Night Child.

OSI Book 1.

By JesBattis.

To Mom, Dad, Lee, Marty, Ken, Matt, and Brianne-for all the believing.

To Mitch Korber, the best tenth-grade English teacher a queer boy could ever ask for.

And to Julie-I wish you could have read this.

I think you would have liked it.

Acknowledgments.

This book owes its existence to a number of brilliant, generous, and patient souls. My editor, Ginjer Buchanan, has offered valuable input throughout and done her best to guide this first-time novelist through the sometimes scary process of publication. My agent, Lauren Abramo, first saw potential in the book and helped me revise it into something much better than it was before. She consistently deflects my anxiety (including late-night e-mails asking impossible questions) with composure and kindness. Lynn Flewelling and Chaz Brenchley both offered encouragement and advice about publishing this book, and were also kind enough to participate in my doctoral research on fantasy literature (which is a whole other story). The folks at Fangs, Fur & Fey welcomed me as a first-time novelist and gave me great tips.

My friends and colleagues in the English department at SimonFraserUniversity have all, at one time or another, offered perceptive suggestions and encouragement about this book. My New York friends Marty and ej (and their dogs, Mabel and Buckley) have soothed me with hospitality, hockey games, and to furkey. And my roommates in Greenpoint-Myka, Christine, Katy, and Dave-have all done their part to keep me fed and sheltered, especially when I was too swamped to deal with the business of being a human being. My students at HunterCollege, with all of their amazing stories and perspectives, reminded me why I loved being a teacher as well as a writer. Thanks to the forensic teachers and writers whose work intrigued and astonished me: Vincent Di Maio, Henry Lee, Bill Bass, Michael Baden, Tom Bevel, M. Lee Goff, and John Douglas. Also, thanks to Gail Anderson, professor of forensic entomology at SFU, who answered some bizarre e-mails from this author and even let me take her advanced forensics class.

Brooklyn Label supplied me endlessly with coffee and delicious scrambles, while the Ashbox Cafe gave me comfortable chairs and nonstop bagels, and Champion Coffee was the first cafe I went to in Brooklyn (their outdoor patio and wireless connection were lifesavers in those first few weeks). Strand never failed to deliver when I required an obscure title, and when I needed some Canadian love, I could always hop across the border to the Toronto Women's Bookstore, Glad Day Bookshop, and the Robarts Library at the University of Toronto, as well as Little Sister's and Spartacus in Vancouver. I also want to say thank you to the customs agent at the WinnipegInternationalAirport who asked me if I was "one of those subversive academics. " I hope the answer is yes, although I lied at the time and said that I studied grammar. Thank you to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, whose funding for my postdoctoral fellowship in New York also gave me the living wage necessary to complete this book-and thanks to Robert Fulford, whose spirited article in the National Post attacking my research (and my sexuality) only encouraged me to keep stirring up shit as a writer and an academic. Thanks to every independent-bookstore owner who might shelve this novel, even as she's fighting to stay in business: Bluestockings, 12th Street Books, Mercer Street Books, St. Mark's Bookshop, Oscar Wilde, Giovanni's Room, This Ain't the Rosedale Library, Books of Wonder, BakkaPhoenix, Revolution, and The Book Man (where I practically lived as a teenager). Thanks to all the underpaid and overtired employees working for chain bookstores who love reading books but hate selling them.

Finally, I hope this book finds its way into the hands of queer and questioning youth around the world and that they find characters within it who matter to them. You are never alone.

1.

"That's a dead vampire."

Selena Ward, my boss, raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

"You dragged me out of bed, to a disgusting alley on Granville Street -at two in the morning-to see a dead vampire?"

She handed me the clipboard with the MCS entry log. Anyone entering a mystical crime scene has to sign in first, just like a regular crime scene. The only difference is that some of our responding officers aren't human. The scene was divided into three zones with a base of operations, or staging area, near the far end of the alley where extra photographic equipment, evidence bundles, and chemical reagents could be stored in portable kits. The perimeter around the vampire's body was taped off as the primary focal point, with access far more restricted than the outer edges of the scene. It all seems orderly until you have to explain to a high-ranking investigator that she should really get the hell out of your way. I'll admit it-I did get a secret pleasure out of that sometimes. There weren't any doors or fire escapes at the back of the alley, so the only natural point of entry and exit was the street.

"Take a closer look," Selena said. "Make sure to put on gloves."

