoulder that he decided there was no gun in there.

"You were speaking of Mitsuo Mikage, of the Winter Snow school?" she asked.

"Yeah, I was," Bane said, neither his neutral tone nor his impassive expression giving away any of his thoughts.

"And you are the notorious Dire Wolf, I believe?"

"My actual name is Jeremy Bane."

"And you hate this Mikage?"

"No emotion involved," Bane replied. "It's not personal. He knows something I'm trying to get some information about."

"Wild stories say you are faster than any mortal Man. They say you have been seen clapping shut the mouth of a cobra without being bitten. That you can catch thrown knives by the blade. That you can overtake a deer running for its life."

Bane scoffed. "Come on. People exaggerate."

She studied him for a minute, showing she was one of the few who could meet the glare of those grey eyes without being uncomfortable. "Come with me into the business back room," she said, and added to the bartender, "Send us a couple of whisky-and-sodas."

( the rest of the story )

"Destroyer of Worlds"

11/1- 11/4/2000

I.

At the end of the second day, they had still found no survivors. Nothing remained of the city of Pak Du except stone rubble and charred wood, scorched earth and blackened bodies. It was the same as it had been in the village they had first found when entering the realm. The destruction was complete.

Picking his way through the debris, even Jeremy Bane was numb with disbelief. He thought he had seen a lot of horror in decades of the Midnight War, but it had always been on a smaller, personal level. This was hard to deal with. The Dire Wolf had the visor of his helmet up, revealing his narrow face and the grey eyes were distant. What could have done this? Technology of an Industrial Age level would not function in this realm by the will of Jordyn, or else Bane might have suspected someone had detonated a nuclear device here. Yet it had been less than a week ago that a messenger from Pak Du had come to him asking for help.

As he stood over a pile of broken masonry from which a single black wooden beam stood up at an angle, Bane's horror began to give way to anger. Thousands dead. Not a single survivor. And whatever had done this was still out there somewhere, perhaps ready to strike again somewhere else. He straightened up, unaware his fists were clenched, and turned to his two teammates.

( the rest of the story )

"Mummy Wanted For Questioning"

9/2/- 9/3/2001

I.


Behind his desk, Jeremy Bane leaned back and kept a straight face. "Mr Schmidt. I don't think you realize the sort of thing I handle..."

Sitting in one of three plain wooden chairs facing the desk, a serious little man with wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose sniffed. "The Dire Wolf Agency has the highest recommendation. I took the liberty of phoning my wife's nephew, who is on the police force. He said you always get the job done."

"It's nice to be appreciated," Bane said. "But you know, some detective agencies specialize in domestic disputes ending in divorce, some handle insurance fraud. I have my own area where I work best."

"The fee will be handsome. Quite generous," Schmidt went on as if he hadn't heard. "As a representative of the Golden Pantry supermarket chain, I can assure that all your expenses will be covered."

"That's not the problem-"

"Now, we have good reason to believe that Walter McConnell has been buying chicken in bulk from normal sources and selling them to us with the misrepresentation that they are free-range hormone-free. As you can imagine, this-"

Bane stood up and put his palms on the desk, leaning forward on stiff arms. "Mr. Schmidt. I am NOT going to look into chicken fraud. I track down monsters and psychos and serial killers. I handle the supernatural. You are wasting your time and mine!"

As Schmidt blinked and seemed personally affronted, Bane went on in a gentler voice. "My abilities are in combat. You should be looking for an investigator with experience in your sort of case."

"Well. I suppose. If you're sure," Schmidt mumbled, getting up and picking his brief case off the chair next to him. "I, ah, I guess I will be leaving."

The Dire Wolf came around his desk to escort the man through the tiny waiting room and out into the hall. "No hard feelings, Mr Schmidt. There are lots of PIs in Manhattan who can do a better job on your case than I would."

After the man left, Bane leaned back against the door and shuddered, Fraudulent chicken sales!

He crossed the tiny waiting room, which held nothing but two chairs and a low coffee table with some magazines, going back into the office itself. As he entered, he was facing a wall which had a long leather couch, an end table with a lamp at each arm. Over the couch was a wide window looking out on Third Avenue. That was one reason he had taken this office on the ground floor. If necessary, he could slide through that window and get out on the street within seconds. Bane swung to the right and circled around behind his desk. It was almost bare. There was a reading lamp, a cordless phone in its charger and an IN/OUT stack of trays. He faced a bare wall and thought, I have to put something there. He sat back in the swivel chair and was lost in thought.

Jeremy Bane was in his mid-forties, six feet tall and lean to the point of looking gaunt. In a narrow face, two pale grey eyes looked out with startling intensity. He had just found a first grey strand in his black hair, and was frankly surprised there hadn't been a lot of them, considering the life he led. As always, he was wearing all black- slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, almost his uniform in the Midnight War. Now the doorbell rang. The Dire Wolf jumped up and walked briskly to the door to the hall, glancing up at the closed-circuit monitor and recognizing who was outside. He opened the door and welcomed in a rather short, middle-aged man with curly greying hair and a decrepit white raincoat.

"Inspector! I thought you might come by." Bane escorted him to the office and motioned him to a plain wooden chair.

Francis Klein sat down carefully, with a slight grunt of discomfort. He was past the usual retirement age by a year. "We got a lot to talk about, Mr Dire Wolf. Nice little office. You haven't been here long, eh?"

"Two weeks. You know, I never closed my practice, even all those year with the KDF. Every two years, I renewed my license and claimed the reception room as my office. It's nice to have a trade to fall back on."

"I'm getting near the end myself," Klein said. "I should have a nice pension after all these years on the force and with Social Security, I'll be all right. I wanted to ask, what happened? What's going on with the Kenneth Dred Foundation?"

"They're still an ongoing team. Still in the building on East 38th Street. Sable is the leader. I'm renting them the building-- you know, Mr Dred left it to me in his will, with all its contents. But they're operating on their own."

Klein gazed thoughtfully at the man behind the desk, whom he had tried to bust several times a decade earlier, before he realized what kind of work the Dire Wolf was doing. "They're just kids, Bane."

"No younger than I was, or the other members of the original KDF when we first started. That was a long time ago. They're ready. Sable is a good leader, they have handled all their cases the past six months or so without my butting in." Bane nodded as if to himself. "I have to step away. If I stayed there, they would never really be self-reliant."

"It's a surprise to me," Klein said. "You got any ash trays here?"

"No," Bane answered. "I picked this office on 44th Street, close enough that I could be reached in a really extreme emergency. Or that I could contact them if I was at the end of my rope, for that matter. But I want to let them be their own team."

"So, the Dire Wolf Agency is open again. Brings back memories. When I met you, the first KDF team had been disbanded and you started your PI practice going in that building. To me, it's like old times. Where's Cindy?"

Bane hesitated just a second. "She has accepted a teaching position at Tel Shai. That's the mystic Order where we learned most of our skills. Her Teacher in telepathy died at an advanced age, and the other Teachers unanimously asked her to take the post. Cindy agreed."

"But you two are still a couple, I hope?"

"We won't be seeing as much of each other," Bane said. "Cindy won't be leaving Tel Shai. Once you become a Teacher, you stay there. But I will visit as often as I can."

"You been through a lot of changes in a short amount of time. You seem to be taking it okay."

