Tasting dry clay, Steve spits. Dark spot, bits of dirt mixed with saliva, mark the mottled gray ground. Crimson gore oozes within a crevice, flowing over pebbles and into crags beneath his hand. Warm. Lifting his hand, he tastes it.

Blood.

Spotting a shadow, he climbs to his feet keeping his eyes on the smoking figure. It moves differently, less graceful, taking determined steps circling around him beneath the raging storm of violets. It slips away into the shadows, and another dark form blossoms over the desert. Watching the hazy figure slowly move around him, he recognizes the rhythm and flow of the slender legs. Kandy. Maybe she cannot reach this far, caught somewhere within the shadows between two worlds.

Kandy’s shadow dissolves into a puff of smoke, disappearing.

Another shadow, taller, erupts onto the dead landscape. Each step, determined like the first dark figure, carries dark form closer. It is a wraith dressed in the long skirt, only this one has a face of hazy dark shapes forming a broad chin, a stubby nose, and dark pits for eyes. And this one has short hair smoking as if on fire.

From its eyes violet smoke pours, billowing to the sides, tendrils worming around its ears and disappearing. The smoking eyes match the storming purple clouds overhead. It seems at home in this dead world.

Concentrating on the dance floor, Steve steps into the shadows.

Pale etherial shapes appear, walls un-crumbling from the floor up. A ghost-like ceiling unveils in a wave. Columns grow out of the floor, the stage appears in a puff, and beside it, the broken dance platform. Ghosts, clumps of them, take to the dance floor of Club Necropolis. As color returns, movement increasing in speed, the ghosts become people, some standing nearly still while others run, clanging up the steel stairs to the exit.

Fear covers their faces.

Caught in the stampede, pushing and shoving, Steve slips off the dance floor, shoes skittering on the concrete. Swinging an arm, he fights his way free and up against a wall. Spinning around, he watches the crowd pushing their way onto the stairs, some falling crushed against the steel steps by others climbing over.

Some remain on the dance floor, confusion flooding their faces. They watch the panic at the stairs, while a few glance around searching for the source.

Standing beside a stone column at the edge of the dance floor, Julio glances over at the broken podium then back at two men standing beside him.

Bursting from a cloud of smoke, Kandy appears, her face like stone. Turning towards her, Steve notices a slender black rod swinging up at him. His arm flies up in defense, but too late, the rod glances across his head sending him falling back.

Silence.

Voices murmur.

Footsteps.

Rough ridges push into backside. Cold concrete presses against palms.

Peeling eyes open, Steve finds a dance floor bathed in bright floodlights leaving the stage at the back lost in darkness. He sits against the wall gazing at the red streaks of blood on the wood floor. Two men and a woman kneel on the floor beside a streak of blood. The woman waves her latex covered hand in circles as she speaks to the men.

Forensics.

Behind them, at the edge of the light, Detective Silver stands with his arms folded. His grim face contemplating the crime scene.

Steve’s eyes grow heavy, and he closes them.

A lavender scent waves over.

Opening his eyes, he finds heavy maroon drapes held open by snug gold chords. Outside the window, a row of dark, glossy rectangles breaks a dirty white surface, a building across the street.

A tap and the floor rumbles. Another tap, and the floor shakes. Black heels strike the floor. The woman walks to the window and stops, hands on her hips.

Gazing down, Yasmine twitches her nose. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she says. She pulls at her snug blazer. “I’m not yet ready for my bath.”

“My apologies.” Climbing to his feet, he feels his head slosh over. The throbbing is bearable. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Mister Reynolds, how goes your investigation?”

“Steve Reynolds is the name of a drug addict. It seems I stole his name.”

“I think the name suits you.”

He ambles to the window and gazes down at the street below.

Light rain patters on the street. Under the lamps, halos glow in the mist. Two cars rest on the far side under one lamp, and between two lamps another sits in the shadows. Kandy’s black muscle car.

Watching and waiting is the unglamorous side of contract killing. Yasmine, a young female Itoril rising to the top, attracts attention. Not only that, her methods of bringing Itoril out in the open by celebrating vampires enrages the elders accustomed to hiding from the world. Of course, Yasmine having attained status means her opponents cannot simply sweep her away. They wait until they have evidence against her, something terrible like killing other Itoril for venom distribution.

Standing at the window, he feels as though Kandy watches him.

Heels clicking, Yasmine approaches, her ghost reflection appearing in the window.

“What happens when the magistrate dies?”

“The council members elect a new magistrate.”

“And if the election is held tonight, who would they choose?”

Yasmine takes in a long breath and exhales.

