Serpens Alatus

The Akuma Agency is called in to deal with a dangerous cryptid.

Part I

          Grace McFarlane, the capable young head of Akuma Investigations, began her day as she always did, by scanning the local news services for the sort of strange occurrences that defy conventional explanation. The firm's stock in trade was just those sorts of cases, and it was simply good business to keep an ear to the ground and an eye on the net.
          Not that there weren't more weird stories than you could shake a stick at, she thought. Conspiracy theories were rife anymore. Still, her built-in bullshit detector was usually enough to weed out the more fringe elements, and beyond that, she had expert help.
          Some of that expert help was provided by Parker Mason, the agency's receptionist and jack-of-all-trades researcher, whose internal line had just lit up on her desk.
          "Good morning, Parker," she said, picking up the phone. "What can I do for you?"
          "Mornin', boss," the young man replied. "I got a dude name of James Finch on the line. I'm thinking you might want to talk to this guy."
          "All right, put him through."
          There were a couple of clicks as Mason patched the call through the system, then the hollow non-sound of an open line.
          "Good morning, Mr. Finch," McFarlane said, "and thank you for calling Akuma Investigations. My name is Grace McFarlane. How can we help you today?"
          "I hope you can do something," a man's voice, aged and mellow, replied. "I'm at the end of my rope. Are you an investigator?"
          "Yes, sir, I am."
          "All right, that's good. Good morning, by the way."
          "Good morning, sir. What seems to be your issue?"
          "Disappearing livestock is my issue."
          "Livestock?"
          "Right. See, I raise goats, and I've been losing stock for no good reason lately."
          "I see. Where do you raise these goats, Mr. Finch?"
          "On my ranch, of course."
          "And, where is your ranch located?"
          "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just outside of Boulevard."
          "Boulevard? That's, where, back in the Mountain Empire somewhere, isn't it?"
          "Yeah. It's in the high desert, just before the eastern slope drops off."
          "Well, Mr. Finch, you have coyotes out there, and the occasional mountain lion. A goat might even step on a rattlesnake now and then. This doesn't seem like the sort of thing we get involved in. Have you called your local sheriff's office?"
          "Why do you think I'm calling you?"
          Finch was clearly stressed, and she immediately knew not to press him further.
          "Of course. I'm sorry. So, what did the deputy tell you? I'm assuming they came out to look, at least."
          "Yeah, they came out. Woman. New to the job. Looked like the first time she'd ever stepped on ground that wasn't paved. She said the same thing you just did, predators."
          "All right, I don't know much about ranching myself, Mr. Finch, so could you enlighten me as to why predators aren't a good explanation?"
          "Sure. I deal with predators on a daily basis out here. They leave tracks, they tear up fences and water troughs, and above all else, they leave carcasses."
          "Oh? Go on."
          "Cougars and coyotes don't clean up after themselves. They leave remains, hooves and horns if nothing else, and blood and entrails in a ten-foot circle."
          "And there's none of that?"
          "That's why I'm calling you."
          "You want a private detective from the city to investigate livestock disappearances?"
          "You came recommended."
          "May I ask by whom?"
          "Sure. A lady named Martha Anglin. She runs the feed store here, her and her boy."
          "Did she say why she thought we could help you?"
          "Yes. She said you helped her cousin with a problem up in Julian when the cops wouldn't give it a second look. That's exactly my situation so I figured, what the hell, why not?"
          "Why not, indeed? It's a nice day for a drive, Mr. Finch. Might you be available later on today?"
          "Is it necessary? I have a lot of work to do."
          "You misunderstand. I mean to come to you. How would I find you."
          "Ah. Take the Boulevard exit off the eight. That will put you on old highway eighty. Go half a mile east until you see the feed and grocery stores on the left. There's a big red sign on the right. Turn there onto Jackrabbit Lane and just stay on it. It leads right up to my house, and I'll be working around the grounds somewhere. Just call out when you get there. My dog will hear you if I don't."
          "Very good, Mr. Finch. I'm going to pick up another investigator, and we'll be out in a couple of hours."

*          *          *

          "Can I get you anything else, sir?"
          "A refill on the coffee," Borden replied.
          She turned to the counter behind her and lifted the fully caffeinated, a choice most of the waitresses had come to know well in the month that he had been frequenting Jimmy's Family Restaurant for many of his meals. She turned back to pour his coffee.
          "Anything else?"
          "No, I think that will do it. Just a check, thanks. Is Penny working tonight?" he asked as she took out her pad and totaled up the cost of breakfast.
          "Yeah, she'll be in at two, works 'til eleven as usual. Looks like that will be eight forty-four, Mr. Borden."
          "Thank you, Linda. My compliments to the—" He was interrupted by the harsh ring tone of his phone. "Excuse me."
          He took it out and checked the screen as the waitress moved off down the counter. "Grace," he read.
          "Good morning," he answered it. "You've reached the desk of Rick Borden. How may I assist you."
          "Good morning, Rick," his boss replied. "I'm at your hotel. Where are you?"
          "Jimmy's, my home away from home."
          "Oh. Listen, have you watched those videos I linked for you?"
          "Why yes, ma'am, I have, and I have to say that they were fascinating."
          "Fascinating enough for you to retain some of it, I hope?"
          "Yes, ma'am, they sure were."
          "How about your shoulder? Are you recovering as quickly as we hoped?"
          "I think so. Still get a little twinge when I reach up for something, but not bad, all things considered."
          "That's good. So, would you be up for a little drive in the mountains?"
          "Do we have a case?"
          "I doubt it. We have a goat rancher who's losing livestock. Likely a predator dragging it off, but he's heard about an unusual case that we helped his friend with, and he's asked us to take a look into it."
          "I thought we didn't do that."
          "Well, it's slow right now, and since we were recommended, it's good PR if nothing else. Anyway, it could be a good chance for you to get back in the pool."
          "The kiddie pool, sounds like."
          "Let's call it the shallow end, shall we? Are you up for it?"
          "Sure, why not? To tell you the truth, I've been at loose ends lately."
          "Well, let's tighten them up for you, then. Wait outside. I'll pick you up."

*          *          *

          McFarlane's dark blue BMW X5 darted across two lanes of traffic, into the lot, and braked hard in front of the door of Jimmy's Family Restaurant where Borden waited outside. Rick opened the door and got into the passenger seat, buckling up as she pulled around the row of parked cars and back onto Avocado St.
          "Early lunch?" she asked, accelerating sharply into the traffic flow.
          "No, breakfast," he said as she swerved to pass a loaded-down pickup on the right side to the accompaniment of a blaring horn. "I'd hate for it to be my last meal."
          She ignored the barb, instead saying, "Not an early bird, then?"
          "Not unless it's necessary. You haven't given me anything to do but watch spooky videos and rehabilitate my shoulder."
          "I hope you've paid attention to those spooky videos," she said. "Where it comes to this job, those are your training films."
          "I'm still trying to get my head around that concept."
          "I can't imagine that would be too difficult for you," she said, accelerating up the ramp and onto Interstate 8 headed east toward the mountains behind the city. "First day on the job you were attacked by a werewolf who had earlier murdered a vampire. How's that shoulder healing, by the way?"
          "It's okay now."
          "But?"
          "But what?"
          "But, it took longer to heal than an ordinary wound, the pain was more intense and lasted longer, does that sound accurate?"
          "Well... yeah."
          "Wounds inflicted by supernatural creatures often do. Don't tell me you're still a non-believer after the initiation you've had."
          "No. You've got to admit, though, it's a hard thing to come to terms with after a lifetime of seeing the world in one certain way. What if you were suddenly presented with absolute, irrefutable proof that the world was, indeed, flat? How long would it take you to accept that?"
          "Yeah, that would be tough, but if that was the fact, then I would have to accept it because it would affect every aspect of my life going forward. That's the situation you've been brought into. You're initiated. We've shown you what goes bump in the night, and you'd better accept your new paradigm quickly for your own good."
          "Oh, I'm accepting. I just don't know how all this is possible, not without the whole world knowing about it."
          "The whole world does know about it, Rick. They always have. The vampires of Eastern Europe. The ghosts of the British Isles. The water monsters of Japan. The kraken that once terrorized sailors."
          "But those are myths and fairy tales," he protested.
          "And every myth starts somewhere. Someone sees something out of the ordinary, and tells someone else about it, probably misreporting some parts and embellishing others. That friend tells another, and so it spreads. It would probably die out on its own, but what if it's a tale about a vampire attack, and before it can die out, another happens, and another? At what point does it become woven into the fabric of the region?"
          "Yeah, but vampires?"
          "Just one example. But they're woven into the fabric of Eastern European folk tales, just as Britain has her haunted castles, and Japan is surrounded by water demons. Parker has a theory that I haven't been able to refute, not that I've tried all that hard. It makes pretty good sense, actually."
          "Lay it on me, boss."
          "He believes in the multiverse theory, that some number, maybe an infinite number of universes exist on parallel planes. He thinks that there is a point of overlap that drifts slowly around the globe and allows crossover between elements of these completely alien planes."
          "So how does that account for all the different stories from all the different places?"
          "The point of contact moves on Earth, so it likely moves at the other end as well. For generations it was over Eastern Europe, providing their vampire stories from the creatures that made the crossing. By the time it moved to Britain at our end, it was providing ghosts from their end. Japan predominantly got water demons, and so on. Parker thinks it's the turn of southern California and northwestern Mexico right now, which is a big reason we were able to offer you employment."
          Borden sat in silence, watching the high desert landscape roll by.
          "Well, what do you think?" she prodded.
          "It's crazier than I thought. Why don't earthlings transfer across in the other direction?"
          "Who says they don't? Dozens of people go missing every year, and a good number of them are never found. I'm not saying they all crossed over, but they're somewhere, aren't they?"
          "Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?"
          "No. I've told you my story, Rick. I've been on board since childhood."
          "Well I haven't, and you can take it from me, it's pretty crazy. So, what are we after today? Chupacabra? Rodan? The creature from the Black Lagoon?"
          She gave him a genuine smile at that.
          "Most likely nothing. A rancher's losing livestock and he wants it to stop."
          "Understandable."
          "Certainly. He can't catch the predator for whatever reason, but a friend of a friend did business with us one upon a time, so he called us. If we had a lot going on, this would be at the bottom of the list, but we don't, so we're going to go talk to the man, set up a couple of game cameras, and put his mind at ease."
          "And charge him some money, I presume?"
          "Just our costs. There's nothing here to find, so there's no reason to gouge the guy. Just look at it as a nice ride in the country."