Bane shrugged imperceptibly. He was not one to show what he felt. "Life goes on, things change. I'll still be doing business the way I always have." He gave Klein a quizzical look. "Which gets to the point. Is there some reason you dropped by, Inspector?"

"Other than chewing the fat?" Klein chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, I've gotten used to this. When something weird and creepy and hard to explain happens in the five boroughs, everyone in the NYPD looks at me. And by now, they expect me to come drop it in your lap."

"All unofficial and off the record, of course."

"Of course." Klein fished a cigar from an inner pocket but didn't try to light it, he just toyed with it. "Yeah, I got something. The crime itself didn't happen in the city, it took place in Egypt. A month ago. You know, there's been rioting and such going on there. Crowds in the streets, throwing rocks and starting fires."

"Sure. It's been on the news."

"Well, one night, the police were bustin' heads and the populace was bustin' them right back. During the uproar, three men broke into an annex of the Cairo Museum. They shot a guard and a worker dead." Klein stuck the unlit cigar in his mouth. "They stole a mummy."

Bane sat up and his voice changed. "Go on, Inspector."

"I got a report that this was not an ordinary mummy. According to the experts, it used to be a Nubian slave in service to one of the more obscure Pharaohs. The funny thing was, this mummy was found walled up inside a tomb, slumped in the space between an inner wall and the outer one. He had been buried alive, three thousand eight hundred years ago."

"Cute. What else?"

Klein touched the side of his nose with a finger. "Confidential, got it?"

"Got it. Go on."

"The mummy's name seems to be Akhbet. I don't know if that was the poor sap's real name or if they just stuck it on him for convenience. Anyway, it seems someone was caught sneaking the mummy into this country. They came up through the border near New Mexico in a van, and the border patrol stopped them. Two more men dead, and the mummy got through. That makes it a federal case, of course." Klein paused. "The funny thing is the way the patrol were killed. They weren't shot. Their necks were broken."

Now the Dire Wolf had come fully to life. His grey eyes caught the light. "What else?"

"This is the part that made the boys upstairs give me a heads-up. Both patrol agents were armed. One fired three shots, the other fired once. No blood anywhere. They had trauma on their necks consistent with a strong hand seizing them and snapping the bones. And there was mold on their skin."

Bane got to his feet. He couldn't help it, the same enhanced reflexes that gave him his speed also made him hyper. Despite himself, he started to pace and Klein had to turn in his chair to watch. "Hmm. Interesting. There was something similar in the 1940s, in Massachusetts. Certainly there have been cursed mummies before." He wheeled abruptly, making Klein jump. "What does the NYPD have to do with this?"

"You're gonna love this, Bane. Two nights ago. A student in Queens was walking home from a neighborhood bar just after midnight. He saw a big guy stumbling along and thought he might need help, maybe he's a diabetic or something, so the student goes up and asks what the problem is. He gets slugged for his kindness. The mug knocks him down with a slap that almost kayos him. In the light from a streetlamp, the student gets a good look. He says the man is wrinkled and dry and yellow, with his lips showing all his teeth. Really not a pretty sight. The student runs home, understandably scared, and when he looks in the bathroom mirror, there's a big smear of mold where the guy hit him. He has to go to the emergency room, his jaw turned out to be dislocated."

"That's it. I'm in." Bane went back behind his desk but didn't force himself to sit down. "Any more details, Inspector?"

"Nope, that's all. You realize, Bane, that officially I never told you any of this. I wasn't even here today."

"Fine," the Dire Wolf answered. "Same as always. I need the name and address of the student who saw the mummy... or what might be the mummy," he corrected himself.

Klein got up. "You should see the memo I got. You'd laugh. Because of the assault on the student, it says, quote 'Mummy wanted for questioning.' "

( the rest of the story )

"Prisoners of the Phantom Realm"

(4/20-4/22/2001)

I.

By mid-April, the "phantom people" sightings had increased to the point where the public was getting uneasy. One or two sightings could be explained away as delusions or hoaxery but when people were seeing the phantoms on a daily basis, it got to be unsettling. The pattern was simple. Someone would glance up and see a person where they logically should not be... standing atop a city bus as it pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel, walking out of an office that had been empty and locked a second earlier, standing on a window ledge twenty stories up. They were always gone within a few seconds and made no attempt to communicate or respond to attempts. The phantoms just appeared from nowhere and disappeared as quickly. Their strange pale skins and brightly colored robes didn't help stem the impending panic.

On April 20th, Inspector Harold Klein got out of his personal car and told the officer driving him to wait. Klein was a year past the usual retirement age but he held on because he felt he was needed as liaison between the NYPD and the KDF. There was not much black left in the curly white hair at this point, and he had realized he was an inch shorter than he had been the previous spring. Now, on a warm sunny spring morning, despite the pain in his legs and his constant fatigue, he stood on the sidewalk of East 38th Street and looked up at the old ten story building he had visited so many times. Five stone steps led up to a massive oak door which bore the number 28 and a brass plaque, KENNETH DRED FOUNDATION. Klein pressed the doorbell and instantly a young woman's voice chirped gleefully, "Hi, Inspector! Come on in." He could hear locks unbolting and he pulled the door open.

By now, Klein had accepted he was being scanned as he stood in the small foyer with its bench and a shelf with a flower pot and the framed oil painting of a gnomish old man, KENNETH DRED 1900-1979. He could not feel anything, no even a tingle, but he was being probed by devices more detailed and advanced than any MRI. After a few seconds, the inner door opened and Unicorn admitted him. Klein knew he was old when a pretty blonde teenager looked like a little kid to him and inspired not lustful thoughts but grandfatherly ones. Oh well.

Ashley Whitaker was just over five feet tall and one hundred pounds, slim and curvy and full of life. She had platinum blonde hair that hung straight to her shoulders, crystal blue eyes and a smile that was like a flashbulb going off. Today, she was wearing snug white jeans and a dark green T-shirt and, disconcertingly, she was holding a large clunky-looking pistol in one little hand. "Hey there," she said.

"Hiya, Unicorn. You fixing to shoot me?"

"What, with this thing? Nah, I have to practice stripping and reassembling it. Don't ask me why. Sable gives us these dumb assignments. I've got it down to a minute and a half, but she thinks I should be able to do it in thirty seconds flat. Anyway. Whazzup?"

"Like always. There's something weird going on and the brass sends me to recruit you kids. Everyone here? Can I see Bane?"

"Sure," she answered, ushering him in. The team is scattered at the moment but our captain is right inside. Follow me." Swinging the heavy dart gun in one hand, Unicorn led him across the hall to the open door of the reception room. Here, sitting behind a desk and reading from a stack of newspapers, was a gaunt man dressed all in black. As Klein entered, Jeremy Bane raised his head and the pale grey eyes were for once friendly.

"Inspector. Always a good sign when you drop by." Bane stood up as Klein took a chair in front of the desk and then dropped back into his own seat. The Dire Wolf straightened the newspapers and put them to one side.

Ashley pulled one of the leatherbound chairs closer and plopped down. "Lay it on us, inspector."
"I'm sure you folks have been following these phantom people reports. My superiors called me in and wondered why I haven't got any solid information for them. By that, they mean, why haven't I come here on my own and dragged you into the problem?"

"All unofficial and off the record and the NYPD will deny any knowledge of the KDF," Bane said. "As usual."

"Sure."