On the street, the muscle car comes alive, pistons hammering. With a throaty roar, a brief spin of tires, the dark chariot carries Kandy through Roseland.

Turning away from the window, Steve looks the room over. It is an office, back wall lined with bookshelves and a heavy desk taking up the center of the room. A reading lamp splashes the dark oak desktop and an open book. Near the corner of the desk, a computer monitor bathes the desk in a bluish-green light.

On the far wall, lit by a lamp, hangs a large portrait of Yasmine, nearly nude in her chain mail dress. The painting feels alive, the warm brush strokes and stippling creates a living resemblance of the woman. As if pulled by the painting, he stands a foot away before he realizes he walked across the room.

Beside the painting, a shelf holds a black sword stand, a pair of carved dark hands holding a the slender, curving blade of a sword. He dares not touch the weapon as it is considered rude, and in some cultures, an aggressive move. Instead, he leans closer and examines the waving pattern forged into the blade by a master.

Standing up straight, Steve spins around and clasps his hands behind his back.

A smirk on her face, Yasmine watches him.

“You are the next magistrate.” Reaching up, he touches his head finding the soft bump where Kandy hit him. “Unless they pin vampire ice on you and take you out first.”

“Sounds like all the pieces are coming together.”

“Given that they haven’t already executed you, then you must have a strong sponsor and good bodyguards.” He glances around the empty room. If cameras roost, they are hidden.

“Don’t worry, I told my guards how much you enjoy watching me undress.” She bites on her finger, fang hanging over lip. She flashes a girlish grin. “So delightfully naughty, you are.”

“How do I make an appointment with the current magistrate?”

“I’ll make an appointment for you. Look for the bike messenger.”

Gazing at Yasmine’s playful smile, he considers Kandy watching from the car where he had the discussion with her moments earlier, a day ago, somewhere within Kandy’s memory. Does she know he stands inside Yasmine’s home? It might explain the attack at the club. At least now he knows how his unconscious body ended up at the crime scene.

Recovering from his thoughts, he realizes Yasmine’s blazer is on the floor and her blouse hangs open exposing her bright red bra. Shaking his head, he steps back into the shadows. Yasmine pales away, and the room dissolves. He leaves the ghost behind.

Back in Torx’s apartment, he kneels on the floor at the edge of the shadows between worlds. Torx still looks out of it, but he doesn’t want to startle the young man into full awareness. Whispering hints about vampire acid and pretty women, he reads the memories flowing from the man mixing with the information of the world. It’s like drinking memories. Like a vampire consumes blood, he ingests Torx’s memories. And they taste delicious, like sweet candy.

A shiver races down his back, and tingles erupt on the back of his neck.

Selecting a morsel tasting like peppermint, he dives in. Shadows eat the floor, the walls, and the violet storm rages overhead.

Dark shapes appear within purple haze. They appear like smoke, their swooning motions leave trails, dancing. More of them, a mass of smoky forms gather around. They wave their arms building smoky clouds above their heads.

The ghosts dance, their pale forms turning and moving on a wood floor. Dark columns holding purple rods rise up into a white fog where lights spin splashing red like blood dripping from the mist.

Thunder erupts, pounding into the floor. Another dull boom, and another, the increasing beat becoming alive, sharpening. The dancers stomp to the beat, their movements increasing in speed. A chorus of guitars join in, music explodes, drums crashing.

White shirts and waving colored bracelets glow in the black light. Some of the eyes glow as well like phosphorous disc floating on white orbs. The discs bounce and weave. The floor shakes to the beat of the drums and dancing feet.

Standing on a stage, a woman with deep crimson hair screams into a microphone. Her voice, harsh and demonic, shouts about blood and death. Behind her, the band shakes their heads and stomp. A bald man pounds drums splashing sweat glistening into the spotlight flooding his bare chest decorated with a dark dragon.

The familiarity of it all sends a wave of nausea splashing over. Necropolis. The same, all over again, a nightmare playing from a different angle. Steve spots Torx entering the dance floor. The sea opens up, bodies grooving, surrounding the young man. Grinning like a kid in a candy store, the man approaches a woman dressed in a long black skirt.

The woman spins around, her hips throw her skirt swaying and shifting about her leather boots tapping the floor in time with the beat. Her body flows, twisting, her arms climbing up over her head like snakes swooning about each other. Her dark hair bounces on her shoulders.

Steve recognizes her pale face, her cute dimples, her slender nose. Kandy. Like before, at the beginning, but now he watches like an out-of-body experience of a memory.

Torx’s memory.

Torx says something lost to the music. Steve searches the information, diving into the quiet place. He slips around the ghosts, afraid touching them might break the spell, and steps back into the world.