Tasha Lieu, our medical examiner, gave me a wink as she passed by. "Just released the scene, so it's all yours."

"Thanks, Tash." Selena looked tired.

I was already fishing the gloves out of my purse. "Sorry to call you out so late," I said sheepishly. I'd always assumed that Tasha had some type of normal human life outside of the CORE, unlike the rest of us. She was an intensely private person, and all I really knew about her was that she lived in Richmond and had a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip taped on the wall above the autopsy sink.

"No worries, I'm a night owl. See you at the morgue, bright and early tomorrow morning. I should have the post done by the time you get there."

I swallowed. "Yeah, great. See you there." It was just like a trip to the dentist, only the dentist was a vivisected corpse. Not my idea of a sweet morning. Tasha waved and left the scene, stepping carefully over the caution tape.

"Where's Siegel?" Selena's frown had deepened. Shit.

"Parking. The strip is packed, as usual, so I sent him down to the seedier part of Nelson Street . He may have to fend off some goth-chicks, but he'll survive."

West Granville was Vancouver's nightclub district, and its irregular streets were an explosion of noise and neon light. Hipsters danced the night away at Aquarius and The Plaza, while underage kids drank pitchers of cheap Molson at The Roxy. After last call, the strip became a drunken labyrinth of kids eating hot dogs and fries from late-night vendors, taxi cabs dodging each other, and police cars wailing their sirens. Just another night in TerminalCity, as Vancouver was often called, since the only thing beyond it to the west was ocean. Like Shangri-La. The end of everything. No wonder demons liked it here so much.

"Funny lady." Derrick Siegel emerged from behind the yellow tape, smiling apologetically.

"Right here, Selena. Sorry-I had to-"

"Park the car, yes, I heard." She rolled her eyes. "Just put some gloves on and follow us. Apparently there are four different concert venues spilling out drunken teenagers onto Granville right now, and I'd like to avoid a security leak."

Neither of us looked like we belonged at a crime scene. Derrick was wearing a pajama top and rumpled blue jeans with a jacket hastily thrown over. The jacket was probably Kenneth Cole: Derrick was the only person I knew who would wear designer clothes to a crime scene.

He'd learned some tricks over the years, though, and he was wearing old shoes this time. Black runners-the kind that he'd normally never be caught dead in. I was wearing the same.

Try scrubbing blood out of a new pair of Charles David boots. I learned that lesson quickly, and now I always brought sneakers.

A black cat was wandering about the scene, delicately avoiding a tripod stand as she surveyed the walls of the alley. This was no random stray, but rather Sophie, one of the trained forensic animals that the CORE employed for sniffing out magical scenes. Cats didn't have quite as broad a sense of smell as dogs, but their olfactory nerves were more refined, which allowed them to detect a variety of demonic and nonhuman scents that lingered in the air long after a kill. Unlike dogs, alley cats like Sophie didn't need to be trained with a scent pad-she simply roamed about the alley, did her thing, and let her trainer know if she found anything interesting. Cats don't exactly work on the clock, but they're more valuable to the CORE because their close proximity to magic allows them to sense the residual chemicals left over by strong materia flows. Why do you think they always followed witches around? Cats are strongly attracted to the smell of materia leftovers, or "frass," as they're known. Like mystical catnip.

Sophie, however, didn't appear to be turning up anything tonight. She sniffed the air around the body disinterestedly, then flicked her tail and retreated. A handler returned her gently to the cat carrier, and she immediately curled up and fell asleep. She was used to being around mystical crime scenes.

Selena had paged me around 1:30 a.m., which was actually a pretty decent time, all things considered. I'd gotten calls a lot later than that. As an Occult Special Investigator, it was my job to do the preliminary investigation around any mystical crime scene in the Greater Vancouver Regional District and follow up on leads. Selena gave the orders, and I followed them. Most of the time. I used to be scared shitless of her, but three years of working together had softened our relationship.

Derrick and I were both junior employees for the Mystical Crime Lab unit of CORE, the Central Occult Regulation Enterprise. CORE was a transnational blanket organization that controlled just about everything mystical within North America and Europe. The City of Vancouver's crime lab was one of the best in Canada, with a fully equipped DNA testing site and separate pathology departments that included a standalone morgue. Vancouver may have had the reputation for being a quiet city when it came to violent crime, but as far as mystical disturbances were concerned, it was a hot spot.