Unicorn snorted. "That sucks if you ask me. We deserve a parade and some medals in my opinion."

Bane did not comment. He leaned forward and said, "Lieutenant, we've been working together for what, ten years now? Ever since I caught Dos Manos. So I wanted you to know that soon you will be bringing these mysteries to Sable. She's taking over as head of the KDF. I'm stepping down in a week or so."

"Wait, what? You retiring? The Dire Wolf? I don't believe it."

"No, not retiring. I'm opening my PI business again. You know I've kept my license active and I'm leasing an office over on 44th Street. It'll be like when we first met, before I started the new KDF team." Bane raised an eyebrow and gave the faintest possible smile. "I even kept the name DIRE WOLF AGENCY registered."

Klein did not know what to say. "Well. This.. this takes me by surprise. How come?"

"The new team is ready to operate by themselves. If I stay here, they will never get a chance to come into their own. Cindy and I will always be the parents butting in. It's time."

Unicorn said, "None of us like the idea. But I suppose our captain will pop in once a while. When we need help or when he misses us and particularly when he misses his favorite member. By that, I mean me, of course."

"Of course, Ashley. Inspector, so far we don't know any more about these phantom sightings than you do. But we will look into it. Fair enough?"

"As long as it gets my boss off my back. You know, he never straight out tells me to go drag you folks into weird mysteries and horrible crimes, we are both just taken for granted."

As Klein stiffly got to his feet, Unicorn came over and took his arm. "Aw, you guys wouldn't have it any other way. Come on, Inspector. Hey, let me ask you something about police work. When you do a stake out, how do you guys deal with having to pee?" she chatted as she led him out of the room.

Left behind, Jeremy Bane was thoughtful. He knew he was doing the right thing by stepping down but naturally he had misgivings. With a repressed sigh, he thumbed a switch on the desk and made an announcement over the Links everyone carried. "All members gather immediately in the conference room for a new case. The war is on again."

( the rest of the story )

"Doublers Or Nothing"

8/30/2001

I.

"Do not suspect I am an inhuman monster," said the inhuman monster.

Lt Joseph Montez realized his mouth was hanging open and he closed it with conscious effort. He was standing next to an abandoned car on 126th Street. While the city tow truck was being hooked up to its bumper, the driver had noticed blood stains on the rear seat and Homicide had been called in. Montez had been on duty at the station, filling out final paperwork on an extortion case that had been closed. By now, it was after five-thirty on a warm Spring day and he sadly realized he wouldn't be home until eight at best.

The forensics squad had taken hundreds of photos and samples from inside and outside the 1989 Ford Taurus. Now the much-offended tow truck operators had snubbed out their cigarettes and were ready to pull away. Montez had been standing by the curb, thinking the situation over. A squad car with a uniformed officer at the wheel was parked nearby.

Then this creature had strolled up and announced itself. From a distance, it seemed like a woman with black hair, a few inches over five feet tall, wearing a bright plaid shirt and black shorts. But the skin was a dead lifeless grey with blue lips and fingernails, the hair was stiff and wiry, the dark eyes went in different directions. The voice had been high and as squeaky as if the thing had been inhaling helium.

It was only now that Montez noticed that the creature's shirt had been put on completely wrong so that three buttons were undone and one side of the collar stuck up inches higher than the other. He also saw that this being had its sneakers on the wrong feet.

Yet, even so there was something vaguely familiar about the creature.

"I am a normal Human woman and not at all suspicious," it said. "Do you need assistance, lieutenant?"

"You know me?" Montez demanded. "Who ARE you?"

"Why, I'm Sable. Lauren Sable Reilly. I am not an undead Doubler. You know me well, Montez."

Taking out his cell phone, he gestured at the grey-skinned being and said in a reassuring voice, "Now, you wait just a second." He thumbed in a number he had come to know well and groaned when he got only a request to leave a message.

"That damn Bane. Of course he's not in his office when I need him," Montez said.

"Why would you need that damn Bane?" asked the creature blandly. "There is more than nothing in a hole."

The lieutenant tried another number and sighed with relief as a familiar voice answered. "Megan? Oh I'm glad you're there. Yeah, this is Montez. Listen, I'm at 126th and Eighth Avenue. There is... someone here I think you need to meet immediately. No. I'd rather not say more."

Flipping the phone shut and stowing it in a jacket pocket, he said, "A couple of people will be here in a minute and they will answer all your questions. And hopefully mine as well."

The creature tilted its head thoughtfully. "Where do you go when you're not somewhere else?"

"Aw, give me a break," Montez grumbled. He motioned for the officer assigned as his driver to come over and explained the situation as best he could.

The cop was still under thirty, a gangly freckled kid with big ears and the enthusiasm of youth. He stared at the creature. "Lieutenant, you must have noticed her lips and fingernails. I don't think the color is make-up. Is that cyanosis?"

"Yeah, maybe," Montez said. Peering more closely at the being, he asked, "Are you having trouble breathing? Do you have chest pains?"

"Should blind people listen to audio books when they're driving?" the creature replied blithely.

"Forget I asked."

Across the street, a cherry red Jeep Cherokee pulled up and stopped quite illegally near a FINE FOR PARKING sign. Emerging from behind the wheel hopped a young woman in an all black outfit including boots, snug pants and a waist-length jacket. Pockets and pouches held a dozen gadgets. Circling around from the passenger side was an Asian man in an identical outfit. He was at five feet five only slightly taller than she was but much broader.

"I don't like the looks of her at all," Sheng Mo-Yuan muttered.

"We need information to reach any conclusion," replied Megan. The Trom Girl marched across the street, barely evading the usual reckless rush hour traffic. Several drivers slowed down to try to figure out what was going on with the police car, the strange-looking grey-sknned person and two people in dark commando outfits.

Montez shook their hands. "Megan. Argent. Glad to see you guys."

"Are you done calling us rookies and newbies and little kids?" scoffed Sheng Mo-Yuan. Argent was his Midnight War codename, based on his clan name back in Chujir.

"Cut me some slack," Montez said. "It took a while to get used to you new guys. Look. What do you make of this person?"

The weird creature had been watching them closely. "Stand by for orders, my Tel Shai knights. I prevent disagree for when anyone really been far as suggested once to even want go."

"What the hell was that all about?" said a startled Argent, stepping back a pace.

The Trom Girl had unclipped her Link from its place on her belt and was taking readings. "This is interesting. Tell me, who do you think you are?"

"Well, I am absolutely not an undead Doubler grown to resemble Sable," said the monster. "Can cross-eyed teachers control their pupils? How far can you run into the woods?"

"You seem to mix coherent thoughts with gibberish," Megan said. She glanced over at her teammate. "Sheng, this is not a living creature. I'm analyzing a solid mass of crystalline fiber animated by gralic force. I have never seen anything similar."

"She denied being a 'Doubler' whatever that is. The way she talks, I guess that means she IS a Doubler?" Sheng scratched the back of his short-cropped black hair without realizing it. "If I'm not starting to speak gibberish myself."

Megan took further readings and frowned with frustration. "This is beyond any supportable conjecture. A dissection would help, or at least a battery of behavioral tests." She looked up and addressed the creature, "Are there more of you?"

The Doubler nodded with complete sobriety. "Yes. Naturally. We are the KDF Second Team. Myself, Trom Girl, Unicorn, Argent and Blind Archer. Do not make the mistake of concluding we are Doublers sent to replace previous KDF members. None of us are that damn Bane."

