The Glow (Mountain City Chronicles

Book 3) Alexander Nader

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/the-glow-mountain-city-chronicles-book-3-alexander-
nader/
Copyright © 2022 Alexander Nader All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express written
permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Pamela Nader

Printed in the United States of America
 Get my novel Demon Gotta Go for free!

To instantly receive a free copy of my novel Demon Gotta Go: Book

1 of Beasts of Burdin Series sign up for my newsletter here.
 Chapter 1

I f these numbers continue to track

red, there will be a real issue
next fiscal year…”
Ho-ly fucking shit I am bored. Six months since Fox accepted
Sarah’s offer of a position on her council to fix Mountain City. Six
goddamn months of weekly council meetings, daily strategy
meetings, quarterly budget meetings, and frequent ‘Hey, just popping
into see how (insert bullshit, menial job title here) is coming’s have
me about ready to end it all. Christ, I never thought I’d miss people
trying to kill me.
I glance around the room, hoping for something interesting to
keep my soul tethered to my body. In last week’s council meeting, I
caught Mayor Calhoun reading some pretty un-Mayor-like text
messages, but considering Robert Calhoun is a bit of a beautiful
scarecrow, un-Mayor-like is kind of his MO. Calhoun is stone-faced
today, his black hair perfectly tousled, and his brilliant blue eyes
locked on the projector screen. Last week he saw me watching him,
so maybe he’s trying to play it cool in the hopes I forget. I don’t forget
shit, usually.
 Calhoun doesn’t even have to pay attention. He’s the mayor,
an election Burgess made sure he won and has been in Burgess’
pocket ever since. The mayor might be the face of the city, but the
money gets shit done. Considering how loyal he was to the old man,
Calhoun is probably happy Sarah didn’t take his head after I killed
Burgess.
“…can see from this graph, tax revenue is down…” Chandra,
Sarah’s head of budgeting, points at a pretty chart. The bottom
corner of the screen reads “thirteen of twenty-four”. Chandra is the
most put-together troll I’ve ever met. Then again, most of the trolls
I’ve come in contact with have been loan sharks looking to beat this
week’s payment out of me.
Chandra stands just over six feet with skin so gray it’s nearly
purple in the dim light of the room. Her expertly tailored clothes fit
her large frame like a glove. One glance and you can tell she’s all
business behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. She could snap your
neck with her bare hands while telling you exactly how many pounds
of force she was exerting to do it. After Sarah took over, she put
Chandra in charge of the money and on the board of GlowBank, the
first bank in the Glow that serves as a community bank and not just
an ATM.
I won’t survive another eleven slides of this presentation. For
the first time in recent memory, I’m pissed at myself for being
immortal.
Across the table, I catch Ethan’s gaze. His well-muscled
arms are folded across his chest as he pretends to fall asleep. Elsa,
Ethan’s second in command, digs the point of her elbow into his ribs
and points at the screen. The alpha mouths an apology and glances
at the screen just long enough for Elsa to leave him alone. Once he’s
safe, his gaze turns to Sarah at the head of the table. He’s been
making puppy-dog eyes at Sarah for weeks now. At least he’s not
staring at my wife anymore. I’ll take the wins where I can get them.
“…the lack of revenue”
Slide fifteen, now.
 Lily and Chioke, the two oldest sharps in Mountain City, are
seated next to the hairs. After Darius died under the mysterious
circumstances (See: Fox cutting his head off and Sarah covering it
up to look like a business deal gone bad), one vampire should have
taken over as top fang. Six months later, Lily and Chioke are working
through something like a truce. Chioke has more of the Vampire
Valley residents at his back, but Lily did some work for Sarah and
has her favor. The two sharps are at a stalemate. At least until one
finds and opportunity to slit the other’s throat. My money’s on Lily.
“Because of this…” Chandra turns to face Sarah and clasps
her hands in a thoughtful manner. “Funding from something is going
to have to be cut if you want all of your updates to The Glow to be
completed in a timely manner.” Chandra’s eyes flick toward Police
Chief Clark Gimbel.
“Ohhhh, no,” Gimbel says, ruffling the lapels of his ill-fitting
suit. His shit brown eyes are dim, but apparently, he’s not as dull as I
thought. “Nope. You’re not pulling that ‘the cops can spare it’ bullshit
with me.”
“Chief Gimbel,” Sarah says, placatingly. “We haven’t said
anything about cuts to the MCPD.”
“Uh-huh, sure. And big green up there just looked at me
because she likes the view so much?” Gimbel wipes spit away from
his mouth with the back of his hand.