Kandy smiles, her glossy red lips curl deepening her dimples. “Nice to meet you, Steve Reynolds.”

Her eyes are on Torx. She speaks to him.

A wave of nausea rushes over, and he concentrates on Kandy’s face, focusing on her glossy lips trying to read them. He watches her tongue slide sideways licking her upper lip. Smile growing, her mouth opens wider exposing glistening teeth. A red spotlight flashes over her fangs, red like blood.

“I’m sweet like candy,” she says. Spinning around, she gazes over her shoulder. Her thin eyebrows bounce. “With a kay.”

“Kandy Fangs,” says Torx. He grins like the devil. “I like.”

The world spins, and Steve grasps the sides of his head trying to hold the dizziness inside. The floor tips, sending him skittering around ghosts and towards the shadows eating away at the world. Deep reds break through the crevices of the wasteland, and purple clouds churn overhead.

Torx’s memory, meeting Kandy in Necropolis as it always has been. And the name. Steve Reynolds. The origin. From the apartment to Necropolis, he feeds like a vampire. Instead of blood, he devours memories tasting them for his own.

Climbing out of the shadows, he finds his way back into Necropolis, climbing ethereal stairs. Above, Kandy’s ghost pushes Torx’s ghost into a room, and the door shuts behind them. Racing up the steel steps, he passes through the door finding an empty hall. Recognizing the recently painted walls, he glides towards the door to the room where he first met Yasmine dressed in the chain mail dress, and he passes through the door.

Arms folded, one foot crossed behind the other, Kandy stands with her back facing the leather sofa beneath the window overlooking the dance floor. Her eyes nearly glow in the dim light, and the scowl on her face could melt a heart. Arm rising in slow motion, Torx holds up a fan of money. From the quiet place, the words are lost to the silence. From behind, Steve cannot read his lips.

Whatever Torx says, it turns the burning scowl on Kandy’s face up a notch. A blur of motion, Kandy strikes grasping Torx by the arm. She opens her jaw, fangs dripping saliva. Diving in, she bites into the arm sending blood squishing out from her lips. Slipping from the man’s grasp, dollars flutter to the floor.

Rivers of red flow over his hand, beading around fingers, drops breaking free. Three globs stretch and snap back, red swirling surfaces, the spherical drops meet the glossy floor, one after another, compressing, an exploding ring of drops fly out of each one arcing into a rain of blood.

Body heaving, Kandy clenches the man. The victim’s body spasms, dangling hand throwing a rain of blood. Over the blood-soaked arm, her gaze climbs. She pulls free, blood shooting against her cheek, and her tongue laps the plasma. Her eyes grow large.

Meeting her gaze, Steve watches her eyes flash through shock then into fear. Her face collapses, jaw slacking, blood rains down from her fangs. Pushing her dinner aside, she pulls her face together, determination burning like fire.

The carnal feeding, the money on the floor, Kandy and her fangs, venomous, it all comes together. Torx, original Steve Reynolds, crumples on the floor. Dazed, lost to the venom, he stares at the ceiling. Venom causes memory loss, and the man may not remember the details, but somewhere within, the greasy young man knows exactly what he came for: intoxicating Kandy Fangs.

Music thumps.

Standing there, blood soaking her dark dress, Kandy considers Steve Reynolds the memory thief a moment. She licks blood from her chin. Arm flying up, she raises a pistol. The barrel is a black square around a circle of darkness. Gun oil tickles the nose. A good killer always keeps her tools clean, and this gun looks and smells like a very clean tool.

He steps into the quiet place.

The trigger moves back in slow motion. Behind the gun, the killer glares back. There is no anger on her face. No hatred. Determination fills her smoldering eyes, and red breaks through the hazel iris like cracks of molten lava breaking through rock. Her eyes nearly glow in the dim light.

Someone once said that right before death a man sees his life flash before his eyes. The statement is nearly true. Life is a memory, and this one belongs to someone else, or his former self, or wherever memories are born. Quicker than a flash of gunpowder, a lifetime of experiences explodes imprinting memories onto the very fabric of the cosmos like blood spraying the floor. It can take a while to read it all, the memories, and sometimes only pieces make any sense.

Kandy is a killer, and he is her target. It’s right there in her eyes. She has known where the name, Steve Reynolds, comes from. She likely knows him by another name, maybe his true name or some other name stolen from a memory. Never a mention.

The hammer pops, thunder swallowed by silence. Darkness eats the walls, the floor, and Kandy lunges backward, a ghost passing through the sofa, the window, and she falls.