"If you ask me," Argent offered, "I think we should take her to 38th Street. Sable and Josef are expected back in late tonight."

"I would be delighted if you took custody of this Doubler whatever she is," Montez says. "I want to finish my reports and go home sometime soon."

The Trom Girl considered. "I agree. Whatever this construct is, she knows about the KDF and we are not common knowledge." She pointed to her Jeep. "Miss, will you come with us?"

"Of course. Imaginary friends have real friends, you realize." The Doubler tried to make both its eyes point in the same direction but without success. "There is much to do."

Steering the creature across the busy street, Sheng called back to Montez, "Hey, thanks for calling us about this, lieutenant. We haven't solved a single bizarre mystery yet today."

"As long as you get her outta my hair," Montez muttered to himself.

( the rest of the story )

“Ladies and Gentlemen, HERE COMES TROUBLE!”

5/16-5/20/2001

I.

Sitting on the front steps outside the KDF headquarters building that morning, Ashley Whitaker was drawing with charcoal in an oversized sketchpad propped up on her knees. At twenty-one, she was at a peak so gorgeous that almost every passerby slowed down for a good look. More than one driver circled the block to check her out again. Only an inch over five feet tall, slim but with proportionate curves, Unicorn had glossy straight hair so blonde it was white, a perfect little face with a cleft chin and upturned nose, and crystal blue eyes that caught the morning sunlight like prisms.

She not only didn’t mind the stares and admiration, she took them for granted and hardly noticed. She had always been pretty, it was just a fact of life. Once in awhile, if she noticed someone looking at her in a pleasant way, she gifted them with an unselfconscious flash of blinding white teeth. But most of her attention today was focused on drawing her namesake, a Unicorn. She was on her fifth attempt, sitting on a wad of crumpled up earlier tries. As she worked, eyebrows lowered, she did not realize her tongue was sticking out until it felt dry.

The massive oak door swung out behind her. Ashley had been careful enough to sit on the steps beyond the door’s arc. Megan Salenger stuck her head out and said, “Hello. Sable asked me to get some information from you.” Slightly older than Unicorn, slightly taller, Megan had a mop of tousled black hair over an inquisitive gamin face. The Trom scientists who had raised her from infancy had hoped to forge an emotionless super-genius but she still showed flashes of feelings she could not disguise.

Megan came out and lowered herself demurely next to Ashley. She was wearing a tan jumpsuit with oil stains at various locations and worn-thin material on elbows and knees. There was a grimy smudge across one cheek that she seemed unaware of.

“Hey there, Science Nerd!” Ashley sang out gleefully. She held up her sketchpad. “Whaddaya think?”

“It is a lovely cow.”

“SO not a cow! Try again.”

The Trom Girl took the sketchpad and scrutinized it. “I believe the short legs misled me. This is an American Bison. Very nice artwork, Ashley.”

Giving her teammate a dubious gaze, the little blonde took the sketchpad back and studied the page herself. “You don’t see a Unicorn…?”

“No. We need to go in and be briefed by our captain.” The Trom Girl rose nimbly to her feet and tugged down her jumpsuit where it had ridden up.

“Oh, okay I suppose.” Unicorn got up, gathered the loose sheets of paper and followed her teammate into the foyer, closing the front door behind them. She did not even notice the badly smitten high school boy who sighed and went on his way after the two young women were gone from sight.

Even though they had already been ID’d earlier that morning, Ashley and Megan had to wait again in the foyer while unseen Trom sensors buzzed and clicked. They were scanned at a cellular level more thoroughly than any MRI could match.

“Maybe I should buy one of those SKETCHING FOR DUMMIES books,” Unicorn grumbled. “I obviously need help.”

That seemed to surprise Megan. “Ashley,” she said, “You already have so many skills and talents.”

“Aw. Thanks! You know you can be incredibly blunt and tactless. But then, when you say something nice, I know you mean it.”

As the inner door unlocked, Megan grasped its handle and gave the faintest of barely perceptible smiles. “I will always be honest with my friends.”

Crossing the front hall to the open door of the reception room, they found Sable at her desk. On to the wall behind her hung a hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937, the year Kenneth Dred had bought this building. When they entered, she glanced up. Although the dark eyes remained serious and intense, there was a discernible welcome in them that few people received. Lauren Sable Reilly had managed to sort the stacks of reports, legal notices, bills, letters and newspaper clippings into discrete stacks but she regarded them with a jaundiced expression.

“Take seats, you two,” she said. “I think I’ve spotted something that might stand investigation. The name 'Kovacevic’ has turned up. I have an unpleasant feeling about seeing that name. Listen, Unicorn, what do you think about a girl band called Here Comes Trouble?”

Asking Ashley for her opinion on anything was like breaching a dam so the flood could pour out. “Oh, THEM. They are actually not that bad, I mean sure their gimmick is you have four hot if very young babes on stage and they all end up mostly naked by the end of the show but the music itself is surprisingly decent. Lots of good guitar work by the one with black hair. And the lead singer has an amazing voice, clear and steady and expressive. You know, the one with hair the color of butter. I think she could swing a CD by herself. I bought their second album TROUBLE ON EIGHT LEGS instead of simply downloading it for a listen. My favorite song is “I Don’t Miss My Self-Respect,” but I also like “Conjugal Day.” The only song by them that annoys me is “Handful of Love,” it goes on and on way past its welcome.”

Sable held up a hand to interrupt but Ashley was on a roll. “The whole jailbait thing has been milked before,” she went on, “Whatsername, Britney Spears. That was a hundred years ago. These girls are only more blatant about it. But I’d bet dessert that they are secretly all over eighteen anyway, no matter what the publicity says. For legal reasons. I honestly would like to see them do their music without prancing across the stage in their underwear just to hear them cut loose and really jam..”

“Unicorn. Hold it. That’s enough, thanks. "Sable turned to the Trom Girl. “Megan, do you listen to current music?”

“No,” The single word held immense disapproval.

“Actually, I don’t either,” said their new captain. “No time. But I received a report from one of our observers. He was reading interviews with the members of Here Comes Trouble and the word Kovacevic jumped out at him. Jeremy almost clashed with a shady operator by that name a few years ago. He skipped the country and got away.”

“So, what’s his angle?” asked Unicorn. “Is he a warlock or an Alchemist or what?”

“I’m not completely sure. He is always on the outskirts of the Midnight War but he stays discreet. He was seen with Leopold Vidimar a few times, tying him into Those Who Remember. Karl Eldritch mentioned him in a conversation that was overheard from concealment. All I’m sure about is that he associates with major bad boys in the Midnight War.”

“That is sufficient cause for us to investigate,” Megan suggested.

“I think so, too,” said Sable. “I wish I could send another member with you. Now that Jeremy has finally stepped down, we have to get used to distributing our teams differently. The rest of our members are tied up on other assignments right now. Sheng might be available tomorrow after the Teachers are done with his training. But you two could meet this band and gather some impressions.”

“Go hang out with Here Comes Trouble?” laughed Ashley. “I don’t like it, I love it! Did you get us tickets to their next show?!”

Lauren Sable Reilly held back her smile as he saw Unicorn’s enthusiasm. “No, sorry. But I called in a few favors and you two will be allowed to visit the band during their down time this afternoon. They're staying at the Weigel Hotel on 67th Street.”