*          *          *

          James Finch had put middle age in the wake and recorded the years on his hips and belly. His grandfather had started the high desert ranch about the same time the Kaiser had started the First World War. His father had worked under him his whole life, inherited it in the optimistic glow that followed World War Two, and left it to James, who had given his own life to it, in the 1990s. James had two sons, neither of whom had the slightest interest in being "trapped" into lives of drudgery, and had left at the first opportunity to pursue exciting careers in urban professions. James soldiered on with a part-time hired hand and took perverse comfort in the secret knowledge that his hired hand's son would inherit the ranch when he died.
          His father had made the change from cattle to goats during the sixties, when cattle ranching had gone industrial, leaving the small operator unable to compete. It helped the bottom line tremendously. Cattle needed fodder; goats were much less finicky. They also needed much lighter fences, chicken wire put up with a staple gun being sufficient in most cases, and he was doing some overdue repairs on the upper pasture to ensure he would be available when this investigator arrived... Assuming she could even find the place.
          But find it she did, Sadie perking up when the blue SUV pulled into the yard in front of the house. Grunting as he rose from one knee, he brushed his hands off on his pant legs as he started up the path, his black Lab trotting along beside him.
          The woman was driving, a slight youngster with a slightly Asian look, her straight black hair topping sensible slacks and a somewhat mannish blouse. Her passenger was more what he expected, a big fellow, neither fat nor bulky, with a look and manner that suggested he'd seen his share of the rough-and-tumble. He would be the muscle, then.
          "Mr. Finch?" she greeted him as they came down the path to meet him.
          "That's right," he said, shaking her hand. "James Finch. Call me Jim."
          "Pleased to meet you. I'm Grace McFarlane. This is my partner, Rick Borden."
          "Mr. Borden."
          "A pleasure," Borden said, turning from the dog to shake his hand. "Nice dog you have here."
          "Sadie. She's a good companion for an old man."
          "So, Jim," McFarlane said, "you said on the phone you were losing livestock. Why don't you fill us in on the details?"
          "Simple enough," Finch told her. "Once or twice a week a fence will be torn and a doe goes missing. I can't find any reason for it. It ain't natural. My friend told me about a detective agency that handles cases that ain't natural, so I called you. I ain't exactly rolling in money here, and I need this to stop."
          "You said this wasn't the work of predators. Can you tell me how you know that?"
          "Sure. We got basically two predators up here, cougars and coyotes. Cougar's a big solitary hunter. It strikes from ambush, makes a kill, and eats its fill. It don't clean up after itself. The grass will be soaked with blood where the animal died, and whatever the cat doesn't eat, horns and hooves, hair, skin, will be left in a pile. Coyote kills are similar, but they hunt in a pack. After they make a kill, each one pulls off whatever it wants, a leg, an organ, whatever, and drags it a little ways off to eat, so the site is more spread out and messy. The key word is messy. Blood, hair, and eyeballs all over the ground. I ain't had none of that. The fence is down, the animal's gone, and that's that."
          "Any chance they just wandered off?"
          "Sure, that happens, but these goats are domesticated. They want to be milked, and they want to eat. And they're spoiled. They prefer nice, tender grass, and there ain't any of that outside my pastures."
          "So they always come back?"
          "Right."
          "How about rustlers?" Borden asked. "Do you have trouble with thieves up here?"
          "Not much, but rustlers leave tracks, tires and boots, and besides, what rustler is going to plan an operation, take the risk of being caught and jailed, then only take one goat? They load up every head they can catch."
          "I see," McFarlane said. "So, what is it you'd like us to do?"
          "Find out what's doing this," Finch told her. "Something new is causing problems up here, and whether it's a new kind of predator or a new kind of criminal, I need to know about it."
          "Is there a place where this happens more than others?" she asked.
          "It started down on the south pasture farthest from the house, but when I moved the flocks up to the upper pasture for the nights, it struck up here as well."
          "Did the dog give you any indication?" Borden asked.
          "Nothing I noticed. Wish she had. My shotgun would have played them some music to dance to."
          "Well, it sounds like something unusual is going on here," McFarlane said, "and the first job is to find out what it is. Do you feel like risking another goat for the cause?"
          "If I have to."
          "All right. We've brought a few game cameras with us. They're camouflaged and motion activated. We hide them around the pasture and if anything moves in front of them, it sets them off and they record a video. We'll set them up around your lower pasture. You put some goats in, and if anything turns up to claim one, we'll see what it is. Does that sound agreeable to you?"
          "In principle. What's this going to cost me?"
          "To monitor the pasture? Nothing. If we find something, then we'll talk money."
          "All right, then, let's set it up."
          "Great. Can we drive down there?"
          "Probably not with that."
          "Okay. Rick," she said, handing him the keys, "there are three cameras in the back. Get them out and let's get started."

*          *          *

         She kept herself low, tasting the air, depending on the sage and terrain wrinkles to foil curious eyes. Of course, the eyes of the goats would see her, but that couldn't be helped, and it would hardly matter, anyway. Goats couldn't very well tell the two-legs that lived up the hill what they had seen feasting in the dark.
         Still, something about this bothered her. Goats were back in the small meadow down the slope. The two-legs weren't stupid, slow and clumsy though they were, but this one returned its goats to the place of danger after just a couple of nights of keeping them up by the lair it had built at the top of the hill. Was it on purpose? An offering? Did the two-legs want something in return?
         Little it mattered. She wasn't in the business of making bargains with her prey. She continued her stealthy approach to the penned goats, food for the taking.
         The goats hadn't alerted yet, and she closed the distance. Soon she would strike and sate the hunger that was never at bay for long. She would, perhaps, go in search of larger prey soon, but this was too easy. She could make out the ridiculous wire barrier with her acute vision now; did the two-legs believe this would keep her away from its goats? A greater fool than most of them if it did. Perhaps the two-legs might become the larger prey she contemplated.
         The foolish barrier was right in front of her now, the goats mere feet away, when a sharp click followed by a rising whine startled her. She froze, tensed, ready to attack whatever had made the sound, but no other sounds followed. She looked around, barely moving more than her eyes, and finally spotted a faint, flashing red light in the brush to her left.
         Insect, a firefly perhaps. No matter. Bugs were beneath her notice. Tasty goat flesh beckoned from the meadow, and she had a hunger that required attention.