Power flairs in the air. Maybe it’s because my soul is bonded
with Sarah, or maybe it’s just me getting used to magic, but I can feel
her at the edge of her patience, a Hiroshima-sized rubber band
about to snap.
Gimbel’s goes wide-eye under Sarah’s cold stare.
Listen, I’m not normally one to cheer on fights in the school
lunchroom, but if it gets me out of nine extra pages of spreadsheets
I’m fucking here for it.
The energy cools, barely. Sarah takes a breath, says, “Chief
Gimbel, you’re welcome to be upset. You are free to argue. You can
state your case in any manner you see fit. However, if you choose to
hurl vile slurs at any member of this cabinet, you’ll lose far more than
just the post you were so graciously gifted by the late Lloyd
Burgess.” Her eyes flicker pure black, fast enough it could have been
a trick of the light, clear enough anyone paying attention knows it
wasn’t.
I set my hand on Fox’s thigh, trying to get a read for her
feelings. Her leg muscles twitch under my palm. She’s ready for a
fight.
Gimbel deflates into the sad sack of a guy who used to be
important. “I apologize, Chandra,” he mutters. Turning to Sarah now,
“but I’m serious. The force is held together with duct tape. Half the
cars are held together with less than that. The guys are all nervous
about…the shift in leadership.”
The chief knows to choose his words. Maybe not so dull after
all.
“We haven’t even gotten the firearms promised to us from Mr.
Grisom,” Gimbel says.
Ethan clears his throat. “Hair Trigger Tactical is still in
developmental stages. We want to make sure every weapon is
hand-crafted to perfect standards. The donation to your force is no
exception. Just because we are giving you the guns, doesn’t mean
we are happy just slapping them together and calling it a day.”
The hairs are making an attempt to go from simple gun
wholesalers, to an actual supplier. Hair Trigger Tactical is still in its
infancy, but under Ethan’s leadership the pack is as precise as their
weapons. I’ve fired a couple of their test models and the guns are
works of art. The cops should consider themselves blessed that
Ethan is arming the whole force as a PR stunt.
“That’s all well and good,” Gimbel says, “but my guys can’t
protect the city on promises.”
“You will have your weapons in due time,” Sarah says. “And
no decisions have been made as to department funding. We will
keep you updated on the situation. It’s what these meetings are for.
No more secrets. Everyone in the loop.”
Gimbel flinches like he’s about to say something else,
catches a firm look from Sarah, decides to drop it. Ethan beams a
smile at Sarah like she’s a pale knight who saved him from a fight to
the death.
Sarah stands up in front of the screen. “Chandra, I know
you’ve got a couple pages remaining, but if it’s okay with you I’d like
to address the cabinet.”
Chandra gives a graceful nod and steps away. “Of course, I’ll
email a copy of the deck out for everyone to review.” She flips on the
lights and cuts off the projector.
“Thank you, Chandra,” Sarah says. “Part of the reason the
budget is tight this quarter, is that I am trying to sponsor a building
project in the Glow. The development is going to be affordable, open
to all races, and full of luxury amenities normally only seen in
Standard Heights. I want to be clear; this isn’t going to be normal
government housing. This isn’t going to be just some place people
go to live because they can’t afford anything else. It’s a place people
can afford that offers them a life with more than the minimum. The
project will shine a light in The Glow, more than its cheesy neon
namesake.”
Everyone, but the standards in the room smile or clap.
Chief Gimbel is the first standard to find his tongue. “You are
cutting funding from the cops for this?”
Sarah shakes her head. “Those are separate cuts from other
projects. No. The development funding is coming from Calhoun
Plaza. They have yet to break ground and the city needs affordable
housing more than it needs another shopping mall.”
Mayor Calhoun shoots up out of his chair like there’s a rocket
strapped to his ass. “You can’t do that,” he moans. Mayor Calhoun is
a beautiful man, the kind of pretty that argues in pouts and whines.
It’s a half-step weaker than a full-on hissy fit, but hey, he’s the mayor
and I’m not. So, who am I to judge the guy’s weak ass form of
arguing?
Sarah shines a patient smile at the mayor. “I can. And I will.
I’ve already spoken to the contractors. The wheels are in motion,
Mayor Calhoun.”
“No.” Calhoun flinches like he’s going to stomp his foot but
doesn’t go through with it. We might get to that hissy fit after all.
I glance at Fox. She watches gape jawed. She looks like
she’s dying for a bucket of popcorn.
“Calhoun Plaza is the crowning achievement from my term,”
the mayor says. “It’s my legacy in the prestigious Downtown of
Mountain City.”
“You can put your name on the housing development.
Calhoun Tower. How does that sound?” Sarah says, always
prepared. She knew the mayor would buck and came prepared to
placate him.