Since I was only an OSI-1, the crime lab tended to give me probationary assignments-that is, the back-alley jobs like this one that nobody else would take. Derrick was on probation as well, but as a telepath he had a different union. I think. Office politics get kind of hairy when you're dealing with demons and mages.

We slipped on our Tyvek suits, which were modified to protect us from mystical as well as organic contamination, and then Selena led us to the body. It was a male vampire, lying almost peacefully near the back of the alley. His head was propped up slightly against the corner of a Dumpster, and his shirt had been unbuttoned, revealing a smooth white chest that was unmarked. He was wearing a pair of dress pants and black shoes. Cheap stuff-the kind you could pick up at an Eaton's sale. The guy looked like he'd just come from an accounting firm. His blond hair was neatly trimmed, and he was clean shaven.

"Have a look," Selena said.

I knelt down beside the body. The photo techs were milling around me, snapping pictures from every conceivable angle with different filters for contrast in the dark. One photographer was taking reference shots of the alley with a 28mm lens, while the other snapped shots of various artifacts around the alley with a 55mm macro lens for close-ups, placing evidence placards next to them to establish scale. A third technician was furiously scribbling notes in the photo log, trying to keep up with the others. All of the flashes gave the scene an even more macabre feel.

An occlusion, or perimeter field, had already been set up at the entrance to the alley. In order to work unhindered, we have to seal off the area from bystanders. The occlusion is a kind of mystical envelope that alters light wavelengths around the area. It has something to do with quantum packets, but I never really get the explanation. With mystical crime scenes, you have to preserve all the evidence while simultaneously hiding it from the general public, and that includes the VPD. Not always a simple matter in this city.

Vampires decompose a lot more slowly than human bodies, so it was impossible to tell how long he'd been lying here. No insect activity, no temperature change, and no postmortem interval to establish. But I was trained to detect even more subtle alterations. Einstein told us that energy can't be destroyed-only transformed. Every organism has an energy signature, an aura. Even the undead.

I passed my fingertips through the air a few inches above the vampire's chest. I could feel a faint differential in the energy flows-a trickle of something, like spider silk against my face.

It made me want to sneeze.

"Feels sketchy. Maybe forty-eight hours ago, but I can't be certain. You know how tough it is to establish time of death with vamps."

"Derrick?" Selena gestured to the body. "You want to give it a try?"

It wasn't really a question. Derrick sighed.

"One of these days," he said, "I'd like to read the dying thoughts of a really happy person. Someone who expired in a bed full of puppies and bunny rabbits."

"I'll see what I can do," Selena said flatly.

Derrick knelt down beside me. He placed his gloved fingertips on the vampire's forehead, and closed his eyes.

I didn't really understand how Derrick's powers worked, since I wasn't a telepath myself. All I knew was that, just like I could sense auras, Derrick could sense faint neurological impressions-like letters pressed into wax, or soft slate. He couldn't always make sense of what he saw.

Derrick's body tensed up. He was trying to read the vampire's last thoughts, just like a laser would read a compact disc. When we die and our brains collapse, they send a myriad of electrical spasms throughout our bodies. Organic memory, it's called. Telepaths can try to access that memory and reconstruct it. Sometimes a victim's last few seconds, or perimorteminterval, can be recovered.

Derrick was starting to sweat. I put a hand on his shoulder, tentatively, and his eyes flicked open. He lurched away from me, as if my touch had burned him.

"You okay, hon?"

"Tess." He said my name like it was unfamiliar. His pupils were huge and black. Then he blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Sorry. That was intense."

"Did you see anything?" Selena asked. "Anything that makes sense?"

"A lot of it was a blur." He closed his eyes again. "There was a girl, though."

Selena leaned in closer. "A girl?"

He nodded. "I can't really make out her features. I think she's a teenager. Thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. She seems young."

"What else?" Selena was writing notes on a pad.

"Fire." Derrick swallowed again. "Some kind of fire. Something burning, but I can't tell what." He nearly gagged. "A horrible smell."

I flinched at the word "fire." Memories I didn't want to deal with. Screams I couldn't bring myself to hear again. I looked away to hide my stricken expression. I don't think Selena noticed.

Only things and people burn-not the past. I heard my old teacher's voice, sighed, pushed it down. You can't bring people back. It's not like in the movies.

Mostly, magic is just a bitch.

"I could feel intense fear," Derrick said. "Not of the fire, but-something else. Whatever killed him must have been extremely powerful."

"Not necessarily," I said. "I think he was newly minted. Inexperienced. A lot of higher demons might have been able to scare him."

