And they belong.

I'm tired of it, Charlie. Tired of being on the outside. I get up at noon, when I'm supposed to be asleep, and just walk around the town. It's quiet and empty and lonely, just like me. I sure wish you were here.

But you're not. You're out there fighting the good fight, and I'm stuck in Nowheresville, America. I kind of envy you; at least you have other lems around that you can count on. I'm on my own.

I'm going to do it, Charlie.

I just can't wait anymore. I want to have friends, I want to do what everyone else is doing. My parents still want me to wait, but once it's done, what can they do?

There's a boy at school. Not one of the ones who bully me-he just watches. There's something in his eyes ... the bullies are all cowards; I don't think any of them would actually bite me, but I think this boy would. We'll see, I guess.

Please don't be angry at me. I hope I'll see you soon.

Yours, Amy Charlie puts down the letter. He's in a foxhole. I can hear an odd noise in the distance, multiple snaps followed by a sort of low thrumming. I look up and see a thousand arrows falling toward me, filling the sky. As they get closer, they get bigger; they're the size of spears, then flagpoles, then lampposts, tipped with triangular heads as big as traffic signs. In a world without guns, this is what passes for artillery. They slam to earth all around, a rain of timber that shakes the ground.

Charlie ignores it. He reads the letter again.

I come back to myself, kneeling on the floor, Charlie's head cradled in my lap. I almost expect to feel the smooth glossiness of plastic skin, but no; it's warm and hair-covered and human, Charlie Allen as opposed to Charlie Aleph. But who's underneath?

Charlie winces and sits up. When he turns to face me, I know.

"You wondering what happened to her?" he asks.

"It's none of my business, Charlie."

"It is now. You gonna go traipsing around between my ears, you get the full tour."

"Fair enough."

"She did it, just like she said. Wouldn't tell anyone who had bitten her, just that it was her choice. Took her a while, but she made friends, got accepted. By the time she graduated, she was almost popular." He looks down.

"And then?"

"Then I did some traveling. Fought in a few wars. Came back to visit, now and again. Grew up a lot. She didn't."

I don't say anything, because I don't have to. I get it. Whatever Amy did with her life, whatever she became, part of her would always be a seventeen-year-old girl. An unhappy seventeen-year-old girl.

"I just thought it was a shame, you know?" Charlie says quietly. "Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it does. But I'll never know-and neither will she."

"You still see her?"

He shakes his head. "Not so much. Turns out we don't have a lot in common, after all...."

TWELVE.

"How are we fixed for weapons?" Charlie asks. He's on his feet, flexing his arms, studying them as critically as a swordsman would study a blade.

"Shotgun with loads that may or may not be effective. Some homemade stakes. Not much else."

He nods. "This Allen guy-he work somewhere?"

"Owns a bar in town."

"Good. He'll have something stashed there. Bar owners always do."

I glance over at the TV. The DVD player has turned itself off, and all I see is a blue screen. I try to get Azura again, but she isn't taking my calls-I can't get her face to come up on the scene menu. Guess she's busy on her end, too. "Wait a minute, Charlie. Aren't you in Allen's mind? Can't you just remember whether or not he's got weapons at the bar?"

Charlie shakes his head. "No can do, toots. I'm me, and he's him, and it don't look like either of us can peek through the other guy's window. Which is fine by me."

I sigh. So now that I've got my partner back, it turns out he's even more clueless about this place than I am, is unarmed, and can no longer bench-press a truck.

Damn, I'm glad to see him.

What Charlie does know, however, is a bunch of the stuff that's still locked up inside my head. "Okay, I'm assuming Azura briefed you. As far as allies go, Gretch isn't available. Cassius-called Cassiar here-is. Who else should we be looking for?"

"You got a guy named Eisfanger?"

That surprises me. "Yeah, kind of a computer geek. Albino, stays inside and online most of the time. I know him?"

"You're colleagues. He's a forensics shaman-could come in handy."

"Not here. Different reality, different rules. And I don't think he'd be much good in a fight."

"Tanaka?"

"Ex-boyfriend. Hates my guts."

"Nice to see you haven't lost your touch."

I glare at him. "I wouldn't know."

"Guess you'll have to take my word for it, then."

"Terrific."

We decide our best move is stay together, keep moving, and hit the bar for possible supplies. "If nothing else, we should be able to find something flammable," Charlie says as we head for the car. "Fire work against supernaturals here?"

"Not sure. Pires tend to burst into flames when they die, so probably."

"Probably," Charlie growls as he gets into the driver's seat. "That ain't one of my favorite words."

"Neither is ain't. Or it wasn't before. You used to be quite the philosopher, from what I saw."

"People change," he says as he starts the car. "Some of us, anyway."

I try to get Cassiar on my cell phone as we drive. It goes right to voice mail. "We need to meet," I tell him. "Call me back ASAP."

"He remember who he is?"

"No. But he's on our side, anyway. I think."

We pull up at the bar. "The Quarry, huh?" Charlie says, looking up at the neon sign. "I like it."

"Gee, what a surprise."

When we walk through the doors, we get another one: The place is full of faces I don't recognize. Big, rough-looking guys in denim and plaid, wearing muddy, steel-toed work boots. One or two are wearing reflective orange vests, and a few have hard hats on the table beside their mugs of beer.

"Uh-oh," I say.

"Situation?" Charlie asks.

"Not yet...."

We walk over to the bar. Not everyone in the place is watching us, but more than one pair of eyes track our path. Charlie doesn't hesitate, just goes right around the bar and into the back. I follow. The relief bartender, Bob, is too busy to even notice us.

We do a quick search of the office. Sure enough, I find a loaded Glock in a desk drawer. "Huh," I say. "Never figured you for a Glock kind of guy."