Leaping over the sofa, Steve dives through the glass down towards the waving sea of ghosts churning white smoke into a stew. He reaches out for Kandy, fingers coming short of the gun in her hand. She fires the weapon, flicker of light eaten by the shadows, bullet streaks out stinging his hand as it melts away into the memory of the club.

Kandy fades into a ghost, slowing in time, and Steve grasps at her, arms passing through her midsection sending frozen tingles racing up his arms. Her ghost strikes another ghost, a dancer, knocking the woman over. The pedestal explodes, etherial boards shooting out. Hands over his face, he braces against the crashing ghost debris.

The ground knocks the wind out of him.

Leaping from one memory to another, Steve glides through a storm of shadows eating away at the buildings, the streets, ghosts of pedestrians fading out and back in. Violet clouds give way to blue skies as he steps back into the world, city traffic greeting his ears.

He spots the bicycle messenger and waves his hand. Brakes squeal, and she stops. Each time, a different greeting. This time, she asks for his name. Backwards. That’s what Kandy said. Sometimes it seems the world is all backwards.

Twenty thousand dollars minus the change already spent. He buys another suit, top of the line, from the same tailor. Concentrating on the bike messenger, he searches for another memory, her memory. It’s beginning to feel as if he has no memories of his own, or that his memories blossom from the memories of others. Three trips through the shadows beneath the violet sky, four counting the walk downtown, leaves him exhausted. He enters the quiet place like stepping home, but finding his way back out requires concentration. He searches until his temples hurt, but there is no other meeting with the bike messenger. His employment with Yasmine lasts four weeks.

Returning to the world, traffic noises and laughter filling his ears, he stops beside a lamppost. People pass him without a glance. Nobody seems to notice his return. And who would remember a ghost? Only those paying close attention, catching a glimmer of his movement out of the shadows.

Opening his pocket pad, he jots down a note about the payments. Success or failure, his job searching for the source of venom distribution requires four weeks. A month in their time, but how long in his? Days? Does it even matter? Flipping back through the pages, he reviews his notes. Yasmine suspects someone important. Why would an Itoril distribute venom? Status, that’s what Yasmine said back in the Sanctuary of Sin. Maybe an Itoril kills his own kind, takes the venom trying to level the field. It would have to be someone near the top. Those with venom kick ass.

Beside the note about the Sanctuary of Sin, he jots down a question about the record store. With an uncertain history, the notepad does more than keep memories straight. It helps him keep the world in order. The record store, the Sanctuary, and the shooter must wait.

Torx is his only link to the venom.

Polished leather shoes meeting old worn carpet, he climbs the stairs finding the door to Torx’s unit right where he remembers losing Kandy. What was she doing here? He considers knocking, but instead steps into the quiet place passing through the door like a ghost into a dimly lit room.

A pizza box sits on the table where the beer bottles once stood. Clothes lay strewn on the floor. Torx sits on the sofa, his eyes focused on nothing. In his open palm, he holds a syringe.

Standing beside the sofa, Steve gazes at the barely conscious young man. The unit is nearly dark, only the red glow of the television indicator and the green glow from the clock above the stove in the kitchen provide illumination. A step inside the quiet place, he finds more. He reads the bits of information forming the walls, the dark lamp with clothing draped over the shade, and he sees the milky puddle left inside the syringe.

Enough venom erases recent memories.

Settling into the darkness of the room, Steve hears music thumping from somewhere within the building. Shouts beat into the floor, a couple arguing in the unit below.

“Torx.”

The young man drops his lazy gaze to the syringe in his hand. Or his arm. He seems to study the wad of gauze taped over the bulge on his muscle. A trail of dried blood leads from the dressing to the crook in his elbow.

Taking a deep breath, Steve clears his mind. Reaching out with his thoughts, he concentrates on Torx. Warmth rises from within, and a calm wave splashes over. A torrent of sights, smells, sounds gurgle up from the depths. The buzz of alcohol, the taste of pizza, thumping music, and the touch of a woman’s breast, sensations rise like a storm.

Invigorating.

Julio. The venom supplier, a lump of a man with a mess of curly dark hair. He sits on a stool surrounded by comics. Brightly colored graphic novels line the walls. Books pile up on tables. Plastic figurines stand at attention inside glass prisons.

Julio delivers. That’s what Torx says.

Taking a giant step, darkness crackling underfoot, Steve glides into the shadows between worlds into the violet storm. Spotting the comic book store, an ethereal skeleton of a building rising from the wasteland, he walks to the front door stepping back into the world.

Traffic sounds attack his ears, and he grimaces. Pulling the glass door open, he walks into a stench cloud, old paper, carpet cleaner, and a touch of something musty.