Seeming suddenly aware of her battered work jumpsuit, Megan stood up. “If you would dismiss us, captain, I must make myself presentable.”

“Sure,” Sable said. “Report as you find necessary. But listen, Ashley. My instinct is to watch out for this Kovacevic. I know your Unicorn horn can remove anyone's gralic ability but you yourself have no superhuman powers. Take this assignment seriously.”

“Absolutely, captain,” Unicorn assured him. “We are professionals. You can count on us.” As she hurried from the office, she chuckled to herself, “If I don’t join the band…!”

II.

“Good God, you’re not going to wear THAT?” asked Ashley in horrified tones.

Straightening up from where she had been examining the Subaru’s tires, Megan went blank. Many times, she had no idea how to respond to something Unicorn said and was left in helpless silence.

Since this was not expected to be a combat scenario, Megan had not chosen the full field suit. She was wearing regular black sneakers, standard jeans, a blue chambray shirt with two breast pockets and a light black shirt over that, two sizes too large and left unbuttoned. Underneath her clothing, of course, the Trom Girl had the full-body silk-thin armor on. Various tools and devices including the communication Link and her beam projector were in pockets or clipped to her belt. She stared at her teammate, almost paralyzed as she tried to understand the question.

Unicorn saw the baffled expression and relented. “Honey, you’re wearing two shirts with a collar over a collar, that is a fashion faux pas anywhere in Creation. Never mind.” Ashley herself had a coordinated outfit of shoes, slacks and long-sleeved pullover, all white with bright blue trim on cuffs and collar. In one hand, she was holding a white leather sheath three feet long which had a cylindrical shape that tapered to a point. She seldom went anywhere without the actual Unicorn horn that was her namesake and talisman.

“Am I going to be an object of public scorn?” Megan asked with uneasiness in her voice.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Ashley said. “You’re naturally cute even without make-up and without brushing your hair. People like you the way they like a puppy.” She opened the rear door of the grey Subaru Outback and carefully stowed the horn on the floor. “This beast ready to roll?”

“Everything has been checked. Ashley, I admit my education was mostly in the hard sciences. There are many details of social interaction that I do not understand.”

When they reached the Weigert, a valet meet them in the entrance to the underground garage but Megan absolutely insisted on driving the car to the slot assigned and securing it herself. She stood with folded arms, looking satisfied, as a man in a brown business suit hurried up to them. They all examined each other’s IDs before proceeding further. The man was Craig Lemish, employee of a security agency who had been escorting the members of Here Comes Trouble for the past five months.

Megan and Ashley were escorted into a restricted elevator at the rear of the parking garage, where the bodyguard had to use a card to gain access. They all rode up in silence. Lemish did not seem hostile, merely exhausted. They emerged into a quiet chilly corridor fitted with marble panels on the walls and Art Deco-style chrome decorations. Subdued lighting came from overhead recesses. Without knocking, the bodyguard opened the door to a elegant six-room suite,

“Act like you’re all alive, girls,” he said. “You have visitors,”

“Not more boys that Scamp dragged in,” moaned a weak voice. “Dammit, Scamp, I’m amazed you can even walk at this point.”

Stepping in a clear area between piles of clothing, food containers, empty whiskey bottles and assorted beauty products, Megan Salenger announced, “We are from the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Please sit up and pay attention.”

On the white and gold couch, two young women reluctantly stirred from where they had been loosely intertwined. A taller girl with tangled jet black hair rousted herself from deep inside the softness of a overstuffed chair. And lurching out through the bathroom door came a petite girl with long, rich yellow hair.

“Who left me in the bathtub?” she demanded without any noticeable outrage. The blonde was wearing yellow-and-black tiger striped bra and panties, plus thin strips of gold fabric wrapped up her shins. “Ow, my liver is hemorrhaging…”

“Shut up, Scamp…” mumbled another girl.

Two other members of Here Comes Trouble were wearing only underwear as well, while the redhead was evidently naked under a fuzzy white bathrobe much too large for her.

Smirking at all the nubile exposed flesh, Unicorn muttered to her partner, “Quick, call Sheng to get over here. I wanna see his eyes bug out, hee hee.”

Ignoring that remark, Megan had unclipped her Link from her belt and was studying its screen. The device hummed and clicked twice before she put it away. “Your liver is not damaged,” she told the blonde. “There is some scarring on one kidney, though, and you are dehydrated. Your blood ethanol concentration is point zero eighty-nine so you will probably vomit soon. Your blood pressure is elevated at one hundred and forty over ninety-one. I would recommend sipping water and resting until your body recovers.”

The girl they called Scamp leaned forward and peered through bleary greenish eyes at her visitor. “What the….? Hey. What else can you tell?”

“You are not sixteen as your publicity material states,” said the Trom Girl evenly. “You are twenty-two. You broke your left wrist in childhood and one of the bones healed crookedly, giving you only eighty per cent use of that hand. Within the past ten days, you underwent a minor surgical procedure…” Megan broke off and glanced over uncertainly at Unicorn. “I believe specifying the exact surgery might reveal some personal details this woman would prefer to keep secret?”

“Damn right it should be secret!” yelled Scamp. “Are you whores from ROLLING STONE? GUITAR LIFE? I want some answers…” Her outburst was cut off as she got her own feet tangled together and fell flat on her face.

“Lucky you had that nice thick carpet for your landing,” Ashley observed.

III.

Fifteen minutes later, room service had brought up a cart bearing an urn of steaming hot black coffee and tray of Danishes. One by one, the band members had been showering and returning freshly scrubbed in hotel robes and slippers. With their hair wrapped up in towel-turbans and without carefully applied professional make-up, the girls looked less enticing than when on stage but also more like real people.

“I need a blood transfusion,” whined Little Angel as she dragged a chair over facing the couch and lowered herself gingerly onto it. She was the drummer, a slightly stocky young woman with feathered black hair framing a round face. “Were we going through the alphabet of booze last night?”

Sitting on the couch with Scamp cuddled up next to her for support was the unofficial leader of the band. Princess was a talented guitarist with a distinctive twangy sound and she also wrote nearly all of the songs. Working with the clear soaring voice of Scamp, it was the guitar of Princess that created the sound of Here Comes Trouble.

Princess’s real name was Jeanne Winstead. The total black of her thick shaggy hair was natural, as was the deep green of her sullen eyes. She sat with one protective arm around Scamp and regarded the intruders with open suspicion. A cigarette smoldered in the fingers of one hand but she had only taken one long drag on it so far.

Marching in from the hall, the bodyguard came over and reported to Princess. “I made twenty phone calls, these two aren’t reporters and they aren’t from the FBI or the police. They’re paranormal investigators. Sheesh.”

Princess thanked him with a grunt and sat up, dislodging Scamp slightly. She glanced over and saw the remaining member of the band, the rhythm guitarist Kitten. The lanky brunette had pulled up a chair to sit next to Unicorn and the two of them were chatting away as if they had know each other for years.

“See, that was my one criticism of Scarab,” Ashley was saying. “Jorge had so many great ideas for songs but Sol and Jan were fighting for leadership so much that they only let him have one crummy song on each album. When Jorge finally got to do a solo album, it was disappointing….”

“Yeah, yeah, it was so weak, I could never sit through the whole thing,” Kitten said. “If you ask me, our band could stand a little variety too. I get one drum solo each concert and only one of my songs was on TROUBLE ON EIGHT LEGS.”