Calhoun’s face goes red. A vein throbs in his forehead.
“Calhoun Plaza was set to be Mountain City’s premier luxury
shopping destination. You take that away and instead offer me a
housing project in the ghetto!? How dare you think you can walk my
name through the mud like that?” Calhoun punches the desk. A
flicker of a tremble cracks his tough-guy act as the pain from a jab to
solid oak registers.
Sarah grips the top of a desk chair; her slender fingers sink
into the plush leather. “Everyone, you are dismissed. My apologies,
but we need the room.”
Fuck yeah. Freedom. I pop up from my seat.
“Fox and Sam, as my community outreach to The Glow and
my head of security, I’d like you to stay.”
Shit.
Everyone in the room silently gathers binders, notebooks,
purses, and politely fucks right off. Calhoun shoots a pleading look at
Gimbel, who shrugs and walks out. The mayor seems to have
realized a moment too late he dug his own grave.
Ethan is the last one to leave. He pauses at the door before
pulling it closed on his way out.
Sarah struts over to Calhoun’s chair like a panther stalking its
prey. She gathers magic with each step, not a nuclear amount, just a
slight shift in the energy of the room. Fox and I have nothing to do
but sit and see how badly she fucks up this guy’s world.
“Robert,” Sarah says, her voice quiet malice. “Lloyd made
you. He put that pretty face of yours in front of the city, and he made
sure you won that election. And I know what you’re thinking. You
think with Burgess gone you are free to run this city. Yes?”
Calhoun doesn’t speak.
Sarah smiles. “Sure, you do. But I need you to understand
something for me. As easily as Burgess gave you this seat, I can
take it away.”
Calhoun scoffs.
Idiot should have kept his mouth shut. If he survives this,
someone should really explain the food chain to the minnow.
“I know exactly what you are,” Sarah says. She does
something to the magic in the air.
A small current of energy I hadn’t noticed before buzzes in
my head, like the hum of electronics you don’t notice until the power
goes out. Was it always there? Why didn’t I notice it? I feel Sarah
snap the current. She cuts the energy off from the source.
Calhoun yelps as his body shrinks nearly a foot and expands
another two. His perfectly tousled hair thins and disappears on top,
leaving behind a thin ring circling a liver-spotted dome. The middle
buttons of the perfectly tailored suit pop under the weight of his gut.
“Holy shit,” I say.
Calhoun is a shapeshifter. I did not see that one coming.
 Sarah leans down, her face inches from Calhoun’s warped
mug. “If you keep messing with me, all of Mountain City will see you
for exactly what you are. You are a pawn, Mr. Calhoun. It’s time you
started acting like it.” Sarah spins his chair so he’s pointed at the
door. “Dismissed.”
 Chapter 2

F ox and I wait what

feels like an
appropriate amount of
time after Calhoun sulks out of the conference room to excuse
ourselves. Nothing like bumping into an embarrassed mayor on the
elevator after that ass reaming. There’s not really small talk for that
kind of thing, you know? Just awkward silence and I much prefer
silent silence.
“We’re out of here, boss,” I say to Sarah.
She’s too furiously typing away at her keyboard to notice I
spoke. I glance at Fox. She shrugs and we slide out the door.
“She should have ripped his throat out,” Fox says before we
even hit the hall.
Reason two to avoid the elevator ride. Fox might have ripped
his throat out on Sarah’s behalf.
“It’d be a bad play,” I say. “Too much at stake. I’m pretty sure
she’s only allowed one assassination per year.”
“As if she couldn’t find a way to spin it.” Fox pats down her
pants and comes up with a pair of cigarettes and a lighter.
 Ever since I made my deal to combine souls with Sarah, I
haven’t felt the physical need for smokes or booze, but damn they
still taste good.
“Hey, I’m glad I caught y’all,” Ethan says from down the hall.
He jogs up to us, carrying a small wooden box.
First Fox has cigarettes and now the alpha is bringing us
cigars? Is it my birthday?
Ethan stops in front of me, he shifts the box around in his
hands a few times. There’s a gold insignia embedded in the glossy
oak box. The symbol shows a howling wolf, the brand of Hair Trigger
Tactical. “So, uh, I hope this is okay,” Ethan says. “But after all the
help you gave the pack,” he clears his throat, “and me specifically
with the sharp thing, we,” he coughs, “I wanted to give something
back.”
In a power play, Burgess had the sharps attack Ethan and
brand him with anti-magic runes preventing him from healing or
transforming into a wolf. Fox wanted to help, and I’ve never been
able to say no to her beautiful face, so I ended up putting in a good
bit of work (See: Murder) on behalf of the Hair Nation Pack. By dumb
luck, I ended up saving Ethan’s fur a couple times. I did it all for Fox,
but if he wants to think I did it for some kind of honorable reason, I
won’t correct him.