“What can I help you with?” says Julio, rising from his stool. “Collectables, latest graphic novels, imports. If I don’t have it, I find it.”

Steve glances around noting the closed door in the corner, lack of security cameras roosting near the ceiling. Barely any light makes it in through the front door leaving the back looking bleak under two yellow lights. He straightens his tie and clears his throat.

“I’m told Julio delivers.”

“That’s right, man. Whatever it is, I find it.” Julio nods and sets his hands on the glass counter. Inside the display case, rows of comic books held snug by plastic protective covers rest on blue velvet. “What you looking for?”

Reaching inside his coat, he spots Julio’s eyes snap open. The peddler appears on edge. He holds up the pocket pad, and the man relaxes.

He flips open to his most recent notes and reads the last entry. “Julio delivers.”

Julio folds his arms, and glares back through slanted eyes. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“You look like a fed.”

“I’m self-employed.”

“Uh-huh.”

Waiting for a response, Steve watches the man. Like a staring contest, their eyes remain locked, unblinking. With plenty of patience, time on his side, this is the sort of trial he excels at. After seeing wraiths, gazing into the eyes of a killer, and watching Kandy consume blood from his gut, there is nothing intimidating about a book peddler, including one that may move a rare drug that could anger an army of pissed-off Itoril.

Julio lowers his gaze, and scratches his chin. “Who sent you?”

“Do you get around Necropolis?”

“Not anymore. Not after last week.”

“What about last week?”

“You read the news? Someone died, man!” Julio coughs into his elbow. “Christ! From out of nowhere, blood sprayed me, man! Crazy shit.”

Detective Silver’s crime scene with the missing victim.

“Then nothing,” says Julio, shaking his head “No body, no victim. Just blood.”

“There was a lot of confusion.”

“That’s what the cops said, and they didn’t believe us, either.” Julio’s eyes grow big. “Like ghosts, man. Both of them just disappeared.”

“Did you get a look at them?”

“Ghosts, man. They looked like dark ghosts. Spooky as hell.”

Nodding, Steve marks a note in his pad about two individuals slipping into the shadows between worlds. It could be Kandy. Would she do a hit at the club? Likely, given the noise at the apartment where she shot the head off that Itoril. But a Kandy hit means there should be a body.

Julio glances around the shop. “So, where’s the red-head?”

“The red-head?”

“You know. From the show.” Julio laughs. “Just messing with you, man. Looking like a fed and asking questions about spooky shit.”

“I’m not a fed.” Steve slips the pad into his pocket. “But I am interested in your product.”

“So, who sent you?”

Offering Torx is a bad idea. Torx is sleaze, and nobody squeals about something as dangerous as Itoril venom. Torx’s demise would mean one less witness. Better to get a reaction. Drop a big name.

“Yasmine.”

Julio stares back with a blank face. After what seems like a minute, he walks to the front and locks the door. He flips the open sign over. Strolling back, he shakes his head. A look of disgust slips onto his face and washes away.

“I had a feeling,” says Julio. Leaning against the back door, he turns the knob and pushes it open. “Your suit is too high class. No fed can afford that.”

A bank of fluorescent lamps flicker on, a storm zipping from front to back, and wash the room in blue. A cloud of dust hangs over the shelves holding cardboard boxes. A coffee maker caked in grime sits atop a mini-fridge in the corner.

Julio lumbers to the back and kneels before an old luggage trunk. He inserts a key and pops the lock open, and a brass lever springs up clapping against steel. He pulls the lid open. Reaching inside, he removes a black cloth laying it in his lap. Looking back, he waits.

Steve gives the room another glance. Dust everywhere, and it smells like something died. Slowly, he steps into the room and peers into the trunk.

Guns.

Shiny handguns of all sizes, from tiny concealable guns to a heavy forty-five, rest snug in black foam. He recognizes a nine-millimeter, the kind police use, more information he knows without knowing why.

“Here,” says Julio. He removes the police gun and holds it out. “This looks you.”

Taking the gun, Steve checks the chamber finding it empty. The clip is empty as well. The weapon looks as if it might have just come straight from the manufacturer. He sets the gun into its cozy home and gazes at the others. He needs something that can hit a fast moving Itoril, maybe even someone as skilled as Kandy. His knowledge of guns comes short of details like muzzle velocity and stopping power.

“Do you have a sound suppressor?”

“You don’t want a silencer, man. You want bang.”

“How about high velocity and decent stopping power?”

Eyes narrowing, Julio looks down at the chest and back up again. “Yasmine sent you?”

“That’s right.”

Julio wrinkles his brow. “Some of those vamps shoot each other for fun. You want to hunt one of them freaks, man, it’s all about stopping power.”