“Hey! Kitten!” yelled Princess from the couch. “Band business is for the band. Your new best friend forever doesn’t need to know it, okay?”

Ashley had unbuckled the strap across her chest and was holding the white leather sheath in both hands with its flat end resting on the beige carpet. The band members stared curiously at the three foot long object with its pointed end but seemed baffled as to what it could be. The Unicorn grinned cheerfully at their puzzled faces.

Remaining on her feet, Megan Salenger stood with folded arms in the center of the room and inspected Here Comes Trouble as if impatient for them to get ready. 'My partner and I are not here because any of you women are suspected of crime,” she began. “That is not the KDF’s agenda in any case. We are concerned with protecting people from inexplicable and little understood threats.”

“I think I’m still high,” whined the drummer Little Angel. “‘Fling’ is a hellava drug. Are you telling us that you've ghost busters?!”

“That is accurate enough. I understood that your manager travels with you? Where is he?”

“Carl? He was supposed to be meeting with some big shots from Sony today.” Princess was staring at the visitors more intently than before. “Are you two wasting our time? I don’t believe in haunted houses or fairies in the garden. We didn’t ask for any psychic investigators!”

“Where is the voice coach? Kovacevic?” the Trom Girl demanded in a suddenly sterner tone.

At this point, Scamp seemed to have an entire apple turnover in her mouth. The blonde singer said, “Mmmmph Mmmm?"

“Perhaps someone else can answer?” Megan persisted. “Where is this man Kovacevic?”

“Right behind you...” came a deep, heavily-accented voice.

IV.

The atmosphere in that suite shifted to tension and uneasiness. Both Tel Shai knights spun to face the newcomer. Andreas Kovacevic had been remarkably tall in his prime but age had bent him so he stared at them from almost the same face level. The long straight hair, slicked back with some pomade, was streaked heavily with dirty grey strands and the pointed goatee had gone thin. Kovacevic was well-dressed in a tailored black suit with a starched white shirt and floppy loosely-tied ascot. But the clothing hung loosely off him as if off a scarecrow.

The reputed mastermind came into the suite, leaning on a thin walking stick with a grip carved into the likeness of an eagle's head, and sank heavily into an empty chair. Hopping up and rushing over to the kitchenette, the drummer Little Angel handed him a tumbler of ice water.

“Did you get some sleep, Maestro?” she asked.

“As well as can be expected, my dear,” he said. “Thank you.” He gulped down the ice water and sighed, then turned his attention to Megan and Ashley. “I seem to smell the sharp mint of...Tagra! Can it be? Are we honored with the presence of knights of Tel Shai?”

Unicorn scoffed. “That’s a neat trick. So, Mr Kovacevic, what’s your exact relationship with these underage girls?”

“Better you ask them yourself,” he said as he placed the empty tumbler on an end table extended to him. “My darlings, would you care to explain?”

“He’s my voice coach!” shouted the blonde called Scamp. “He has done AMAZING work. I never thought I could sing good enough for a neighborhood birthday party but Maestro has believed in me. He taught me everything.”

“Our Maestro has worked with all of us,” added Princess sharp!y. “We all are better singers because of his patience. And he knows music theory, he understands pacing and hooks and most important, what to leave out. I don’t appreciate the way you talked to him, girlie. Keep your insinuations to yourself.”

Kovacevic had deep furrows in his brow, and the dark sunken eyes were sad. “You are not the first to intrude here, feeling concern over the band. Believe me, there is no cause for worry. These young ladies have been treated well and given a rare opportunity. Girls, are you here freely of your own choice?”

“Hell yeah,” said Princess. She got to her feet, retying the sash of the bathrobe around a narrow waist. “I have always wanted to make music. When I was six, I tried making my own guitars outta stuff around the house. Now I stand on stage and see fifty thousand people who paid good money to hear me play. It’s a rush. I’m never giving it up.”

From her chair by Unicorn, the drummer Little Angel spoke up. “I never had no money. My mom worked two jobs and couldn't try any harder than she did. I always looked forward to Monday morning because school meant a hot lunch. Now I’ve got money in the bank and I can send some cash home to help out.”

Holding up his hands, palms raised beseechingly, the mysterious voice coach asked, “Do you see any reason to think these young ladies are being misused? The fact I have taken rooms on another floor of this hotel gives them privacy. As zealous as Tel Shai knights have been known to be, I think even you must admit there is no cause for worry about their treatment.”

At the point, Princess disentangled herself from Scamp and stood up to face Megan Salenger at arm’s length. “You know, we didn’t ask you two to come here. You’re not the police. Has any of our families hired you to babysit us? I didn’t think so.”

The Trom Girl exchanged a quick glance with Unicorn, then softened her voice. “It is still my duty to inform you that your trainer here has a shady past with criminal connections…” She broke off and seemed to lose her concentration. For a long second, she stood there uncertainly.

Ashley Whitaker jumped up off her chair, clutching the sheathed horn in one hand as she took her teammate by the arm with the other. Her demeanor had shifted dramatically from the breezy girl who had been chatting with Little Angel about rock music. Now there was a sudden edge to her voice. “Time to go, Megs.” She led the oddly docile Trom Girl toward the door of the suite.

Pausing in the doorway, the little blonde gave Here Comes Trouble a piercing glare. “Don’t think this is over by a long shot,” she warned everyone. Just before she dragged Megan out into the corridor, she saw the insufferably smug leer on Scamp's face.

V.

Out in the hall, Ashley led her dazed teammate around a corner and found an ornate mahogany bench with a cushioned surface. Checking to see they had not been followed, she pressed Megan to have a seat. The Trom Girl shook her head, took a few deep breaths and came back to normal.

"That was unexpected," she said to Ashley. "My thinking processes lost their focus. I was not drugged, since I did not eat or drink anything and any toxin in the air would have affected you as well. Perhaps I need a medical exam?" A hint of alarm crept into her voice. "Perhaps there is something wrong with me."

Unicorn had shrugged out of the strap holding the sheath across her back. She took one of Megan's hands and held it to the white leather. "Whaddaya think?"

"It is warmer than air temperature," Megan responded promptly. "Even taking into account that it has been in contact with your body, this material is fourteen degrees above what it should be. I don't understand."

"It means your brain is okay. Listen. My Unicorn horn is ensorcelled. It reacts to harmful gralic energy by getting warmer and that's what protects me. It's absorbing the magick that would be affecting me otherwise. I felt it heat up the same time you got all dopey in there."

The Trom Girl straightened up. "I was being attacked with gralic force! Obviously, it was Kovacevic. He has some hypnotic power."

"Dead on target, Science Nerd," said Ashley as she carefully leaned the sheathed horn up against the bench. "And I have a surprise for you." She reached inside her jacket and pulled out two bright yellow plastic tags on coiled lanyards. Each had a large red number on its surface.

"These seem to be passes of some sort," Megan observed uncertainly. "Yes. They say, 'Full Access' with the name of the band and have a security code on the bottom."

"I guarantee those girls will never notice these are missing. That room had so much clutter and garbage it would take archaeologists to find anything." She handed one of the passes to her teammate. "Seems like we'll be listening to tonight's concert from backstage, buddy."