“Sam, this is for you.” Ethan flicks a tiny gold latch and opens
the box. It contains a sleek snub nose revolver. The finish is a dull
metal and the grip is some kind of maple with thick black lines that
looks closer to impressionist art than anything else. Six .38 caliber
cartridges sit in the plush blue velvet lining below the small barrel.
“We are naming the design, The Flint, and only crafting 500 of them.”
He turns the case to show off a small plate that reads
“1/500”.
“This one is for you, Sam.”
I take the gun from the case. The weight of the thing is
perfect. Flick open the cylinder to make sure it’s empty. Click it back
and squeeze the trigger a few times. The force is exactly right. The
weapon really is a work of art, made by craftsmen who care about
their work.
“This is amazing. Thank you.” I tuck the gun back into the
case and take it from Ethan.
“Awwww,” Fox says. “Where’s mine?”
“You hate guns,” Ethan and I say in unison.
We share an uneasy look.
“Custom toys and finishing each other’s sentences?” Fox
says. “Do I have to be the one jealous of Ethan now?” Fox smiles
and wraps her arm around mine.
The door to the conference room opens and Sarah peeks
out. “Oh, good. I haven’t missed you.”
“You seemed pretty wrapped up,” Fox says. “We thought
we’d head out and leave you to it.”
“I am definitely busy,” Sarah says. “But that’s a good thing.
No rest for the wicked, right?”
I wonder if whoever coined that phrase thought it would be
used by a necromancer who swindled their way into controlling a city
full of supernatural races. If you believe Sarah Roswell’s narrative,
her ex-husband, Burgess, got rich off her parent’s money. So really,
all she has taken, she was owed. Roswell Inc is the name on the
open limit credit card that pays my bills, so her narrative works just
fine by me. Especially, since she stopped murdering me.
“Did you need something?” Fox asks.
“Yes. I need your help with The Glow. You are my outreach,
my voice in the Glow. Fox you have accomplished so much down
there already with clothing shelters and the library. Both of you know
the area well and I need allies,” Sarah says.
“You’ve got a whole boardroom full of them,” I say.
 “Those are the faces of the boroughs. They represent
Vampire Valley, and Hair Nation, and the others, but no one except
you speaks for The Glow, speaks to The Glow. I need their support.
Money isn’t a problem, I’ve got plenty of that, but I need real, human
support.”
“The money isn’t enough?” I ask.
Surely, money solves all problems. Broke ass city? Throw
money at it. Dirty police force put in place by your ex-husband?
Throw money at it. Bitchy mayor also put in place by your ex? You
guess it. Money.
“There are still people in the city who support what Burgess
stood for, people with money and power. The largest population of
Mountain City resides in The Glow. More than live downtown, and
more that live in any of the boroughs by far. If the people of The
Glow support me, we can get things done for the people, all the
people of Mountain City, but if they get discouraged someone will do
the same to me as I did Lloyd and whoever coups next will not have
the people’s interests in mind.”
So says every dictator. Don’t worry about me. Worry about
the other guy. I even believe Sarah wants to help people almost as
much as she wanted the power back Burgess took from her after
they married. Rhetoric always makes me wonder if they know they
all sound the same with a different accent. More than three hundred
years hanging around this place, I’ve earned the right to be a cynic.
“What do you need from us, exactly?” Fox asks.
“I need you two to visit The Glow. Talk to local leaders,
friends, business owners, anyone who will listen and let them know
that I am fighting for them. They just need to be patient.”
“Can we tell them about Calhoun Tower?” I ask. If you go
door-to-door selling a savior, it’s best to come with gifts.
The bible thumpers would have so much higher turnout if
they brought cookies with their bibles. ‘Now, if you please turn to Otis
Spunkmeyer 4:32. I’d like to show you my favorite passage on why
hand mixing is preferred over electric.’ Can you imagine? Instantly
they would gain a solid 12 or 13 new followers.
“Of course.” Sarah smiles.
“And that’s like, for sure, for sure. Right? Like the mayor can’t
collapse it under the weight of his luxurious eyelashes?”
Fox swallows a laugh.
“He can cry and wail, but no. It’s a done deal.”
“Okay,” Fox says. “It’s late. We’ll go home and get some rest
and tomorrow we’ll get to work.”
“Thank you, for all the work you do,” Sarah says before she
moves back into the conference room.
Ethan, who’s been silently watching all this unfold, says, “You
two heading out?”
“Yup.” Fox pulls me toward the elevator.
