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that would connect last night’s mess to his cases and to me by way of Simondson, the dead guy.
    The possibility of a wider pattern explained another curiosity: the vampire who’d cooked another vampire with something very much like one of Quinton’s stunners—probably the same thing I’d done to the vampire last night. That first incident must have been a test run. Once the vampires with the stun sticks knew what effect they had on others of their kind, they could take out their rivals in a more public place than usual—someplace most vampires felt safe—so long as they sprayed a little lead around to cover the scene and make it look like a gang war. It also created panic and fear—emotions that the asetem fed on. Edward had kept his position partially by leaving Quinton alone so no one would discover he was as vulnerable to electrical disruption of his nervous system as the rest of the bloodsucking pack. Except that asetem weren’t as susceptible, according to Quinton, and they weren’t afraid of carrying the stunners around either. I’d just gotten lucky with the one I’d zapped the night before.
    There lay an unhappy thought: vampires who weren’t as easy to knock down or kill as the usual kind—which wasn’t a waltz with Fred Astaire to begin with—even if they were a bit slower. And they had weapons to take down their vampire opponents as well as any human in the way without having to close to biting range. I hate it when the monsters get clever. Damn Wygan.
    Grendel and I headed back to the condo as I kept thinking. If I were Wygan, I’d keep the pressure on and try to drive me out of my safe zone so he’d have a better chance to catch me and then do whatever he needed to do to me at his leisure. He’d want to keep me off-balance and tired so I’d keep on making mistakes like the ones I’d made with Goodall. On the street alone I was vulnerable; I had a much better idea of what I was and what I could do than ever before, but I still didn’t know enough about what was coming next. I quickened my pace and Grendel loped beside me with a huge doggy grin all over his face. Wygan knew I’d come to him eventually: He had my dad’s ghost captive; he’d taken my employer, too; and he’d teased me with information he knew I couldn’t resist pursuing and then killed off the man who had some of it—assuming Simondson did. But Wygan hadn’t tried to isolate me, hadn’t gone after Quinton. . . .
    The thought galvanized me. The grid of power seemed to hum louder and with a discordant note as the shape of the world blazed for an instant, too bright. I burst into a full run, Grendel loping happily beside me as I pounded down the hill toward my place with the conviction that all was not well at home.

THREE
    S moke. I smelled it before I got there, before I saw the dark wisps coiling into the sky. The fire alarm in the building was shrieking loud enough to be heard on the street even over Grendel’s excited barking. A guy with a garden hose was already trying to douse the burning shrub under my balcony, but not all the smoke was coming from the landscaping. I cursed the security door and wrestled my way through it, tugging the dog behind me as he tried to go after the stream of water from the hose.
    We galloped up the stairs, my chest tight from the whiff of burning and anxiety that made a high metallic ringing in my ears. It almost sounded like distant fairy voices screaming.
    From the landing, I saw my door engulfed in yellow flames sprouting from a bundle of black cloth stuffed against the bottom. Someone had added two fresh, bloody handprints to the stain left on the wall the night before. Nice. As I crouched and ran forward, the bundle of burning cloth tipped away from the door, propelled by the tip of a yardstick poking out through the gap between the door and the threshold. I ordered Grendel to sit and stay while I yanked off my jacket and started beating the flames out.
    Quinton ducked through the