*          *          *

         It was Friday, three days since James Finch had called about his mysteriously disappearing livestock, and in the absence of further updates, McFarlane had almost forgotten about the whole incident. Her focus was on getting Borden settled into his new office, the double across the hall from her own. There was training material for him to read and view, hands-on familiarizations to walk him through, and of course, she had to monitor Vickie Turner and her partner Michael Porterfield.
         They had visited a home in the mountain community of Pine Valley that the owner had reported as being ransacked in her absence. The sheriff's deputies who had visited had put it down to a large animal, probably a cougar, getting in through an open window in search of an easy meal, but the homeowner, a Mrs. Linda Gamble, hadn't bought it, and one of the deputies, an initiate, had given her Akuma's card. Turner and Porterfield had gone to interview her and reported the slight odor of burnt garlic even the next day. Burnt garlic was the unmistakable signature of a werewolf, and the steep, wooded terrain surrounding Pine Valley was a natural hunting ground for the creatures, so much was occupying McFarlane's mind when her inside line buzzed.
         "Parker, what's up?"
         "Got Mr. Finch on the line," Mason told her. "Seems the boogie man paid him another visit. He wants to know what the next step is."
         "That would be to check the cameras we left out there. Tell him that we'll be out as soon as we can get there."
         "Will do, boss."
         McFarlane pulled on her suit jacket, pocketed her phone, and crossed the hall to the office where Borden was reading an old case file, a skeptical look on his face.
         "Rick," she said, "time to roll. Finch just called. His visitor came back, and we need to look at the cameras."
         "Right," he said, closing the file and standing up. "What do I need to bring?"
         "Just yourself."
         "What if we run into Finch's goblin out there?"
         "I wouldn't worry. The thing's nocturnal and seems to be shy as well. Once we see what we're dealing with, then we'll know what we need. It's not a good idea to drive around in a car full of weapons. Most cops don't know who we are, remember."
         "Right," he said, joining her on the walk to her car. "So, what do you expect to find when we get there?"
         "It's good not to have a lot of preconceived expectations in this work, because no matter what you think it is, it's always something else."
         "But you must have an opinion," he said as they reached the bottom of the stairs and she chirped the locks on her SUV.
         "Really? I think this is a big predator, which in this part of the country means a mountain lion, that's learned to move its kills before it feeds."
         They got in and buckled up.
         "You heard what he said, though. There'd still be blood."
         "Not necessarily," she said, starting the car and pulling out onto Roswell. "Big cats kill by asphyxiation. They hold the windpipe shut until the prey suffocates. Most of them feed on the spot, but they don't have to, and this could be an exception."
         "Well, I hope you're right. That would do wonders for my sense of reality."
         "But you see why it's pointless to speculate?"
         "Yeah," he said, blowing out a deep sigh.
         "Don't worry," she said, patting his leg, an action that had him looking askance at the point of contact, "we'll have some real facts to go on once we get out there."

*          *          *

         James Finch and his hired man, George Berkeley, stood waiting with Borden as McFarlane plugged the memory chip into her laptop. They formed a semicircle behind her as she sat at Finch's dining room table waiting for the computer to cycle through its processes and display the results from the first of the three game cameras.
         "I thought all this stuff was done by wireless these days," Finch said.
         "It can be," McFarlane told him. "That costs money that can be better spent on other things. Ah, here we go."
         The screen flickered onto a black-and-white picture of sagebrush, cactus, and tumbleweeds. Off to the right edge, a raccoon came lumbering into view, shortly followed by another. They didn't waste much time, though they did stop to look at the camera – it made a faint, high-pitched noise as it switched on – before moving on in search of the choice forage to be found around human dwellings. The camera lay dormant until movement triggered it, at which point it came on and recorded for as long as motion kept it running. Nearly an hour was spent on the first memory card, which displayed nothing but a small number of raccoons and a vast assortment of rabbits. It was the second camera that proved the most interesting.
         It began in much the same way, with raccoons and rabbits parading to and fro, but then a half-hour in, as everyone's eyes were struggling to focus, the scene blinked signifying another triggering, and this time a white cylinder, tapered like a tail, was seen in the distance, center-screen. It hesitated briefly then moved off into the darkness. McFarlane stopped the playback and repeated it.
         "Well, Mr. Finch," she said, "you live out here. Care to tell me what that is?"
         "A snake would be my guess," he replied. "It doesn't rise like it's attached to an animal, but that thing must be huge."
         "Have to agree."
         "Yeah, but the biggest snakes out here are kings and diamondbacks, and they top out at about six feet. Plus, there's no rattles on that one."
         "That's right."
         "How come it started with the thing in center frame instead of coming in from the side?"
         "The camera has a range limitation. It must have swung its tail this way and set it off."
         "Snakes don't usually swing their tails," Berkeley pointed out.
         "That's true," Finch agreed. "Where the head goes, the tail follows."
         "And yet..." McFarlane mused.
         "Let's watch some more," Borden said. "Maybe it comes back."
         McFarlane started the playback again, and they didn't have long to wait. Less than a minute later the bit of scrub brush that was barely visible on the left side of the field shuddered, disturbed by something out of frame. It shuddered again, then with startling suddenness, a face popped up from the bottom, less than a foot from the lens. So startling was it that McFarlane jumped back in her chair.
         "Jesus!" Borden exclaimed.
         It was plainly reptilian. The sides flared out like the hood of a cobra, but not exactly. There was a disturbing humanness about it, and the intelligence in the slitted eyes was unmistakable. It took a moment to assess the camera, then, deciding it was no threat, the head lowered as the hood contracted, and it veered off to the left, toward Finch's goat pen.
         "Stop, stop!" Borden said. McFarlane did so. "Back it up a couple of seconds."
         She started a slow rewind until Borden said, "Right there. What the hell is that?"
         That was a ribbed membrane resembling nothing so much as the wing of a bat.
         "What the hell?" McFarlane said.
         "I asked you first."
         "Looks like a wing, doesn't it?"
         "Yeah, which it flatly impossible."
         "You'll learn to stop using that word at some point."
         "So, what happens next?" Finch asked.
         "Next, we have to figure out what we're dealing with here."
         "A snake with wings?" he asked. "Shouldn't be too many of those in the encyclopedias."
         "I'm pretty sure there aren't any," she said.
         "What does that mean?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.
         "Just what I said. I have an expert researcher on my staff. I'll give him these images and put him to work on it. It generally doesn't take him long to sort these things out."
         "You get a lot of this kind of thing, do you?"
         "Our business is built on it. Don't worry, Mr. Finch. I don't imagine it will be too long before we have some answers. Come on, Rick," she said, picking up her laptop. "The sooner we get started, the better. Just have a bit of patience, Mr. Finch. We'll get back to you soon."

Part II

         "The lady said to have patience, Mr. Finch," the ever-present toothpick at the corner of his mouth bobbing as he talked.
         George Berkeley, a big man, aging but still strong, followed Finch around the back of his pickup as he tossed a couple of bear traps into the back, joining the pile that was already there.
         "The lady ain't losing her family business because of some mysterious predator, George. Now, are you going to help or not?"
         "I want to, Mr. Finch, but these here catch and hold traps are illegal around here. I don't even know where you got these things."
         "I got them from a place where they ain't illegal," Finch said, leaning on the side of the truck before turning to face Berkeley as he wiped his forehead with a bandanna. "You saw that snake, or whatever that thing is. You think that thing's going to fit in a raccoon trap? Besides, these traps are illegal to use on coyotes and cougars. Nobody ever expected to see a, what, a flying python out here killing goats, and that's what I'm looking to trap."
         "So, what are you going to do, then, put up a sign to warn the other animals to stay out of the traps?"
         Finch pulled a deep sigh and shook his head.
         "I understand your concern, George, I do, but coyotes are hardly endangered, and when was the last time you saw a cougar this far down the slope?"
         "I don't know..."
         "Besides, what if we take this thing alive? Have you ever seen a snake like that? I sure haven't. The lady with the cameras hasn't, either. What if we catch a species that nobody's ever seen before? Why, we can name our own price from any zoo in the world."
         Berkeley looked off toward the horizon, toothpick flicking as he worried at it with his tongue. Finch took a moment to study his countenance.
         "Look, George, I can see that your heart isn't in this. I won't deny I could use the help, but you haven't touched a trap yet, so if you want to wash your hands of it, just go on home and I'll see you tomorrow."
         "Pounding those anchors is gonna be a big job," Berkeley allowed.
         "No lie there," Finch said.
         "And you do pay me to help you with the heavy stuff."
         Finch waited in silence for Berkeley to make his decision.
         "I guess I can go pound some stakes with you, but if this blows up on you, I'm just your hired man carrying out his duties, understood?"
         "Completely," Finch said, knowing full well, as did Berkeley, that the law would make no distinction between them if this didn't go well. "I made us a fresh jug of lemonade. Let's go swing some hammers."