The three of us wait for the car. The doors slide open and we
step inside. As the doors begin to close, Ethan sticks his arm out to
hold the car. “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot something back there. I’ll
catch up with you tomorrow.” He prowls up the hall as the doors
close again. That sly dog.
 Chapter 3

F ox nuzzles her cheek

against the side of my
neck, waking me from
a light slumber. We’ve been staying in Sarah’s cabin for six months
now and it still feels like someone else’s house, someone else’s bed.
It makes it hard to get a great night’s sleep, but Sarah has a standing
reservation at a hotel across from Burgess Tower.
I’m not sure Sarah sleeps. She’s always working, always
planning. Either way, she told us we could stay here as long as we
like. It’s comfortable, out of the way, free, and not overrun by angry
sharp ghosts like our apartment in The Glow.
“Morning.” Fox kisses the side of neck. Heat from her lips
runs down my body like an electric current.
“Morning.” I hug her and kiss the top of her head.
Working for Sarah might feel a lot like selling out, but that’s
fine. I get to wake up naked in bed with my wife and there’s no one
beating down my door demanding money or offering me some shitty
P.I. job. The sell out gig is downright fucking relaxing. Once we get
things settled with the city, Fox and I can take a vacation to the
beach. Too much sun annoys me anyway.
 “What are you thinking about?” Fox traces her finger down
my chest. Morning sun shines through the drapes, making her red
hair shine in the morning light.
“You.”
Sune, a living fox tattoo, rolls its eyes and struts from Fox’s
shoulder to her ribs. The tattoo’s dual tails swish side-to-side with
each haughty step.
Fox curls her fingers to drag her nails down my skin,
scratching hard. “What are you really thinking about?”
“Well, I was thinking about you,” I say, mock offended.
“And?”
“I was thinking about how glad I was you took this job. It’s
been good to us. All the politics are boring, but boring work means I
get to focus more on us.”
Fox smiles; it’s the brightest light in the room. “You know
what I’m thinking about?”
“What?”
“Coffee.” She slaps the red nail marks on my chest. “Best get
to brewing.”
I grumble, “Fine,” and roll my naked ass out of bed.
Sarah’s cabin décor is Air BNB chic, all generic landscapes
on the walls, vintage hiking gear, and black bear statues. It’s not
obnoxious like most standard cabins I’ve seen, but it’s definitely not
lived in like a normal house. Sarah said it’s been in her family for a
long time. She lived with Burgess in his mansion in Standard Heights
before the coup.
The kitchen is stainless appliances and beautiful wood
finished cabinets. There’s no coffee pot, just a French press and
some weird thing that looks like a bong for coffee brewing. Fox told
me it’s called a Chemex. I looked up the directions and it seemed
more complex than correctly packing a pipe, so I stick with the press.
I fill a retro blue kettle with water and put it on the stove. At least I’ve
been in charge of the food delivery, so the coffee is ground. I’m not
about to grind my own coffee, weigh out thirty-six grams of beans,
and then start a seventeen-step process for the Chemex. I just need
glorious caffeine.
Fox walks into the kitchen wrapped in a sheet. The kettle
whistles at her. I pour boiling water over a mound of grounds and put
the lid on.
I tilt my head to the side. “Why are you out of bed so quick?”
“We’ve got work to do, and I want to get an early start.”
“An early start? You know no one that matters in The Glow is
stirring before noon, right?” I grab two plain white coffee cups out of
a cabinet.
Fox fills a cup with tap water, throws it back, and sets it in
front of me. “Sure, but by the time we get going and drive clear to the
other end of Mountain City, the important people should just be
getting going.”
I shrug and pour our coffee. “Whatever you say.”
“Damn straight.” She winks at me. “Now come on, let’s go
have our coffee before we have to get to work.”
Fox and I sit on a breakfast bench that’s set into a large
window overlooking the mountains. The cabin sits up high, looking
down on a snow-covered Mountain City. It’s incredible. We drink our
coffee and watch Downtown begin to fill up with the cogs ready to
keep the city spinning.
After Fox finishes her drink, she gets up, kisses me on the
lips, and heads for the shower.
I clean up our coffee, pick out my clothes for the day, make a
mental list of Glow residents worth talking to, check my phone for
updates on the city, pace the house a few times, check my phone in
case anyone messaged me while I was pacing, get bored, and drift
back to sleep on the couch before Fox emerges from the bathroom.
A cloud of steam rolls out from the door, announcing her entrance
like a professional wrestler making their way to the ring.
“Your turn,” she says. Sune lays across her collarbone,
panting from the heat.
“Is there any hot water left?”
“There is probably water left. I can’t speak to the
temperature.”
I sigh.
“What? You don’t even like hot showers.”
“Don’t like cold ones either.”