One of the photographers was leaning close to me, peering at the vampire's body. I pushed his camera away.

"Something we can help you with?"

He grinned sheepishly. He was just a kid-barely twenty, at best-with one of those spiky faux-hawk cuts that was currently popular, hair sticking out every which way. He looked like he should be at a rave, not at a mystical crime scene.

"Sorry, Miss Corday." Points for knowing my name, at least. "I just don't get it-shouldn't he be dust?"

"Vampires only dessicate when they're exposed to direct sunlight," Selena explained. "And even that takes a while. But this guy doesn't have a mark on him. No beheading, no heart trauma. Under optimal conditions, a vampire body like this could avoid decomp for a few days, maybe even a week."

"He looks so peaceful," Derrick said.

"I know. Almost like he's been posed this way." I turned to Selena. "Any way for us to tell if the body's been moved?"

She shrugged. "Hard to say with a vampire. No lividity marks, and you know how weird their blood chemistry is- blood and plasma don't separate in the same way. I think we'd just be guessing."

Most bodies decomposed in a uniform fashion. As the process of cell death, or autolysis, went to work, the body was devoured from the inside. All of the bacteria, the intestinal flora, that protected us in life now began eating away at the vital organs. Without any cardiac momentum to pump it through the arterial system, blood separated into plasma and serum, producing a marble effect as it settled throughout the flesh. But none of this was evident on the body of a vampire. Their rate of decay was too bizarre for even CORE pathologists to determine any kind of pattern.

Two investigators were probing the area around the body with long, black-handled daggers that shone like snowflakes in the dim light of the alley. The athame was a ritual dagger used for channeling mystical energy, or materia, from a variety of sources, usually geothermic. Our bodies are like transistors that can absorb materia without the help of ritual tools like the athame, but the energy-especially the type used in combat-can be as harmful as radiation to the body. The athame works as a kind of circuit for the materia, breaking it down into a palatable stream that the body can absorb.

At the moment, the two investigators were using their blades as alternate light sources, manipulating the radiant-energy spectrum in order to produce more penetrative types of illumination within the darkness of the alley. One athame was calibrated to emit clear blue light, which would cause any stray fiber to flare up like a tendril of orange flame against the cone of blue. The second investigator was moving her athame in a slow arc like a flashlight, bathing the walls and floor of the alley with the purple glow of longwave ultraviolet light. She flicked the dagger momentarily, and the cone of purple narrowed to an intense line of burning mauve-shortwave UV light, a new technology that could be used with a reflecting UV imaging system, or RUVIS, to reveal latent fingerprints. They fluoresced under the purple glow like writhing bruises, their loops, whorls, and tented arches glimmering like bright tattoos against porous wood and stone.

Derrick kept looking nervously at the vampire. "You're sure he's dead?"

"Yep. Again." I chuckled. "Sorry, I don't know why that's funny."

"Seems like a lot of expensive technology out here for a dead vampire," I said, noting one investigator as he began to carefully snap together the sighting rods for a total-station mapping device, which would be used to download 360-degree infrared pictures to a scene-reconstruction program like AIMS. That piece of equipment alone was worth far more than I made in a year.

"Marcus says we have to be thorough, given the delicate political situation," Selena replied. "We've got a vampire body with no visible wounds, which means that something must have killed him from the inside. We'll have to do an autopsy. "

"Shit." I rubbed my hands to keep warm. "The vampire community won't be happy to hear that we're cutting up one of their own."

"We can do damage control later. We'll put a spin on it. For now, the body's in public view. It's fair game, and we found it first."

"That's kind of cold-blooded, don't you think?"

She blinked. "You want to send his family a card?"

I sighed. "Fine. Just trying to be politic for once."

"Leave that to me. Your job is to follow up."

"I know what my job is."

She handed me two evidence bags. There was a small, yellowed square of paper, folded up, inside the first bag, and a crumpled photograph in the second.

"From his pocket?"

Selena nodded. "The note is written in vampire script. I'll send it to questioned documents for analysis."

"And the picture?" I peered at it. One of the subjects was the dead vampire-he was grinning, eyes bright, arm wrapped around a woman's shoulder. I didn't recognize the woman, though. She had blond hair and sharp blue eyes. She was smiling as well, but there seemed to be a hardness to the expression-almost a hint of cruelty. "What do you think?" I asked Selena. "Vampire sweet-hearts?"