*          *          *

         She returned in darkness two days on. These goats were poor fare, but they were such easy prey that she simply hadn't made the decision to move on as yet. And so she approached once again, coming in low and using the meager cover to shield her movements from prying eyes.
         There were no goats in the pen tonight. Perhaps she would have to feed on the four-legged things that roamed these harsh lands, predators like herself, and yet not like her at all.
         But another scent was in the air, something heavy and oppressive. She raised her head to get above the plant and insect smells at ground level, a periscope rising to take a deadly bearing. Her tongue flicked quickly up and down, loading up on the scent and bringing it back to sensitive pits in the roof of her mouth.
         Metal.
         Not the lightweight, bendable stuff of the so-called barrier that kept the goats in the little pasture. No, this was heavy and oppressive, something of strength and substance. Something new. It would have to be investigated and cataloged.
         She followed her flicking tongue up a scent trail until she came to the source — a source, really, as she could discern several. It was an odd thing, and she puzzled over it for minutes. A circle of worked iron with a jagged edge sat on the ground, partially hidden by a half-hearted attempt at concealment. The thing made no sense. It didn't protect the goats, nor did it confine them. It didn't react to her presence in any way. The goats obviously didn't put it here, so it must be something of the two-leg's doing.
         She had wasted enough time on this inanimate iron thing. It was time to hunt.
         She turned away from the pen, pointing her sensitive tongue out toward the desert. Food was out there for the taking, and she intended to take it.
         As her supple body swung in loops and curves, reversing its course toward the open fields, it trailed the tip of its membranous wing across the circle of iron which responded by snapping shut with the force of a dragon's jaws.
         She jerked in pain, the tip of the long bone broken, and in her agony, tore a piece of the membrane and the tip of the bone loose, leaving it in the iron jaws.
         Released from the trap, her tongue flicked at the wound, examining it in concert with her sharp eyes. The wingtip was ragged and would make flying a problem for the near future, but the bleeding was already slowing, and the wing itself would regenerate soon enough. But the pain, amplified by the sudden shock of the surprise, coursed up the wing and radiated into the flight muscles at the base.
         The two-legs had done this.
         The two-legs would pay!
         Turning back again, it looked up the hill toward the two-leg's dwelling and, much more carefully now, began the ascent.

*          *          *

         Jim Finch started to wakefulness in his recliner. On the television, Vincent D'Onofrio's Detective Goren was interrogating the suspect he had been tailing earlier, so he hadn't nodded off that long ago. But what had brought him up with such a sudden jerk?
         Sadie.
         The dog gave another low growl that rose in pitch to terminate in a loud bark.
         "What is it, girl? Is somebody out there?"
         Finch eased his recliner to the upright position as quietly as possible. Sadie barked again.
         "Shhhhh. Quiet, girl."
         He got to his feet and moved stealthily to the side of the window that overlooked the front of the house, pulled back the edge of the curtain, and peered out into the darkness. The porch light illuminated the area around the door, and a streetlight up the road threw back-lighting behind his view, but he could see nothing.
         Sadie began to growl again.
         "Somethin' spoofin' around out there, huh? This'll sort 'em out!"
         He took his shotgun, a high-quality Ithaca double-barreled 12-guage, from its brackets above the mantle and loaded two double-ought buckshot shells. He was thoroughly spooked now, what with the nightmare creature that had taken up residence in the nearby countryside, but the reliable old gun was a fistful of steel courage. Creeping back over to the door, he listened as Sadie continued to growl low in her throat. This wasn't the excited yipping of a friend's visit, nor the ruckus she raised at the approach of a peddler. The dog was clearly warning him of danger. He might have stood, waiting, for hours, but there came a diminishing series of clangs from the darkness, as if someone had dropped an empty can onto concrete. That settled it for him. Leveling the shotgun at his hip, he reached for the doorknob.
         "Sit, Sadie. You stay, girl. Stay."
         And with that, he opened the door. The porch light was almost blinding, but it lit the area in a good twenty-yard semicircle. Stepping onto the porch, he looked both ways, seeing nothing as he expected.
         What competent prowler would stand in the light?
         But that raised a new issue, one he wished that he'd considered before he stepped outside. The porch light's glow followed the wall of the house, and the shadows around both corners would be deeper even if his night vision hadn't been ruined.
         And then Sadie darted out of the house, barking furiously, and turned at the corner to bark rapidly and frantically into the darkness beside the house. A scraping sound came from that direction, impossible to make out clearly with the dog losing her mind at whatever might be there. No matter; old lady Ithaca would send man or beast packing.
         Finch moved to the end of the porch and stepped off the edge, straining his eyes to see into the darkness beyond the house. The dog continued to jump around, her rate of barking rising to the next level. Finch brought the gun to his shoulder.
         "Who's back there?" he shouted, more to steady his nerves than in expectation of a reply.
         He took a single step into the darkness, and was heartened by the way the glare of the light seemed to improve his vision.
         If only that dog would shut up!
         "Sadie, stop it!" he whisper-shouted, turning toward her to make his wishes known.
         He turned back to his front and as he took another step, the reptilian face from the video suddenly shot at him from the darkness. He had the brief impression that it was hanging down from above – the roof, maybe? – but he had no time for reflection as he yanked the first trigger.

*          *          *

         McFarlane waited at the counter in the equipment room as Ann Barrett, the firm's highly skilled technical wizard, prepped Borden's basic issue weapon. The Wesley & Diller P-103 resembled nothing so much as a toy pistol in a shoulder rig. Sleek black plastic with a copper mesh tip, it resembled the science-fiction blaster that it very much was. Its size was marginally larger than a Glock pistol, and it was light, but the handle was bulky with knurled finger grips, and instead of a magazine, a large round battery plugged into that handle, clicking into place with a catch. With the battery installed it became quite heavy, but in a good sort of way that gave the user a sense of substantiality.
         "You really think he's going to pan out?" Barrett asked as she laid the weapon, holster, and a box containing half a dozen batteries on the counter.
         "Yes, I do. He has good instincts, he asks the right questions, I think he's a good acquisition."
         "I don't know, Grace. I remember when we used to have standards. I hear he doesn't even believe in what we do here."
         "Yeah, well once he gets a few cryptids under his belt, he'll believe soon enough. And what's with this 'standards' remark? Rick's a former cop. He comes highly recommended."
         "By who, besides you? He's a former cop because they tossed him out on his ear."
         "Yes, Ann, because he thinks outside the box. What strait-laced conservative thinker is going to fit in here?"
         "Good point. I just hope you're right about him, what with him being your new partner and all. Couldn't you take Porterfield and give him to Vickie?"
         "Yeah, I could," McFarlane replied, signing the paperwork, "but they've been together for a couple of years. It's hardly fair to break them up if they're happy together."
         "It's hardly fair to you to have a new guy watching your back."
         "He isn't a new guy, Ann, he's an experienced police officer. Anyway, those are the options available, and this is the best one."
         "Not to mention he's quite the stud," Barrett said, raising an eyebrow.
         "Oh, Ann," McFarlane said, picking up the weapon, "you need to find a boyfriend."
         "Something you don't have a problem with, I'm guessing."
         "Just open the door."
         Barrett went to the back of the room and held down the two buttons that opened the reinforced door, giving McFarlane a wink as she stepped out into the corridor. Focused on her old friend's remarks, she almost bumped into Parker Mason as she exited the room.
         "Ah, Miss Grace, I was looking for you. I thought you ought to know that the Sheriff's Department is answering a missing person call in Boulevard. The place isn't that big, so it could be related to your case."
         "What do you know about it?"
         "Well, it's a radio call, so it's pretty bare-bones. The dispatcher sent a car to Jackrabbit Ranch, if that means anything to you."
         "It damned sure does. Find Borden and send him to my office. I'm going to call Detective Gomez and see if she can give me any additional info."
         "I'm on it."