Steve nods.

“I got what you need.” Julio lifts the foam revealing more guns and plastic boxes. He pulls out a box, contents jingling. “Hollow point.”

Taking the box, Steve slides the cover back. Resting in a plastic grid, the medium caliber shells appear normal except for a divot in the head of each bullet.

“Man, you shoot a vamp with hollow point and he won’t be giggling.” Julio reaches into the chest and selects a handgun. “He’ll be one pissed-off freak of nature.”

Steve examines the gun. Like the other, it appears new and missing its clip.

“And after he’s good and upset and all,” says Julio, his eyes growing large. “Shoot that freak with a shotgun. And not with birdshot, man. You need effin’ slugs from hell. Carbine full-auto-army-class-door-busting-mean-ass shotgun with serious balls. Be nothing left but bloody pieces.”

Steve glances in the chest. No shotguns.

“Nah, man.” Julio shakes his head. “They won’t let me carry nothing like that.”

“You only deal weapons?”

“Besides comics?” Julio chuckles. “That’s it, man. Guns for the boss.”

It fits Detective Silver’s brief description. Yasmine runs business by the book keeping her criminal dealings hidden. It seems unlikely that Julio deals venom risking his employment. Torx’s memory leads here, but his version of reality is in question. Taking venom erases recent memories. Julio works here, but anyone could have sold the venom.

Steve flips a page in his pad. “Have you heard anyone asking about venom?”

“Is that some new nickname?”

“No, it isn’t. Perhaps they use a nickname, but I’m not familiar.”

“Wait.” Julio’s eyes grow huge, and his jaw drops. “It’s not a rumor? Those freaks are venomous?”

“Not all of them.”

“Holy shit.” Julio shakes his head and grits his teeth. “That would be like taking a man’s balls! What kind of fang-freak would take another vamp’s fangs?”

“Has anyone mentioned it here? Or maybe nearby?”

Julio nods. “Some girls were asking about vampire acid. Over at Necropolis. Man, I thought they were talking about booze.”

“Vampire acid.”

“That’s right. Two pretty young things. They could dance like a dream.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Steve shoves the pad into his pocket. “How much for the gun and ammunition?”

“Three clips, twenty boxes of ammo, and the gun. Four thousand.”

Steve counts the hundred dollar bills realizing that most of the money will end up back in Yasmine’s pocket.

Gun oil hangs in the air.

Steve finds Kandy in the opposite quadrant of the basement, the armory. Nude, she stands at a table cleaning a gun. Glancing over her shoulder, she flashes a grin and returns to her gun. Hands behind his head, he lays back on the bed and watches Kandy. She assembles pieces pushing a pin inside, and slides a magazine into the handle. Picking up a dark nozzle, she screws it to the barrel.

“What is that?”

“This?” She taps the nozzle that appears too large for the gun. “It’s a sound suppressor, but don’t let the name fool you. Still damn loud.”

“Then what’s it for?”

“Hides your location. People might not recognize the gunshot in a noisy location like a club.”

He nods imagining Kandy slipping through a crowded nightclub searching for her target.

“Even better if you shoot from the edge of the quiet place.”

Sitting up, Steve shakes his head. The physics seems wrong. The time dilation might even wreak havoc on a speeding bullet leaving the barrel into normal space. Would it suddenly slow down? It seems crazy imagining the shooter passing her own bullet, if she could keep track of it at all.

Kandy spins around squaring her shoulders, arms extended, and aims the gun directly at him.

There is no gunfire sound, not at first. Kandy’s ghost fires the gun, a distant pop, and everything goes quiet like giant hands clamping over his ears. And Kandy is no longer a ghost, her intense eyes gazing down the length of the barrel. The bullet blurs through the air, vanishing.

Two thunks and a ringing sound. The world is normal again, his heart pounding away.

Kandy holds the gun, finger on the trigger. A curl of smoke rises from the opening of the sound suppressor. “Do you see now?”

Steve glances down at his chest. No fresh bullet wounds, just the bandage over his gut. Glancing behind him, he finds two holes in the wood headboard.

“It’s like a natural reaction for you. It took me years to learn. But you.” She twirls the end of the gun, and returns her aim. “Instinct.”

Kandy fires the gun, and this time, the bang crashes the room. Like before, he drops into the shadows, the room becomes a ghost, silence in sound and color, and he pops back again, unharmed.

“Maybe if I tried my best. Perfect my timing.”

Waving hands, he climbs out of bed. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?”

Kandy tosses the gun, and he catches it.

“Shoot me,” says Kandy. Planting hands on her hips, she stands in defiance, and naked she appears even more intimidating.