The Trom Girl examined the pass and stowed it in a pocket. "I am not eager to experience their music at full volume. Nor do I look forward to mingling with their fans. Still, these are a great advantage in our investigation. Thank you, Ashley."

The little blonde cocked her head and grinned. "Wait, wait, I know that expression. You're up to something. Am I right, tell me I'm right, of course I'm right."

Megan unclipped her Link from the side of her belt and made an adjustment. She allowed herself the faintest of smiles. "Set yours to 'input' at channel 6," she said.

"Sure." Unicorn got her own Link, tapped two buttons and held it up to her ear, flipping the white-blonde hair back out of the way. After a second, she chortled and reached over to punch Megan lightly on the upper arm. "Why, you...! This is great."

"I placed a transmitter button on the underside of a chair when everyone watched Scamp fall on her face," Megan said. "The transmitters have an adhesive backing."

"Sounds like they're arguing about which song to close the show with. Princess wants a rocking fast version of 'I Don't Miss My Self-Respect.' And Scamp is insisting on a slow sad version of 'Not Another Morning After.'" She continued to listen, obviously as interested in the musical details as in hoping to hear something incriminating. "Hmm, I think Scamp has a point, it'd leave the audience all mushy as they straggle out to the parking lot.."

With her own Link pressed to an ear, the Trom Girl seemed just as deep in thought but more critical. After five minutes of listening to Here Comes Trouble fighting among themselves, Megan announced, "I do not hear Kovacevic joining the discussion. He coughed once."

The two KDF members continued to sit on that bench, taking in the debates from that suite just down the hall. After fifteen minutes, Unicorn lowered the device and rubbed her ear gingerly. "Not as fascinating as I would have thought. They're still going on about revising lyrics and adding a jam toward the end. I thought there would be, you know, something juicy. A love affair between two band members or paying too much for heroin, you know? These girls are a little serious about their music."

Seeing Megan motion her to keep listening, Ashley quickly put the Link up to her other ear.

"...three hours before showtime, Maestro," came Scamp's voice. "Time for my voice lesson. I can't hit those notes without your spell."

"I tell you, I cannot do this anymore," said the accented tones of Kovacevic. "The infusion of energy is killing me. Everyday my hair is greyer, my face more lined... I refuse, I tell you!"

Scamp cackled gleefully. "That's what YOU think. Bet I can change your mind."

"Come on, ladies," called a third voice, possibly the lead guitarist Princess. "Let's go down to the lobby and sign a few autographs for the hotel staff. We don't need to watch this again."

Other voices grumbled, there was rustling of cloth and one complaint of 'What happened to my shoes with the glitter?' before the KDF members heard a door close a bit too emphatically than was necessarey.. Both Megan and Ashley glanced up, but they were safely around a corner and out of the line of sight. A minute later, elevator doors hissed open and shut.

Over the Links, they heard Kovacevic plead, "No, no, let me leave. This is draining me."

"Hee hee, I'll drain you all right," Scamp laughed. The KDF members heard wet slurping sounds and Kovacevic moaning.

Megan Salenger hastily lowered the Link and switched it off. Her cheeks had turned bright red as if she had a fever.

"Aw, you're so cute!" Unicorn teased, shaking her teammate by the shoulders. "My God, those Trom who raised you left you a wee bit sheltered, didn't they?"

Getting hold of her reactions, Megan had to clear her throat before she could speak. "I think... I think we know now that Kovacevic is not necessarily the insidious mastermind manipulating these young women."

"No fooling." Ashley was still glued to her Link. "Sounds to me like Scamp is convincing him to do whatever she wants. Okay, they're done. You can listen again without getting flustered."

"..after the show, Princess will take care of you," came Scamp's voice, "She'll ride you like a cowgirl at a rodeo. Look, you know you can't do better than us. We're primo. Time for my voice lesson."

"Very well," said Koveceic wearily. "I must concentrate. When I tell you, begin vocalizing the scales."

"This red glow used ta scare me," Scamp laughed. "Now I like it. I sting all over in a good way."

Megan lowered her Link and thumbed a few buttons. "I'm setting this to record everything for the rest of the day," she said. "We will never use it in court, of course, but I believe Sable will want to evaluate the situation."

Turning off her own device and clipping it to the small of her back, Ashley pouted slightly. "Damn it. I just realized this means Scamp is not really that good a singer. I loved her voice on the first album, too."

"Kovacevic is enhancing her abilities with gralic force." Megan Salenger slowly got to her feet and tugged her jacket down. "He is not entirely to blame here. Obviously, the members of the band are... enticing him to use his gralic arts for their benefit."

"Are we gonna get going now?" Unicorn asked. "The band is playing at the Fulton Center tonight. In just a few hours actually."

The Trom Girl was frowning and did not answer immediately. "Ashley, I am at a loss. I do not know if there is wrongdoing here that justifies our intervention. The young women in the band are evidently not being victimized. A case could be made though that Kovacevic is being misused but I think he would not want us to step in and end this arrangement."

"Hah! I bet he wouldn't. Those are some sexy girls in Here Comes Trouble. You know how many millions of guys daydream about Scamp or Princess? At his age, I'm sure Kovacevic thinks he's getting a great deal."

"Let's report to Sable," Megan said uncertainly. "Something unresolved is bothering me about this situation."

She started walking toward the elevator and Ashley followed with the sheathed Unicorn horn in hand. As the elevator doors slid open with a ding, Ashley muttered, "Scamp can't really sing. Me golden idol is tarnished, Megs."

VI.

At nine-thirty that night, Megan and Ashley walked up Clancy Street in lower Manhattan. They had changed appearance dramatically. The Unicorn was wearing a tight short white skirt and black long-sleeved pullover, striding on high heels with dark stockings showing off her toned legs. She still carried the actual Unicorn horn in its sheath across her back, but in this outfit the diagonal strap accentuated her breasts. Ashley was never self-conscious but the same could not be said of her teammate.

Next to her, almost cringing, Megan Salenger was wearing a crimson sleeveless dress that Ashley had picked for her that day. Her short black hair had been teased and fluffed out, she wore shoes with a moderate arch and all her usual gear had been crammed into a single black leather shoulder bag hanging from a fine-linked gold chain.

As they passed the show window of a furniture store, the Trom Girl stopped short and took in a sharp breath. "Ashley! Look at me! I'm painted like a circus clown."

Standing beside her friend, the Unicorn laughed. "What? You look great. All I put on you was some blush, a little mascara and lip gloss. You're gorgeous, Megs. To be honest, I should worry you'll take attention away from me."

"Are you sure? Maybe I am over-reacting." She studied her reflection dubiously, turning her head from side to side.

Ashley linked one arm with Megan conspiratorily. "You know what I think? The Trom Council raised you so you could win the Nobel Prize in physics or chemistry or biology or a hunnerd other sciences. But they should have had an older woman come in once a week to teach you some basic cosmetology. You never had nail polish on before, did you?"

"No." Megan suddenly smiled and her face lit up. "I see women made up in public and everyone seems to admire them. I should trust you, Ashley."

"Truer words were never spoken." Unicorn dug in Megan's handbag and pulled out the Full Access passes. "Here, hang this arouund your swanlike neck."

"My what?"

"Never mind. Come on. The concert should be in its second half by now."