*          *          *

         "Two cars," Borden remarked as they neared Finch's ranch house, "one unmarked. They must have found something."
         "How's that?"
         "We saw Finch yesterday. The police generally make you wait twenty-four hours before you can even file a missing person report. Something here got their attention."
         "Yeah, well that's Berkeley on the porch. Maybe he can tell us something."
         They pulled up behind the sheriff's car and got out. As they started toward the house, a big deputy, poster boy for the Academy type, left the porch and strode purposefully toward them.
         "Hold it right there, folks," he said, holding up his hand. "What's your business here? Do you know the missing man?"
         "Who's missing?" McFarlane asked quickly, assuming the initiative before Borden could speak.
         "I'll ask the questions here, Ma'am," the deputy said. "This is a private road that doesn't go anywhere else, so first you need to tell me how you came to drive out here right at this time."
         "Fair enough. We're detectives with Akuma Investigations. Mr. Finch, the owner, hired us to look into his disappearing livestock."
         "Private detectives, huh? Are you armed?"
         "Only with non-lethal stuff. We don't want any fatal mistakes."
         "Smart policy. Let me take a look at those ID badges."
         They both unclipped their plastic cards from their jackets and handed them over. As the deputy studied them, comparing their pictures to their faces, they both read his nametag: J. Williams, Patrol Division.
         He handed their badges back.
         "A little odd, isn't it, getting a couple of private eyes to look into livestock losses?"
         "Got to agree," Borden said, "but he called the sheriff first, and you guys blew him off."
         "That doesn't sound likely," the deputy said.
         "It's what he told us," McFarlane told him. "We're here about that. Is it Mr. Finch that's missing?"
         "I'm not at liberty to say. Anyway, disappearing livestock is no longer the issue, so you can be on your way."
         "It's Finch," Borden said to McFarlane.
         "Nobody said that," Deputy Williams said with a sharp look at Borden.
         "Sure you did," Borden said. "If Finch wasn't missing, our case with him would still be active."
         "I'm sorry, sir," Williams said, turning now to crowd Borden with his bulk and officiality, "I'd suggest you leave quietly before you get hung up for interfering in an investigation."
         "Yeah, we could do that, or you could get the person in charge out here. Finch is our client and we may have information that can help you. Instead of trying to bully us off, you might want to get the person who belongs to this car out here. I'll bet he has enough sense to talk to us."
         "You watch a lot of cop shows, do you?"
         As McFarlane shook her head in a tight little no motion, Borden said, "Not really. I was a cop in Chicago while you were learning your times tables in middle school. Now, you have a choice to make. Are you going to be smart or obstructive?"
         "Look," the deputy said, "there are protocols when someone goes missing, and I'm not saying it's your client."
         "You already did that."
         "No, I didn't. In any case, we can't just let anyone who shows up traipse around a potential crime scene. If you were a cop like you say, then I know you'd understand that."
         "Sure I do, and I'm guessing you're pretty new at this, because if you weren't, you'd know that you don't send people who have history with the victim packing. Now, is the detective who belongs to the unmarked available to talk to?"
         "I'm the detective," a fashionably-dressed black woman said as she came down the path toward the cars. "Crystal Patterson. Who are you, please?"
         "Grace McFarlane, Akuma Investigations. This is my partner, Rick Borden."
         "Akuma? Mr. Finch had your card on his desk."
         "Not surprising. I gave it to him."
         "In connection with what?"
         McFarlane repeated the whole story to Patterson.
         "Did you find the source of his losses?"
         "We're not certain. We put some cameras down by his lower pasture, and they caught what could be a large snake."
         "Snake?"
         "Yeah, like if someone had released a python or something, though I don't imagine a python would fare well in this climate."
         She omitted the part about the wings and the intelligent eyes.
         "No, it isn't likely."
         "Can you tell us anything about Mr. Finch?"
         "I'm afraid not."
         "All right." McFarlane produced Detective Gomez's card and passed it over. "Nell Gomez is a detective down in San Diego. She's worked with us on several cases, and I'm sure she'll be glad to vouch for us."
         "All right, I'll call her if we need you."
         "I'd appreciate it if you'd call her right away. See, we'd like to stay on the case that Mr. Finch retained us for. If there's a strange predator in the area, it could be a danger to others."
         "I see." Patterson looked back toward the house for a moment, then came to a decision. Turning back to them, she said, "Finch was reported missing by his hired man. That's him on the porch."
         "George Berkeley. We've met."
         "Yes, well, he reported for work this morning, and there was no sign of Finch. His truck is here as you can see, but Finch isn't. Mr. Berkeley assumed he was out on the ranch, and started around the back to begin his duties. He found a shotgun which he identified as Finch's with one barrel fired, and a shoe, untied like he was in the process of taking it off."
         "Or putting it on," Borden said. "Something attracted him outside. He wanted shoes on his feet, but didn't want to take the time to lace them up."
         "Very possible," Patterson said. "Also, his dog was found dead. Stiff as a board, which makes us think it was killed late in the evening. Not that that helps much. Anyway, that's what we have right now. If you have anything to add, we'd be glad to hear it."
         "I'm afraid we don't," McFarlane said. "Last time we saw him, he was alive and kicking."
         "So, why did you come out here now? Do you have something new on the predator?"
         "We were going to do a detailed walk of the property," McFarlane lied, "see if we could find any signs, tracks, anything that might help us find it."
         "I see. Well, obviously I can't let you do that now. Forensics should be finished by tomorrow, and you can come back then and continue your work."
         "I understand. Well, be back then."
         "Hang on," Borden said.
         "No, Rick, it's a crime scene. Let's go."
         She got in the car and started the engine.
         "All aboard!"
         With a nod to Patterson, Borden got in and buckled up.
         "You're awfully eager to get out of here all of a sudden," he said to her.
         "You heard her, Rick, it's a crime scene."
         "She didn't say that."
         "The hell she didn't! You don't call out a forensics team because you found an old shoe."
         "They found his gun, too."
         "Exactly. And they didn't find him. I don't think they're going to, either, but I do think we have enough information now to consult our secret weapon."

*          *          *

         Her coiled, unmoving form could easily have been mistaken for a pile of sun-bleached rocks washed into the arroyo's overhang by one of the flash floods that had cut it. She shifted her head slightly, allowing one eye a view toward the several two-legs milling about on the skyline by the dwelling. They were obviously in a state of agitation over something, forming and breaking groups, shifting, hurrying to and fro much as the goats did when they sensed her presence.
         She had not seen so many two-legs together before; did they sense her presence? No, she decided, if they had, they would flee or attack. They had gathered for something else. Probably searching for their missing comrade, the one dissolving inside her. It was much more satisfying than the goats, and easier prey besides.
         It was good there were so many of them. A growing larva needed vast amounts of nourishment to reach her adult form. It would soon be time to hunt again…

*          *          *

         The sun was nearing the horizon when McFarlane pulled her SUV to the curb in front of an aged purple house in a rundown neighborhood. The houses were mostly small, a century old or more, with detached garages, and painted in garish oranges, greens, purples, and blues. Most of them had overgrown yards gone to seed. The mom-and-pop grocery on the corner had seen no paint this century aside from the garish graffiti adorning the blank wall on the near side. In the yard of the purple house she had stopped in front of was a hand-lettered sign:

Madame Cervántez
Mystic Arts
Palm Readings
Horoscopes
Potions
Taro

         McFarlane got out and started up the cracked concrete path.
         "You're joking, right?" Borden asked as he got out to follow her.
         "Does it look like I'm joking?"
         "Really? A palm reader?"
         "That isn't all she does. If you want to know about computers, you ask a computer expert. When we need a hand with the myth and magic, this is where we come."
         "Sure. Of course it is."
         "Leave that attitude on the porch, mister. She can sense it."
         "I never doubted."
         The door was dark wood with an oval of stained glass in the center. Soft light was visible within. McFarlane rang the bell and motion could immediately be seen through the glass. The door was opened by a teenage girl. Flowery incense engulfed them at once.
         "Buenos noches, Miss Grace" the girl greeted them with a nod to Borden. "You wish to see mi abuelita?"
         "Si, Felicia, por favor."
         "Come in, please."
         The girl led them into what had been designed as a dining nook a century before and seated them at a round table.
         "Abuelita," she said, moving to a bedroom door, "Señorita Grace is here to see you."
         "Good, my child, that is good."
         The ancient voice might have seen seventy summers or a hundred. There came a point where the difference was negligible. The owner was stooped, tiny, not a hair over five feet even with the comb high in her gray hair. She draped a white lace shawl over it and around her face as the girl, her grandaughter, lent her arm as she hobbled to the table.
         "It is good to see you again, Miss Grace," she said as she took her seat across from them. "Have you finally found your man?"
         "No, Elena," McFarlane said. "This is my co-worker, Rick Borden."
         "Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," Rick said, reaching across the table for a handshake.
         She looked at it without taking it, then looked up with a concerned expression.
         "Mmm," she said, then to McFarlane, "You will. What brings me the honor of your presence tonight?"
         "I need your advice again."
         "Tell me."
         Mcfarlane removed her tablet from her purse and laid it before Madame Cervántez. Cueing up the snippet of video taken at the ranch, she hit Play. As it began to run, she pointed out the snakelike body passing in the distance. When the reptilian face suddenly appeared in the frame, she froze it.
         "What is that?" She asked.
         "A snake?" the old woman replied.
         "A snake like that in east county? Look at this."
         She started the video, freezing it again when the winglike appendage came into view.
         "Ah," the old woman said, nodding now. "The pale serpent. These are known the world over, and almost always in places where large snakes don't exist. England, eastern Europe, Korea. They go by many names, but the most common is Syren."
         "Syren?" Borden repeated. "I thought those were the women who lured sailors onto the rocks."
         "They share a name, young warrior," she told him, "but they are nothing alike."
         "So, what do we know about them?" McFarlane asked.
         "They are simply predators, though badly misplaced. They have no mystic qualities of the sort you normally deal with. They simply eat. They can slither on the ground faster than a horse can run, and they can fly faster than that. They are difficult to kill, though fire has been found effective. But beware. It is said that if they are allowed to reach their full growth, they may destroy whole communities before they move on."
         "Move on?" McFarlane asked. "How do we kill it?"
         "If it reaches adulthood, I cannot say."
         "They must be killable," Borden said. "They would have taken over the world by now."
         "No doubt they are, but I have no idea how that might be done. I suggest you find this thing quickly, for all of our sakes."