"More like a rock kind of guy?"

"Watch it. You're stepping on my material."

There's a crash out front. Loud, angry voices. I look at Charlie and he looks at me. "There a back door out of this place?" he asks.

"Yeah, but Bob's out there. Bob's a decent guy. Not really fair to him-or the guy whose body you're wearing-to let the bar get wrecked."

Charlie shrugs. "Hey, for all we know Bob's really a mafia thrope who wants to eat your liver. But you're right: it'd be a shame to ruin a good bar."

I shove the gun in my belt and we go out front. There's an angry confrontation going on between a group of road workers and a knot of locals: I spot Don Prince, Vince Shelly, Ken Tanaka, and Brad Varney. They don't normally hang around together, but it seems like they've found some kind of common ground-ground that seems to be composed of the mud the road workers tracked in. There are a lot more road crew members than townies, but that doesn't seem to bother the townies. In fact, they seem almost eager to get the snot kicked out of them.

And then I feel it. In the air, all around me. More than just testosterone or adrenaline. Sorcery. I don't know how I can tell; I just can. And when I glance at Charlie, I can see that he feels it, too.

"Something's gonna blow," Charlie mutters.

Don Prince, the dapper, silver-haired Italian owner of the hardware store, is getting into a road worker's face. "You think can just walk in here and talk to one of us like that? You have no idea who you're insulting!"

The road worker-not Joe, but someone who could be his brother-stares down at Prince with a sneer on his lips. It might be a trick of the light, but his eyes seem to have a weird blue glow to them. "I know. I just don't care."

Brad Varney, the transvestite mailman, looks about ready to throw someone through a window. "Take it back," he growls. Literally growls; his voice has dropped at least two octaves and acquired a rumble.

"It's coming apart," I murmur to Charlie. "The spell." It's just intuition, but I know I'm right; this whole place is aimed at my head, after all. If it goes off the rails, I'm going to be the first one to notice.

The road workers' eyes aren't the only ones starting to look strange. There's a yellow tinge to Don Prince's, and his fingers are curled into claws rather than fists. Varney, always scrupulously clean-shaven, is looking a good twelve hours past a five o'clock shadow. Both Tanaka and Vince Shelly have their upper lips bared in all-too-canine snarls.

"This place won't last," the road worker says. "Not once the new highway goes through. It, and all of you, are just gonna fade away and be forgotten-"

That's when Tanaka cold-cocks the guy.

It's an impressive punch. By that, I mean it lifts the guy right off his feet. And through the air. And into the wall ten feet away. I remember what Mayor Leo's punch did to that dumpster, and by this point I'm pretty sure I know where he got his strength from.

The other road workers don't seem impressed. They're all grinning, and their mouths don't look quite right; a little too wide, a few too many tiny, sharp teeth. Their eyes are giving off that blue glow, too.

And then the fight kicks off with a roar.

Bodies fly through the air. Furniture smashes and glass shatters. Howls of rage and angry cursing compete for volume. The townies are badly outnumbered, but for four middle-aged guys they're doing all right. Bob hunkers down behind the bar, and I can't say I blame him.

Maybe Charlie and I should sit this one out. That'd be the smart thing to do. Let the two sides pummel each other for a while, then wade in and break things up. Maybe learn something from watching, or from whichever side we decide to help.

There are three things wrong with that plan. First, if this goes on for any length of time there won't be a bar left; second, it's the smart thing to do. My reputation would suffer.

Third, Tanaka's in the middle of it.

I shouldn't care. He treated me badly. He's the sort of ex who leaves you with a general mistrust of the opposite gender, and I don't owe him a damn thing.

Except I do.

I have to. Ahaseurus wouldn't have stuck him in here, wouldn't have made him part of the grand design, unless he meant something to me. Something that the wizard could twist and distort, turn into something ugly. Which means, by simple and brutal logic, that the jerk I used to date and now hate is more than likely a decent, honorable guy who I might have even been close to.

"Let's get in there and help," I snap.

"Sure. Which side?"

I demonstrate, vaulting over the bar and kicking a road worker in the belly. He doubles over, and I straighten him up with a knee to the face.

"Oh," Charlie says, and then he's right there beside me.

I could use the gun, I guess. Fire a few rounds into the ceiling, shout for everyone to stop. But I don't think that would work-both sides are in the grip of something elemental, the ferocity of a barroom brawl amplified by out of control magic. I can feel it myself: I don't want to shoot anyone, I want to hit them. Hard. Many, many times.

So that's what we go with.

The road crew obviously aren't human, but they're not pires or thropes, either. Some kind of demon is my guess, something Ahaseurus was using as muscle. He's employed both lems and zombies in the past, so demons shouldn't come as much of a surprise.

But they don't belong here, in the town itself. I know it, and so do the four neo-thropes fighting alongside me. These mooks are just here to have a little fun while the boss isn't looking.

I smash a chair over one guy's head. It leaves me holding two chair legs, one in each hand, which suits me just fine. I'm trained to fight with batons. I proceed to demonstrate on anyone unlucky enough to be within six feet of me.

None of the townies have gone thrope. That means none of them have experienced their first full moon yet, and thus none of them are the alpha. At least I've figured that much out.

And then one of the demons decides to kick it up a notch. He's got one of those SLOW signs with him, the kind you usually see in the hands of a blonde in sunglasses and a hard hat-I read somewhere people are more likely to respond to a blonde directing traffic-and he starts swinging it like a club. Not much of a weapon, really, just a lightweight piece of sheet metal on a stick. He smacks Tanaka in the head with it, and about all that accomplishes is getting his attention.

The demon's grin gets wider. He turns the sign edgewise for the backswing, and aims a few inches lower. The strike is almost too fast to see.