They went past a private parking lot with a roped off area that had a gleaming stretch limo with a driver seated patiently behind the wheel. Next to the lot was the back door of the Fulton Arena, with its two lights in glass bowls and various warning signs. Flanking that door were two burly hulks in dark suits and mirrored sunglasses even at this hour. One was a black man with a shaved head and a permanent scowl. The other was a grizzled white man with long hair and a drooping mustache. Being intimidating was a job requirement for them.

Yet Ashley breezed past them with a dazzling smile, holding up her pass as she opened the door and ushered Megan inside first. The little blonde's unshakeable confidence had gotten her into many places where she had no business being. As she closed the door behind them, she heard one of the security men chuckle, "Those two should be in the band as well." Ashley smirked and gave Megan an immensely satisfied smirk.

Inside, the booming thump of the concert overhead could be felt in the air. Moving briskly down a long corridor with doors marked MAINTENANCE and STAGE SUPPLIES, the two KDF members stopped at a final door by a heavyset man in a dark blue uniform with a white shield emblem on the left shoulder. He was sitting in a folding metal chair and he was not impressed with either the way they looked or their self-assurance. Holding out a hand without rising, the guard took a suspicious look at their passes.

"Say, these are from last night's show," he growled as he looked up at the two young women. "You can't pull this stuff on me."

Megan Salenger had reached into her handbag and removed a small flat electronic device with a bulb on one end. As the guard started to rise, she thumbed the contact patch. The neural shock beam played over the man and he sagged back down into the chair with his head dropping over to one side.

"Man, I coulda used that gizmo on our housekeeper when I was trying to sneak out as a kid," Ashley said with a grin. "Is he all right?"

The Trom Girl had set the man's head up resting forward, then folded his arms across his ample stomach as if he had fallen asleep. "I used a low-intensity burst," she said. "I estimate he will wake up within thirty minutes but be groggy for a short period after that." She replaced the beam projector into her handbag and turned toward her teammate.

"Time to rock and roll, so to speak," Unicorn said. She tried the dressing room door and found it was unlocked. As if she had been invited, Unicorn boldly marched in and saw Kovacevic in his trance.

VII.

The dressing room was large but seemed small because it was jammed so full of an amazing variety of items. A long table against one wall held two loaves of sliced sourdough rye bread and a tray of raisin bagels, with jars of honey and jam and chunky peanut butter, folded rows of sliced ham, roast beef and various cheeses. A cooler on the floor held dozens of bottles of Fiji Water, Red Bull Green, and Welch's grape juice in a bed of crushed ice There were three clear bowls of peanut M&Ms mixed with Reese's Pieces, a dish of grapes and figs, open bags of pretzels and potato chips, a bubbling coffee pot and all the associated tumblers, mugs, silverware, napkins and saucers. Bottles of Absolut Vodka and Patron Silver Tequila were scattered everywhere, most of them already empty.

Mostly, there were clothes in piles and stacks and stray garments on nearly every available surface. It looked exactly as if the four members of Here Comes Trouble had gathered up the vast jumble of loose clothes from their suite at the Weishaupt and transplanted them here.

None of this made more than a passing impression on either Megan or Ashley. Their attention was focused on the sole occupant of the room. Leaning back in an overstuffed easy chair, arms dangling over its side, Kovacevic was not aware of their entrance. His mouth hung open and his eyes were rolled up in his head until only the whites showed.

"Sheesh. Is he alive?" whispered Ashley, stepping over a tangle of bras and ankle socks.

"I can see his breathing is steady and unobstructed. Let me check his pulse. It's a little weak but only.. fifty-five beats a minute." The Trom Girl lowered the man's wrist. "He is in a trance, I do not think our presence is even registering with him."

Ten feet from where Kovacevic sat was a huge video monitor showing the concert upstairs. Ashley bent over to get a closer look. "Huh. Scamp is down to her undies, Princess only has a long T-Shirt. OBVIOUSLY nothing under it. I know that's their gimmick but honestly..."

"Ashley," Megan interrupted. "Does this man seem more haggard than he did a few hours ago?"

Unicorn came over and regarded the mystic critically. "Hmm. Absolutely. You know, I see his beard has a lot more white in it than it did this afternoon. His skin looks really dry. Is he dehydratred?"

"Yes," she said. "I read his KDF file on my Link just before we arrived. According to his passport and police records, this man is thirty-nine years old, Ashley."

Unicorn scoffed. "No. Way. He looks to me like he's in his late sixties after a lifetime of debauchery." She straightened up and stepped back a few paces. "Do you think all the shenanigans with those girls did this to him? Hah."

"Seriously, no. Of course not. Is the one called Scamp singing?"

Unicorn glanced over at the monitor. 'Yeah. She's doing a ballad, 'Picking Which Boyfriend.' Sounds pretty good."

"This man is projecting gralic force to enhance her voice. This is not my area of expertise, but I think the process is stressful enough that it is aging him prematurely."

"Well, it's his choice," Ashley said but she sounded uncertain. "What do you think?"

"I estimate he cannot survive like this more than another month, maybe two. It would be fair to say he is killing himself for sex. My opinion is we should intervene. He may well recover without the draining of his lifeforce and even regain normal vitality.'

Slowly, reluctantly, Ashley Whitaker unslung the white leather sheath from her back and unsnapped its catch. She drew out a lovely spiral of ivory, three feet long, tapering to a dangerous point. The flat end was capped with ornate silver. "I guess you're right. It's the end of Here Comes Trouble but I figure they're kind of a fraud band anyway. Their music depends on literally sucking the life out of someone."

The Trom Girl nodded in agreement. Unicorn sighed, raised the ancient talisman over her head and called out, "With this horn I remove thy power!"

An oppressive weight in the air abruptly lifted. Kovacevic suffered a coughing jag, convulsed and then was still again. He began to snore. Together, Ashley and Megan turned to watch the chaos on the monitor. Scamp's voice had grown flat and weak, and it trailed off as she became aware. The girl dropped her microphone in her confusion, tried to say something but finally spun on one bare heel and sprinted off the stage.

The audience was howling in outrage and anger. Thinking quickly, Princess stepped to center stage and launched into a fast guitar solo that was her trademark number. The crowd settled down slightly but many kept yelling and demanding to know what had happened.

Megan was examining Kovacevic. "His pulse is strong at seventy beats per minute. The tension in his neck and shoulders has eased. I do not think he will require medical attention."

Resheathing her horn, Unicorn tugged on her partner's arm. "Ummm. Megan? We should scram before Scamp runs down here to see what's wrong with her mentor!"

The Trom Girl was surprised at the thought but immediately agreed. "Yes. I hadn't considered that. She may be angry with us."

"Ya think?!" Ashley yanked the Trom Girl through the dressing room door and around a bend in the corridor outside just as they heard the slapping of bare feet drawing closer.

"Maestro? Maestro! What the hell is wrong with you?" screamed Scamp's voice.

Ashley led Megan down a side hallway away from the scene and found an exit door. Nowhere did it say that alarms would sound, so she took a chance and pressed the horizontal bar. They stepped out into an alley that held a green metal dumpster and some broken chairs. Clancy Street could be seen from where they stood.

"It occurs to me that we could have been charged with trespassing," Megan said. "We did enter the building under false pretenses."

Ashley started heading up the block toward where they had left their car. "Aw, we Tel Shai knights serve justice, not the law," she said and held up a handful of peanut M&Ms. "Here, I liberated these from the dressing room. Take a few."

8/26/2017