Part III

         "So, what have you found on this thing, Parker?" McFarlane asked, looking over his shoulder at the monitor.
         "Nothing. Well, damned little, anyway. It seems that no matter what you search under, the returns are dominated by the Greek sirens, the singing mermaids that lured sailors."
         "Try sirena."
         "Tried it."
         "And?"
         "Same thing. There's a Filipino version of the singing mermaids that dominates the search engine. Evil enough to make anybody happy, but it has nothing to do with snakes."
         "All right, so what is this damned little you said you found."
         "Well, there's a syren, or a sirena, in medieval European bestiaries. There was nothing mythological about it, except the fact that it didn't really exist, but what little I can find about it seems to fit our hostile pretty much to a tee."
         "In what way?"
         "Every way. It was believed to be a white snake that inhabited the Arabian peninsula. Arid desert, you should note. It was a dangerous predator to be avoided at all costs. But you know, the writers of these bestiaries wanted to pad out their books, and they'd put anything they'd heard of, travelers' tales, true mythological creatures that supposedly existed in the Orient, or the new world, anyplace the reader wasn't likely to actually go. Most of these things were stories from a man who knew a man who knew a man. Pure unvarnished bullshit, in other words."
         "And yet here we are looking at one. Could you find anything we could use?"
         "What accounts there are say that it was a huge white serpent that could run down a galloping horse, which the big ones routinely preyed on. Of course, an Arab isn't a very big horse. I'd like to see them try swallowing a Belgian draft—"
         "Focus, Parker."
         "Right, sorry. So, they're very fast, and they have batlike wings they can use to fly even faster."
         "How do you kill one?"
         "No idea. It isn't recorded that anyone ever did, which is not surprising as there was never any such thing."
         "Well, it may be coincidence, but there's one here now that fits the description, and we have to follow it up. Does it list anything else that might help us?"
         "Well, this thing's supposed to be venomous, though it's hard to see why a snake that big would need to be. But its venom is listed as either paralyzing or lethal, and get this. It acts so fast that you're either dead or completely paralyzed before you feel the bite."
         "That's a cheery thought. Keep at, Parker, our lives may depend on it."
         "Yes, Ma'am. I have been running across some mythological snakes. They usually have some sexual connotation, though, and don't really fit this pattern."
         "All right. Give Ann a heads-up, tell her to prep gear for a monster hunt. We'll be going out this afternoon."
         "Right. How many in your party?"
         "Four, I think. Alert Turner and Porterfield, tell them to knock off and get some shuteye. I'll have some night work for them tonight."
         "Yes, Ma'am."
         McFarlane stepped back into her office and took out a business card. She dialed the number and waited.
         "Sheriff's office, Detective Patterson."
         "Detective, this is Grace McFarlane. We met at Mr. Finch's ranch. We're investigating the predator that was taking his goats."
         "Yes, I remember. Do you have something relevant to our investigation?"
         "Not really. This is a courtesy call. We've gathered some more evidence on the predator, and we're going after it this evening. If you want to join us, we'll be assembling at the ranch an hour before sunset."
         "Any reason we should?" Patterson asked.
         "The predator looks to be a huge snake, and it's possible it could have taken Mr. Finch."
         "That would be one big snake. Are you serious about this?"
         "I'm afraid so."
         "You aren't UFO-chasers, are you?"
         "Not as a general rule."
         "And you think there's a snake big enough to swallow a man living around here?"
         "I think its possible. We captured something with our game cams that isn't in the local field guides, and we're going out to have a look. If you want to be there, this is your invitation."
         "You know what? I think I will. Does the invitation extend to a couple of deputies?"
         "The more the merrier, and bring some artillery. If this thing is what we think it is, an armored personnel carrier wouldn't go amiss."
         "Point taken. We'll see you there."

*          *          *

         Two Sheriff's cars were parked in front of the Finch house as McFarlane rounded the curve on Jackrabbit Lane.
         "Great," Borden pronounced.
         "I hope so," McFarlane replied. "They're here at my request."
         "Well, let's hope that works out for you."
         Detective Patterson approached them as they exited the SUV, Turner and Porterfield getting out of the back seat.
         "You brought your whole crew, I see," Patterson said by way of greeting.
         "A good part of it, at least. This is some dangerous wildlife we're going after."
         "Yes, a big snake, you said."
         "Yes, but if we're right, it's a snake unlike any you've ever seen or heard of."
         "Hang on. Witt," she called to one of the deputies leaning against the hood of his car, "you guys come over here."
         He and his partner, both large, capable looking men carrying shotguns, walked over to join them.
         "This is Deputy Witt," Patterson said by way of introduction, "and his partner, Deputy Beggs."
         Handshakes and head nods were exchanged all around.
         "You men listen up. We may have gotten into some real shit here. Go ahead, Ms. McFarlane."
         "Yes, well, what we're after is, on the face of it, a large snake, large enough to have eaten Mr. Finch, which, considering what we've learned, is what we believe happened. But what we really think is out here, based on the video we took and some research we've done since, is a creature found in medieval bestiaries and previously thought to have never existed."
         "Seriously?" Witt asked. "We're after some mythical monster?"
         "Possibly," McFarlane replied. "But at the very least, we're after a real life monster, a huge python or boa that is a danger to human life in the area, and that's what should keep you interested."
         The deputy nodded, agreeing at least with that assessment.
         "I talked to your friend, Detective Gomez," Patterson said, "and she says they've done some work with you in the past on cases that have proven unusual. She also mentioned that some of her colleagues call you Ghostbusters. Would you care to elaborate?"
         "Not really. You're already skeptical about what we're telling you, and anything I might confide now would do do nothing to enhance your opinion of us. I can tell you the characteristics of this mythical serpent we're going after."
         "Yes, please do."
         "It's a huge snake, larger than an anaconda. It's pale in color, probably a tan or ivory, as its natural habitat was said to be the Arabian desert, and a uniform light color would blend in with the sand there. It should help make it more visible here. It is said that it can outrun a horse on level ground, and has a pair of leathery wings on which it can fly faster than that."
         "Oh, come on!" Beggs spat.
         "We saw the wings on our video," McFarlane told him. "A snake this big should be a constrictor, but the wings appear to be delicate, and may prevent that killing technique, but it is known to employ a virulent and very fast-acting venom, so whatever you do, don't get bitten. That's about all we have on it. Any questions?"
         "Yeah," Beggs said. "Did you really bring us out here to play hide and seek with some imaginary monster?"
         "It may or may not be imaginary, Deputy," Patterson said before McFarlane could speak, "but regardless of that, there is a dangerous animal out here that has probably killed a man already, so set your mind on serious and stay alert."
         "Yes, Ma'am."
         "Is there any particular reason we're doing this at nightfall?" Patterson asked.
         "The creature seems to be active at night. During the day it would be laying up in a den or lair somewhere, probably well-hidden."
         "Ma'am," Deputy Witt said, "if this is some never before seen animal, aren't there scientists, conservation people, hell, even our local zoo, that would want to take it alive and study it?"
         "Likely they would, though if we bring back a mythical beast, just try to imagine the effect that will have on society. But everything we're carrying is non-lethal, tranquilizers, tasers, that sort of thing. If we accidentally shoot someone, they're going to get up and walk away. But there's a possibility that our non-lethal stuff may not affect it at all, and then it will up to your weapons. But here's the rest of it. We've been told that this is a larval form of something much larger and more powerful, and that we need to kill it by burning it. If it is allowed to reach its adult form, the whole of southern California and points beyond will be in extreme danger."
         "Told by who?" Patterson asked.
         "Experts in the field," McFarlane replied. "We consult with a number of them."
         "Well, that's it then," Patterson told her deputies. "Whether this thing is 'of this world' or not, it's most definitely dangerous, so unass your heads and get serious. Witt, fetch my carbine, would you?"
         "Yes, Ma'am."
         "Come on, people," McFarlane said to her group, "let's get kitted up. And mind what you shoot. There could be more than a big snake out there."