He looks at the gun in his hand. It’s a small caliber semi-automatic pistol with a sound suppressor making it appear three times as big. He shakes his head.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It will only sting if you even hit me.”

Taking a step closer, he grasps the gun by the barrel and holds it out.

Kandy snatches the gun and spins around. “You can be a pussy sometimes, you know that?”

A gunfight with an Itoril having Kandy’s skills requires extra training, a lesson better suited for the firing range.

She pulls the clip out and sets the gun on the table, the clip next to it. Turning, she falls into his arms and pounds her fists against his back. “Dammit, Steve. Tell me what happened.”

“We all make mistakes.”

He remembers spotting the gun in the doorway before the shot. Surprise is a different beast. If not for the dancer’s warning, the result might have been much worse if he had remained in the room or exited at the front. The warning already putting him on edge, instinct nearly saved him. The bullet catching him on his way into the shadows between worlds means the shooter has skills like Kandy, perfected timing.

“And you’re new at this, aren’t you?” Squirming, she smashes her chin against his chest and looks up at him. “Not amnesia. It’s like you’re backwards.”

Staring into her eyes, he tries working out the problem. Time is like a familiar old man everybody knows, but when trying to describe him, nobody can say if he is actually old. Or even a man. Time seems to pass quickly when not paying attention to him, and slowly when trying to watch him. Time is a haunting wraith.

“Can you change the past?”

“Think about it this way.” Gritting teeth, he fights the pain welling in his gut. The bandage feels loose. “Before modern physics, scientists were thinking that the universe was solvable. Like predicting where a rock will land after launching from a catapult. Initial velocity, trajectory, air resistance, and wind velocity. Solving all the variables might predict the future.

“Everything is connected, information passing through the tapestry of the cosmos, but the threads can change leading to something unknowable. Most of the time, you find what you expect, a past you believe is solid as stone. Just like in an experiment, if you stare at it long enough, you’ll find the result you were looking for.”

Tilting his head back, he gazes up at the ceiling. He realizes he cannot change the shooting. That memory is part of him now. Just like he cannot make the Sanctuary of Sin disappear even if the rest of the world forgets it. Both are part of his reality.

He smiles at her. “The past is as unknowable as the future regardless of memory.”

“Memories change,” says Kandy. She presses her cheek to his chest. “But why do I remember the Sanctuary of Sin, and no one else does?”

“The brain is a powerful pattern recognizer.”

“Otherwise we’d be overwhelmed by noise,” says Kandy. “You’ve told me this before. The brain constantly updates our memories based on new information forming a narrative that makes the most sense.”

“And for us, the most logical conclusion is to remember things others do not.”

“Because of the quiet place.”

“Think of time not as a flowing river pulling you along, but as different places.” He pushes her hair back over her ear and holds her tight. Her flesh is cool, but the contact warms him. “Past and future are just arbitrary labels relative to the viewer’s perspective. Information connects these places leaving us with only two possibilities. Everything is tightly connected. Unchangeable.”

Kandy pushes away, turning around. She folds her arms. “Fate.”

“Or the strands may be altered, and the best we can do is predict the most likely outcomes. Future or past. Doesn’t matter.”

“But the Sanctuary of Sin seems so far away now.” She wraps her arms around, hugging herself. “How do you get there?”

“I don’t know. It’s sort of like drinking in the information, and then I’m there.”

“So natural.” Kandy glares over her shoulder. Her eyes smolder, her face rigid like stone. The look of a killer. “Steve, what the hell are you?”

A shiver races down into his legs.

He looks at her naked backside, the ridges of her backbone, the cleft over her buttocks. How many times has he gazed at the smooth curve from her slender waist, over her hip, onto her thigh? Is the past she remembers part of him? Life is a memory crashing towards death. Predictable, yet unknowable.

It seems strange how the question changes. Who is Steve Reynolds? What is Steve Reynolds? Maybe both questions have the same answer. With the information of the cosmos connected time and space, another question seems more relevant. Where is Steve Reynolds?

Lost in a memory, and far from home.

A sharp odor attacks. Nail polish.

Opening his eyes, Steve finds Sabrina sitting beside him. She wears a black tee nearly covering her pink panties. One leg stretched out across the bed, her other foot rests close to her buttocks as she paints her toenails pink.

“Must you do that here?” He rolls away, but the odor follows.

“This is my bedroom.”

“My apologies.” Grunting, he sits up. The bandage appears fresh, again.

“I overheard you talking to that bitch,” says Sabrina.

“Yasmine?” He rubs his eyes and looks at the window. City lights twinkle in the valley. “Why is she a bitch?”