“Quit bitching and get cleaned up. We’ve got work to do.”
Sitting around the house all morning has me itchy, so I quit
bitching and grab a shower. We finish dressing at the same time. I
throw on a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. Fox has her usual
jeans, light pink Chuck Taylor sneakers, and a Janis Joplin t-shirt.
Not exactly business casual, but The Glow, by and large, doesn’t
give a shit about corporate dress codes.
“You ready to go kiss some hands and shake some babies?”
I ask.
“Oh, always.”
Sune appears from under the collar of Fox’s shirt and takes
up position on the side of her throat. Whelp, the shady-ass tattoo is
ready to go, so I guess we’re ready as ever. We grab our jackets and
enter the garage.
The two-car garage holds my classic GT500 Mustang and a
brand new, bright yellow Ford Bronco. It’s winter and the cabin sits
high on the Mountain, four-wheel drive is not a luxury up here, it’s a
necessity. I open the door for Fox and close it behind her. It’s not old-
fashioned at my age; it’s just fashioned. I climb into the driver’s seat
and start the car. The aftermarket exhaust rumbles in the enclosed
garage as the door rolls open. The Bronco is never going to win any
races against the Mustang, but that doesn’t mean I kept it stock.
Besides, wrenching on cars is meditation. As long as nothing breaks.
And everything bolts on like it’s supposed to. And I have all the right
tools. Wrenching on cars is hell, actually, but I do it anyway.
“…multiple cuts to the bone, all spaced exactly one inch
apart,” a woman’s soft voice says through the speakers.
The radio picked up Fox’s phone and started playing
whatever she left off on.
“Jess Stone?” I ask. That’s Fox’s favorite podcaster, but this
woman’s voice sounds a lower, more southern.
“No. This one is Hailey Avagyan. It’s called Supernatural or
Super Sketch? I’ve already heard all of Jess’s and had to find
someone new.” Fox clicks around on her phone and Etta James
takes over the speakers. “I remember the story from this episode,
though. That takes the fun out of it.”
“Oh?” I back out onto the road.
“Yeah. It happened back when I was with Ethan. Down in
Florida, they kept finding butchered women in the swamps. They
were all cut up bad.”
“I remember that. They suspected a hair pack.”
“Yeah. It was at the peak of Burgess giving the Mountain City
pack hell. Burgess kept going on TV and saying if hair in Florida
could slaughter those poor, defenseless girls than the ones here
could do the same.”
“It was all bullshit,” I say. “It wasn’t even hairs at all. It was a
rich dude or some shit.”
“Worse than a rich dude,” Fox says. “Rich dudes. They called
themselves the Moon Hunt Pack. Wanted to have some dick-
measuring contest about how they were more alpha than alphas.
They would pick up women and send them running through the
woods terrified under a full moon. The guys would strip naked and
chase them with these steel claws attached to their hands.”
 “Christ. Whatever happened? I remember the case breaking,
but not the follow-up.”
“The case broke because the cops caught the guy who was
picking up the victims. He said he’d flip on the guys running the
show, but he hung himself in his cell before he could give his formal
confession.”
“Convenient.”
The car heater blasts us with inferno-level air. I turn the
blower down to the floor to keep from sweating. Etta James sings
about a Sunday Kind of Love.
Fox huffs. “Yeah. Real fucking convenient. The
disappearances stopped. The cops had someone to blame. They
more or less shrugged and dropped the whole thing.”
“Fucking rich people.”
“Fucking rich people,” Fox agrees. After a minute, she says,
“The podcast is pretty good though. They’ve got an episode about a
mind feeder sex cult I’ve been meaning to listen to and another
about the Troll Toll Tony that’s supposed to be good.”
“Fucking Triple T,” I say. “That poor bastard.”
“You knew him?”
“Knew him? Shit, I owed him money when they strung him
up.”
Triple T was a troll loan shark down in The Glow back in the
1970s. Everyone, and I mean everyone, owed him at least a favor.
The guy was like the Tony Soprano of The Glow. He wasn’t a bad
guy, either. Well, as not bad as a loan shark can be. The guy was
scary enough that my payments were never late, but he never killed
me either. So, he’s got that over the punk kids of today.
In the late 70s, Tony’s clients started going missing. At first,
everyone just kind of shrugged. People, especially back then, in The
Glow went missing. Off on a bender, or ran away to Vegas, or dead
in a basement in Vampire Valley, shit happened. But it got to the
point where people couldn’t look away. Every missing person owed
money to Triple T. Eventually, the locals got restless and took the law
into their own hands. They strung Tony up in the same gallows they
tried to hang Fox on earlier this year.