*          *          *

         George Berkeley had had a moment of near-panic when the sheriff's cars had pulled up in front of the house, first the two uniforms who got out and armed themselves with shotguns, and then the unmarked but obvious official vehicle that disgorged that no-nonsense black detective lady. He had driven to Finch's ranch house looking for – he couldn't really say what, closure maybe, but having let himself in with the key Jim had given him, he knew he could offer the police no good reason for being there.
         The detective had noticed his truck parked beside the house and gone over to inspect it. Following her from window to window, keeping out of sight, he watched her open the passenger door and take a stack of papers from the glove box. Reading his registration, she replaced them, stood up and looked around, then called to him.
         "Mr. Berkeley?" she shouted in an inquiring tone, rather than the come-out-with-your-hands-up tone that cops used for dealing with suspects. He realized then that they weren't here to come into the house, and if they didn't suspect he was in there, they would probably continue with their original business. So he remained in hiding and watched.
         He watched as McFarlane showed up with her partner and two other people, a man and a woman. He watched them come together, obviously to hold a briefing, and he watched McFarlane's people arm themselves with a sort of pistol he didn't recognize except the second man who took a bolt-action rifle from the back of her SUV and checked the action. After exchanging a few last-minute thoughts, they all started down the path to the lower pasture, weapons drawn, body language broadcasting their alert status.
         And that's when he realized that they weren't here about Finch or himself at all. They were going after the creature! They were going to avenge his friend and benefactor. George Berkeley wasn't about to be left out of that process.
         He walked briskly to Finch's bedroom. Opening the gun cabinet, he took out Jim's favorite, his century-plus old Ithaca double-barrel, and loaded it. Putting a handful of shells into his pocket, he fairly flew down the stairs, then stopped abruptly when he reached the door.
         These cops don't know I'm here. Be best if I don't come up behind them unexpected.
         Exiting the house, he went around the other side and got on one of the goat paths that led down the hill.
         Better they should think I was out here all the time.

*          *          *

         A creature that lives with its belly to the ground learns early to read the vibrations, and she was hardly an exception. Place a foot on the ground in her vicinity, and she knew which way you were walking, how much you weighed... and whether you'd make a worthwhile meal. Eight creatures walking together made more vibrations than she could read in detail, like trying to listen to one conversation in a crowded room. But she knew a meal when she felt one.
         She carefully erected the forepart of her long body until her eyes just cleared the lip of the rill in which she was resting, and there were the two-legs, the setting sun highlighting their approach from the east while its glare interfered with their own vision. She cursed again the metal teeth that had ripped away the tip of her wing. It would be a week or more before it regenerated to the point that she could fly again. Still, these things were easy enough to take down. She would let them pass then strike the one most isolated. Simple enough.
         Lowering her head back into the dry watercourse, she moved carefully, silently, off to the right side of the group, noting their stealthy approach. They probably thought that they were the hunters, and if she was possessed of a sense of humor, that would have been worth a snort of derision. But she wasn't, and she continued her movement well out of their path then turned back to examine what was to her simply a herd of prey animals, deciding which would be the easiest to kill.
         Selecting a good spot to hide – it wasn't an ambush, as she would let them pass then come up from behind – she stopped all movement to wait for them to pass, and it was then that she felt the extra vibration. One of them was coming up behind the rest of the group, well-separated; watching over them? Clever. She would take that one. From behind, after all of them were well past. Foolish prey! Their cleverness had just sealed its fate.
         She picked her spot, a depression whose edge was screened by some of ubiquitous scrub brush that dotted the landscape and settled in to wait with the patience only possessed by snakes and spiders. The large group passed unmolested, and she waited for the one trailing to pass her blind and present its back. But it was moving erratically, changing its pace and creeping from bush to bush. She could track its course easily enough by the faint signals coming through the ground, but if it should turn away from her, she would have an unconcealed chase to catch up.
         But that concern didn't come to pass. It had zigged right toward her; perhaps this would be an ambush after all. She tightened her coils, winding herself up like a spring, ready to strike should it continue in her direction.
         It did. It came right up to the rim of the depression where she waited, a grisly agent of death waiting to take her victim into the darkness. The two-legs' head suddenly appeared above the rim and they made eye contact.
         "It's here!" the two-legs shouted, starting to level the metal rod it carried, but she was far too fast for it, fangs sinking deep into its thigh, muscles squeezing the venom glands, the almost orgasmic flow of toxic liquid through the fang grooves.
         Too late!
         Then, as the two-legs collapsed into a limp puddle, the chemicals already taking effect, the metal rod exploded with a thunderous discharge that echoed back off the nearby hills. The others turned as one, focused on her kill.

*          *          *

         Borden, like all the others, turned at the sound of the shot in time to see someone fall, and a long, low form slip off between the creosote and tumbleweeds. A thousand questions flooded his mind, but there was no time for a discussion. Something had felled this man who had been following them with barely a cry, and he knew what they were hunting out here.
         "It's there," he called. "It went to the right."
         Checking the switch on his "lightning projector," as McFarlane had called it, he set off at a trot in the direction in which the furtive shape had disappeared.
         Lightning projector indeed. The range, she had warned him, wouldn't exceed about ten feet, and the battery held sufficient charge to incapacitate about six grown men. The sort of monsters they hunted tended to reduce that number considerably.
         He'd lost the motion where it dipped into one of the many gullies that turned the otherwise flat slope into a giant's sheet of corduroy. He stayed on the course he believed it had taken, because if it escaped them and the sun went down, they'd all be helpless out here.
         "Rick!" he heard McFarlane shout. "Stay with the group!"
         "The thing's over here," he called back. "We have to get it now."
         "Rick!"
         No time for explanations, no time for anything, he stayed on the trail, weapon and senses both at the ready. Voices were dimming behind him, and he had the chilling feeling that he was on his own. He didn't want to look back, though; the thing could be right in front of him for all he knew, and he wouldn't relinquish his chance to get a shot off.
         The sun was dropping fast, along with their chances of bringing this thing to heel. Shadows were marching toward him as fast as a man could walk, and he realized that once night settled in out here it would bring a darkness that a city-dweller like himself had scarcely ever experienced.
         Was that a sound to his left?
         Furtive, subtle, like irregular pebbles rolling along a flat surface.
         Like something sliding across them?
         If this was the serpent, it had clearly stopped fleeing. Likely, it was preparing to deal with its pursuer, especially if he had become isolated.
         Slow down, Rick, his mind screamed. This is no different than pursuing an armed suspect into a darkened building. Be cautious, be alert, stay alive.
         He crept now, a measured pace, weapon and eye remaining locked on a shared sight line. Should anything appear suddenly, all he had to do was pull the trigger.
         A rustling sound drew his focus. It was a few paces ahead, low on the ground, intermittent yet repetitive. It didn't seem smart for a predator to be making unnecessary noises, but it had to be investigated, and carefully; if this was one of the local snakes, diamondback or sidewinder, its venom wouldn't be deterred by the fact that he was hunting something else.
         He reached a clump of scrub and sage, a spot of natural cover on the largely bare ground, nerves on edge. There was plenty of room for their quarry or anything else to be lying in wait, and he crept up to it in a crouch. The ground sloped down into one of those dry washes, its occasional water probably the source of this burst of vegetation.
         There it was again.
         Squatting before the approaching deep shadows, he reached out with the barrel of his weapon and, barely moving, pushed aside the bush in front of him. There in the gully was the tail of a snake, the body leading off into the thicker part of the vegetation. As he watched, it gave a quick, small side-to-side motion, repeating the sound he had followed to this point.
         What the hell?
         Then he heard the ripping of twigs and scrub almost all around him and looked up to get his first clear view of the serpent rearing above him. At least six feet tall, the eyes were locked on him like the heat sensors of a missile, and the flared hood was over a yard wide. He fell back onto his rump as the mouth opened to reveal the fangs. A split second before it could strike, Borden triggered the lightning projector.
         The thing was well within the prescribed ten-foot range when a blue-white bolt jumped across the space and crackled down the creature's body. It threw itself back away from him, but before he could scramble to his feet it was towering over him again, looking for a place to sink its fangs.
         Borden fired again, and again the creature staggered back, but it wasn't as effective as the first blast. Pushing himself backward with his heels, he ejected the battery from his weapon and scrabbled on his holster rig for a replacement. The serpent had recovered and was moving fast, pressing him, taking strikes, any one of which would be fatal.
         He swung the gun, useless until he could get a battery into the handle, striking the creature's nose and blocking a strike. It came right back, driving for his legs. He pulled them up and rolled to the side, losing the new battery in the process. There were four more on his holster straps, but he could hardly fumble for another and avoid the deadly strikes too.
         But he had to try.
         Rolling, scrambling, crawling, he fought to open one of the pouches and extract a battery, but with the creature striking at him every second, he could see no way that was going to happen. Then the creature's body slid across in front of him, as thick as a compact car, completely blocking his path. That eerily intelligent face came down, inches away, eyes boring into his. Borden had a battery in his hand, but the idea that he might snap it into the handle, throw the switch, and wait for the capacitor to spool up before the serpent injected its venom was ludicrous.
         Borden prepared for the end, thoughts racing down the corridors of time to try to figure out what had brought him to this pass, hands still automatically trying to load the battery.
         His reverie was interrupted by thunderous blast of a police riot shotgun in the hands of Deputy Witt. The serpent's breath exploded in a hiss that bordered on being a roar, and it rounded on the deputy only to receive another blast to its chest. It tried to strike, but found itself sluggish. The deputy leapt back and fired again, and this time the thing flattened itself to the ground and started to slither away, not, as suggested, faster than a running horse, but certainly faster than a running man.
         Borden had not been idle during the deputy's attack, but had completed loading his pistol. Now a fresh bolt lanced out, enveloping the serpent's rear portion and causing it to convulse. Before it could collect itself to flee, Witt began pumping rounds into it, and was quickly joined by Porterfield, who fired a tranquilizer dart into it and began loading another.
         The thing was writhing by now, striking aimlessly, when Detective Patterson arrived and fired several rounds point-blank into its skull. The thing convulsed, its back arching until the tip of its tail nearly touched its head, then fell limp and stopped moving altogether. Borden got to his feet for the first time since the encounter had begun, removed the battery from his weapon, and holstered it.
"Good to see you guys," he said.