“She won’t let me into Necropolis!”

“Is it because you were asking about venom?”

“God no!” Sabrina slaps the bed sending waves sloshing over. “I know not to talk about that.”

“And you get your fix from Kandy.”

“Shut up. God! You suck sometimes.”

The bed wiggles sending nausea rising.

“Please, I’m sorry.” He stands before Sabrina turns the bed into a war zone. Maybe it is the pain or the dizziness in his head, but he can hardly imagine dealing with a girl. Maybe there is no daughter out there somewhere. No trick-or-treat. No family waits for him.

“No, I’m sorry, Steve.” Sabrina closes the cap on the nail polish. Pulling her legs up, she hugs her knees. “It’s Kandy that needs the fix. I don’t think she could last a week without me.”

He nods. Kandy’s addiction is powerful enough to attack while mending a bullet wound. Maybe the near death experience will persuade her to consider facing her addiction.

“Torx.” Sabrina buries her face into her legs. “You asked me about him the other day, and I lied.”

“And?”

“Torx gets venom from some guy. Julio, I think.” Lifting her head, she looks him straight in the eye. “That’s all I know.”

Steve shuffles out the door into the hall noticing he walks around in his underpants. He needs new clothes. If he can keep from getting shot, clothes will last longer. Can he avoid getting shot in the Sanctuary of Sin? Can he change the past? Not if he wants to catch the shooter. Maybe he can be the bait. It’s a crazy idea, but makes sense in a world that forgets the Sanctuary of Sin. A record store? A store full of strippers performing bloody rituals maybe.

At the turn in the stairs, he looks at the front door where two men rolled a dead body sometime in the night. Someone died for Kandy’s sins, and his name isn’t Jesus. Or maybe it is, but it seems unlikely in Roseland. No, Kandy needed blood. She needed all of it.

Steve shakes the prickles from his backside, and heads down the stairs. Pushing the door open, he peeks inside. Across the room, in candle light, Kandy rests on her bed.

Closing the door, he shuffles over. Every few steps, he winces, but makes it to the bed. He throws the satin sheets back and gazes at Kandy’s nude body. She looks back, her brown eyes simmering, both from her Itoril nature and the look on her face. More gray, nearly white, shoot through her dark hair. Kandy appears near middle age, which for an Itoril means she is older than old enough.

He crawls in beside her and pulls up the sheet. “Sabrina kicked me out.”

“That bitch.”

“Well, her nail polish forced me out.”

“Likely story.”

“You ever see anything strange.” He tries to think how best to describe the wraith. Smoky dark, faceless creature sounds crazy. “In the quiet place. A dark thing like someone’s watching.”

The bed wiggles as Kandy rolls over facing him. Her fingers brush his elbow. Like a person moving in slow motion?”

“No. It moves like us. A dark smoky form.” He takes in a deep breath and exhales. “I call it a wraith.”

“Once. I saw something.” Kandy squeezes his arm. “It wasn’t faceless, though.”

“What did it look like?”

Scooting closer, she places her lips to his ear. “Death.”

A shiver races down his spine followed by a shower of tingles.

“I saw it at Necropolis,” says Kandy. She shakes her head. “It walked right through people like a ghost. I could feel the cold as it drew near, and I looked at its shadowy face. Deep violet smoke poured form its eyes.”

He tries to imagine the wraith with a face, a crooked nose, a shifting smoky jaw, and empty sockets for eyes where the purple smoke puffs out.

“I thought it was going to take me, Steve. I thought Death had me.” She shivers against him.

“Shit, Kandy.”

Leaning over, he touches his lips to hers. Without the sweet lipstick, her lips taste even better. The kiss sends warm currents washing over, and he relaxes burying his face beside hers. It almost feels like home, familiar. And dangerous.

Warmth returns, and they both stop shivering. They hold each other for what seems like hours. It might only be minutes, but time doesn’t seem to matter. Just the two of them holding each other, forever. He kisses her again, his tongue finds her fangs, and the touch ignites him.

Foreheads knocking together, he gazes into her eyes. The soft red glow from deep within the dark pools shines through her irises like the red moon through stained glass windows, beautiful and threatening.

Her lips tickle his cheek. “Sure about this?”

“You don’t bite, do you?”

Her giggle electrifies his chest. “No, sir, not you, anyway. But I’m a screamer. Wake the goddamn dead, I do.”

“Good.” He kisses her neck. “The dead need music.”

It isn’t long before he realizes that Itoril don’t mate like humans, but Kandy obliges him. Her fangs are scary sharp, which adds to the thrill his heart has trouble keeping up with.