Too bad that even after they killed Ol’ Tony, people kept going
missing. Turns out, there was a reject necromancer from Necrotown
who swore he could resurrect the dead. He needed bodies to
practice with, but they had to be freshly dead. As opposed to grave
robbing, like a self-respecting necro, he decided to straight murder
people and attempt to bring them back. Tony didn’t have anything to
do with the mess. He only looked like the common thread because,
like I said, everyone in The Glow owed Triple T something. I bet the
podcast covers all that better than I can, though. So, I keep it on the
inside.
“I’ll listen to that one next,” Fox says. “See if P.I. Sam Flint
has a cameo in the episode.”
“Not likely, but it’s an interesting story. You should definitely
check it out.”
“Maybe later.” Fox turns up the radio and leans on my
shoulder. “Today is an Etta kind of day.”
 Chapter 4

T he dash lights up to
warn me of low fuel
just as we cross the
threshold into Downtown. Normally, I’d get gas in The Glow. The
Glow isn’t as dense and all the parking lots have more room to
maneuver. Once we get to The Glow, however, we are officially on
the clock. Doesn’t matter how good the pay, work still sucks. I decide
to pull off into an Exxon at the edge of town that’s been there for
longer than I’ve been alive and changed owners more often than I’ve
died.
I take a spot at a pump and hop out while Fox plays around
on her phone. A sign scrawled in marker says, “CARD MACHENE
BROKE PAY INSIDE”. Well, shit. A survey of the lot shows similar
signs taped to every pump. Why would anything ever be easy?
Sticking my head back in the car, I ask, “You need anything
from inside?”
Fox thinks about it for a second, says, “Cheetos and a Coke.”
I nod and head inside. The gas station is tiny, just a couple
rows of shelves. One row each for candy, snacks, and random shit
like oil and laundry detergent. The coolers lining the back wall have a
eighty-twenty split of beer and soda. I grab a couple Cokes and a
bag of Cheetos.
An old guy with a goatee and ponytail that makes a valiant
effort at hiding his bald dome sits behind the counter, thumbing
through a copy of Time magazine. Some politician I don’t recognize
stands proud on the cover, virtue oozing out his pores.
I set the snack on the counter. “A pack of American Spirit
menthols, also.”
The clerk makes a show of setting his magazine down. The
back cover is an ad for a reality show called Sharp Housewives of
Alachua County. The standards get to herd all the supernatural folks
into the ‘refuge of Mountain City’ and then only pay attention to them
for reality television. Sounds about right. Annoyed at the magazine, I
look around the counter. A plastic strip hanging from the ceiling holds
a row of plush animals. A sloth with its arms wrapped around a heart
smiles down at me. It’s cute and dumb and sappy and I snatch it off
the hook without a thought.
The guy spins back around and scans my items. “That all?”
“And thirty in gas on pump…” I lean to look out the window.
The numbers are worn off the displays. “Whatever pump the giant
banana is parked at.”
Guy punches the register without looking up. He reads off my
total. I swipe my card and he goes back to his magazine. No offer of
a bag or receipt, we’re done here. I stick the smokes in my pocket
and scoop the rest up in my arms. Luckily, the door is a push to exit
and I shoulder my way out.
Fox’s face is buried in her phone. I try to shift the stuff so I
have a free hand to knock on her window, can’t manage it, and
headbutt the glass instead. Fox laughs and rolls down her window.
“You could have just yelled—” Her gaze lands on the sloth and she
let’s out an excited squeak. She snatches the plush off the top of the
pile. “For me?”
 “Well, I was going to use it to bribe a blood dealer in The
Glow to vote for Sarah, but if you like it…”
Fox hugs the sloth to her chest and glares at me.
“Care to take some of this?” I motion to the snacks.
Without breaking eye contact, she rolls her window up. Sune
thinks it’s hilarious. Sneaky ass tattoo.
“Really?” I say to the glass. “You’re going to let that get
between you and cheese puffs?”
Still holding eye contact, she rolls the window back down,
snatches the food, rolls it back up.
At least my hands are free now. I circle around and start the
pump. While the fuel clicks away, I open my drink and take a sip.
The soda is sticky-sweet and makes my teeth hurt. Why didn’t I just
get a coffee? I screw the cap back as the pump hits thirty just in time
for me to lose feeling in my extremities from the cold.
Inside the car, I crank the heat to full blast. Fox has the sloth
wrapped in one arm, while she sucks Cheeto dust off her fingers.
“Thank you. I love it.” She leans across to plant a kiss on my cheek,
leaving an orange lip print. I don’t wipe it off.
We cruise through Downtown at an easy pace. It’s nearly one
and suits of all races are running around on their way to a late lunch
or on their way back from an early one. It’s just nice riding with my
wife and listening to soothing music. I’m still not in any hurry to fuck
up the harmony.
