Perhaps she had been possessed by demons temporarily. On reflecting back, Special Agent Anna Cady could not come up with any other explanation as to why she would have ever tangled, literally as well as figuratively, with Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast. A momentary leave of her senses? Some sort of breakdown? Whatever it was, he had surprisingly responded in kind. Well, perhaps not so surprising. They had never treated each other with kid gloves.

It had been a bad day. A long, drawn out, annoying bad day, the kind filled with pressure from above, nasty sniping remarks from colleagues, constant questions about the last job she had been on from the AIC, and where was the rest of her paperwork? On days like this, Cady realized she was unfit company for man or beast by five o’clock. She left the building at the end of her workday without a word...   read more »

Special Agent Cady entered her apartment and drew her Glock immediately. The door had been locked and nothing was obviously out of place, but something was off. She could feel it. There was an unsettled air in the apartment and she trusted her instincts. It was how she stayed alive. When she looked over to her living room and realized that the shades had been drawn, she tightened her grip on the gun. She never left the apartment in the morning with the shades still drawn. Someone had pulled them down. She glanced back and saw the same was true of the blinds in the kitchen. She crept silently down the hall, saw that the bathroom was clear, saw that the guest room was clear, and froze upon seeing that her bedroom door was shut. Leaving her bedroom door shut was another thing she never did.

She took a...   read more »

It’s strange in the house tonight, very quiet, and the candlelight is making phantoms on the walls that dance to some ethereal beat that only they can hear. The animals on the posters seem to slink closer, and the plants seem to be growing when I’m not looking. There’s an owl in the woods not too far away and he kept asking WHO? WHO? until Aloysius whispered in his sleep, “Xenaides, the blood demon.” As though it had heard him, the owl grew quiet. I grew quiet, too, fearful of waking him.

I am still recovering from the last session, when I lost more blood than he intended. We made love tonight, and when his mouth was on me, I could feel him wanting to bite, fighting to be gentle. He only hurt me when he came, and then just a little bit, but it’s growing near...the blood demon...   read more »

A shadowy form swept confidently through the darkened halls of the Museum of Modern Art. It was close to midnight, and stillness of the building seemed exaggerated by the unexpected movement.

The guard nodded to him as he passed. In a movement calculated carefully to convey spontaneity, the man stopped, checked his pockets, and let out an exasperated sigh. “Left my keys upstairs,” he explained, and the guard nodded again. No questions. Nothing out of place. It was perfect.

Still, he felt a curl of fear in his stomach as he bypassed the route to his office and headed instead through the galleries. He knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what painting he was going to stand in front of, and still it came almost as...   read more »

Constance Greene sat in her favorite chair in the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive; she was writing in her journal. Categorizing the events of her day and the emotions that came with them. She heard the front door close; Aloysius Pendergast was home and she heard his shoes drop to the floor.

But wait— She thought. If he’s wearing them why did they drop? They wouldn’t drop if he was wearing them, only if he was carrying them and then let them fall or if—

Constance shut her journal and rose, poking her head cautiously out the door, finding nothing in the immediately hallway, she crossed to the banister overlooking the foyer. Pendergast stood in the hall, his jacket wrapped around a willowy boy with pale blue hair. He held the boy in his arms while Proctor took a backpack from his shoulder and sat it by the door....   read more »

The directions had been difficult to follow, but Pendergast knew he was at the right place. It was in the atmosphere; the lull of the crickets in the tall grasses, the sheen of the afternoon sun warming the still river, the Spanish moss hanging in the trees—even the smell of the woods and the river and something else, a heady vapor on the breeze unlike anything he’d ever smelled before. Something about it made his muscles tighten with trepidation.

He crossed the plank bridge over a tributary to the unpainted, tin-roofed shack, hyperaware of the silence after all the racket that it had taken him so long to grow accustomed to in New York City, where he’d lived for several years. With his steps on the plank bridge, even the crickets had quieted. The sky, reflected in the tea-colored river water, was a bright, beautiful blue. A few cottony clouds...   read more »

She looked into his extraordinary pale blue eyes, so informed and intelligent, yet infused with an ineffable sadness born of personal tragedy and emotional isolation. Without thinking, she reached up and lightly stroked his fine blond hair.

He stiffened slightly, gazing at her, his pale cheeks slightly flushed, but he did not stay her hand. She caressed his cheek, marveling at the pale beauty of his features and, when he offered no resistance, lightly stroked his long neck, pressing her lips to his skin, feeling his pulse quicken beneath her lips.

He turned to face her, holding her face in his hands, and then gently bringing his lips to hers. She felt a thrill course through her as the kiss intensified. She sighed and moved closer to him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs against his hard thighs. She felt his body tremble in an internal struggle for control and...   read more »

Delilah Monroe gazed out over the decadent reception area of the gallery, taking in the spectacle. The hyperindulgent, ridiculous spectacle, she thought uncharitably. She had never really enjoyed large, ritualized social events, and the glamorous opening of a major New York art gallery…well, it hardly got larger or more ritualized than this. But she couldn’t afford to let these feelings interfere, especially not tonight. The first person you have to sell when you’re selling lies, her father had taught her, is yourself. And of course he was perfectly right. Delilah inhaled slowly, assuming her role. I’m a perfectly respectable individual and I’m here for perfectly innocent reasons, she told herself. I’m a successful author, everybody knows me, and I’ve never actually broken the law (which was, she thought wryly, actually the truth). I have no plans to break any laws tonight. I’m just here to support my brother in...   read more »

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