*          *          *

         McFarlane watched the others come back up the slope as Turner and Deputy Beggs performed CPR on the man at their feet.
         "Who's down?" Patterson asked as they came within speaking range.
         "It's Berkeley, Finch's hired man," McFarlane replied.
         "What was he doing out here?"
         "Who knows? He had Finch's shotgun. Probably trying to get some sort of revenge."
         "This probably isn't what he had in mind. What happened to him?"
         "The creature bit him. The venom seems to have paralyzed every muscle in his body. These two are pretty good at the CPR, but I don't know..."
         "Have you called for help?"
         "Yeah, there's an air ambulance on the way up from El Centro."
         "That's good. If either of you get tired, call out and Deputy Witt will relieve you. All right, Ms. McFarlane, let's talk turkey, or to be more precise, snake. Just what the hell was that thing?"
         "Given the nature of our investigations, we're rarely certain." She led Patterson aside, away from the two uninitiated deputies. "It matches what was always assumed to be a mythical creature from medieval zoological texts. Apparently, it isn't so mythical after all."
         "A snake with wings. I've never heard of such a thing. I haven't heard of a snake that could fly, either, and at this size! It couldn't really fly, right? Tell me that thing couldn't fly."
         "Well, it didn't during the battle, but there was some damage to one of the wingtips. Some of the bone and membrane was missing, and that could have stopped it. We'll never find out from this one, anyway."
         "This one? You think there's more?"
         "It's certainly possible. Usually, when you see one animal, there's a lot more you don't see, a breeding population that supports their presence. I'm pleased to tell you that that usually isn't the case when we get involved."
         "How's that?"
         McFarlane turned and studied Patterson's face for a moment.
         "I probably shouldn't say too much. It might harm my credibility."
         "Harm your credibility?" Patterson barked, her urban black roots creeping into her speech. "We just had a pitched battle with a flying snake the size of a motherfuckin' school bus, and you seem to know all about it. Fuck your credibility. I want to know everything you know about this shit!"
         "That's a fair request. You just remember after I tell you that you wanted to know."
         "I'll remember. Now, spill it."
         "All right. I don't know how much you keep up with physics, but you may have heard of the theory that there are multiple universes that all exist in parallel in the same physical space."
         "I've heard people talk about it on TV and stuff. It's all Greek to me."
         "Understandable. It's an incomprehensible theory to most people, but it isn't to us. It's the way the world works. We believe there are thin spots where things bleed over between dimensions. We think the phenomenon is the source of most myths and legends in the world's history."
         "And you believe this?"
         "We live this. It's the source of most of our business. We kind of specialize in it. The detective I had you call, Gomez?"
         "Yes?"
         "She's our liaison down in San Diego. A month ago, we joined her to hunt down a werewolf who had murdered a vampire. Both were family men, pillars of the community."
         It was Patterson's turn to stare at McFarlane.
         “That's insane," she finally pronounced.
         "You can't say I didn't warn you."
         At this point, the air ambulance came over the crest and zeroed in on the flares the two deputies deployed to guide it in. There was no point trying to talk over it, and the two women watched as the attendants treated Berkeley as best they could and loaded him into the aircraft which then departed in a cloud of dust and debris. As they started back up, Patterson spoke again.
         "How am I going to put this in my report? They'll think I'm crazy."
         "I'd recommend you don't."
         "What do you mean? We have expended ammunition to account for, a man on the way to the hospital or the morgue, and one of my deputies was involved in the battle. I can't just pretend it didn't happen."
         "Of course not, and I'm not suggesting that, but there are ways to write reports."
         "Meaning?"
         "I'm going to suggest the same thing I suggest to all the cops we work with. There must be some gas or diesel up at Finch's place. Burn that thing where it lies. Your justification is that it's a public health hazard to let it rot in place. Once it's burned, get rid of the wing bones. Give them to us, or take them out to sea and sink them. Then report the thing as a pet that someone released when it got out of hand."
         "I never falsified a report before."
         "Well, you can always report the truth."
         "What about the deputies? They saw it, too. They're bound to talk about something like that."
         "Take them into your confidence, tell them what you're going to do, and point out the effect it's likely to have on their careers if they start talking about the giant flying snake they fought it out with on a dark and lonely night."
         They reached the circle of flares where the others waited.
         "Did he make it?" Patterson asked Witt.
         "He was alive when they picked him up," the deputy replied. "They gave him a shot and shocked his heart into rhythm. If he makes it through the night, he should recover."
         "Well, fingers crossed, then. Gentlemen, we have a serious matter to discuss."

*          *          *

         McFarlane picked up Borden at the restaurant as usual the next morning. It had been a hell of a night and they were a couple of hours late by design. They entered the office to find Parker Mason at the reception desk and a stunning young woman seated on a small love seat, the most comfortable piece of furniture in the room. She had long black hair that fell loosely around her face and shoulders, delicate features, pale skin, and deep, piercing eyes that looked into Borden's soul as she rose to her feet. She towered over McFarlane, and almost looked Borden straight in the eyes. He estimated her to be five feet nine, and she looked even taller with her slender, lithe body line. His cop training enabled him to set his features in an uncaring blandness, but he was anything but.
         "Ah, Miss Grace," Mason greeted them. "This is Denise Goldstein. This is Grace McFarlane, Miss Goldstein, and her partner, Rick Borden. Miss Goldstein has our card, and instructions from the sheriff's office to contact us."
         "I'm sorry, Miss Goldstein," McFarlane said. "We had a hell of a case last night. Did the sheriff tell you why you should contact us?"
         "You're the dhampir," Borden breathed.
         "That's correct, Mr. Borden," the woman said in a voice laced with honey and bourbon. "I've returned home to bury my father and comfort my mother. What is it you people want of me?"

The End . . . For now!