As we pass by a rundown apartment complex that signals the
end of Downtown and the start of the Glow, Fox whips around in her
seat to look at something. I ease on the brakes as I check the side
mirror, trying to see what I missed.
“What did you see?” I ask.
Fox turns back around in her seat. “Nothing.” She squeezes
her sloth.
Sune paces circles around Fox’s neck.
 “Sure? Doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“I…” Fox flinches like she’s about to look over her shoulder
but stays facing forward. “I thought I saw something, but it can’t be.
It’s nothing.”
“You sure?” I set a reassuring hand on her thigh.
“I said it’s nothing.” Her voice cuts sharper than her blades.
The tone stings. I have no idea what that’s about, but Fox
clearly doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t snap at me often.
Something spooked her. I haven’t seen many things scare Fox
before, but if she says it’s nothing, it’s nothing. If it’s important, she’ll
tell me about it later.
We roll into The Glow a little after one. Time doesn’t matter
much down here, The Glow is a twenty-four-seven kind of
neighborhood. The biggest question is what heavy rollers are
working this early in the day.
“What do you think about paying Dexter a visit for some
info?” I ask.
Fox ain’t home. She’s in the car, but she’s not present.
“Hey, you okay?” I wave my hand in front of her.
“Huh?” She blinks a few times.
Sune circles her neck like a caged animal. I don’t know if I’ve
ever seen the tattoo this keyed up.
“What do you think about talking to Dexter for the scoop on
The Glow?”
“Sure. Sounds good.” Fox resumes her trip to Mars.
We are going to have to talk about this later. First, we’ve got
to take care of some work. Sarah doesn’t ask much of Fox and me,
but I’ve learned that when she does, she’s not really asking.
I point the car toward Stewart’s magic and potion shop, home
of lowlife grifter Dexter Bridges. He’s not exactly a big-timer, but he’s
got his hands in a lot of pockets. With any luck we can find out how
the people of The Glow feel about Sarah and maybe get a couple
leads for whose palms need greased to make sure everyone loves
her. Whoever said you can’t buy loyalty didn’t have Burgess-Roswell
money.
We pull into the parking lot for a small shopping center that
holds Stewart’s, a massage place I wouldn’t enter with my clothes on
let alone only a towel, a nail salon, and a burger joint that has the
sixth-best patty melt in Mountain City. I park at the back of the lot
and clap my hands.
“You ready?”
Fox scans the parking lot for thirty seconds before sliding out
of the car.
Weird.
I check for Dexter on the sidewalk. No sign of him.
“Listen to me, friends of our foul city,” a man shouts from the
corner. He stands on a blue milk crate, the plastic spokes bending
under his weight. One wrong movement and dude will end up face
first on the pavement.
The guy has on a brown leather jacket that was well-worn in
the 70’s. Hell, it might have been mine if he picked it up from the
secondhand clothes store around the corner. Short, curly hair sticks
to his head like a helmet. He runs a hand through the curls, breaking
the hold of the hair spray or whatever was holding them in place. A
patch of fuzz sticks out from the trail his fingers carved.
He smiles at a couple homeless guys nearby. “Friends, come
close. Let me tell you about the evil devouring our city.”
One of the homeless guys, wearing a thick black parka with
the left sleeve ripped off at the elbow, hisses between his teeth. He
throws his hands up and turns away from the street preacher.
“Wait,” the preacher yells. “I’d like to talk to you about the
troubles of this city.” He pulls a thin stack of one-dollar bills out of his
pocket. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll buy you guys a patty melt from
Elton’s. Third best in the city, you know?”
Sixth best, but who’s keeping track.
The homeless guys exchange a shrug. Parka Guy leans up
against the street sign for Freedom Street and Crimson Avenue. He
pulls his left arm inside his jacket, leaving the half sleeve limp at his
side.
The preacher grins. He grabs the Freedom sign and uses it
to hop off his stool. “Perfect, friends. Now, let me tell you, and I’m
serious about all of this. Are you keeping track of current events up
the road?”
“Shit,” Parka Guys says, stretching out the word.
His friend, wearing a black beanie from some skateboard
company and no less than five flannel shirts, blows into his hands to
keep warm.
“That’s understandable. Shit rolls downhill, and let me tell
you, boys, we are at the bottom of the hill.”
Flannel laughs. “That’s the truth.”
“Let me tell you, this Sarah lady, she’s trouble. If word is true,
she killed her father so she could control the city.”
Technically, she had her husband killed. Sarah would never
get within a mile of her schemes.
“So?” Flannel says.
“From what I heard, she wants to help us out,” Parka Guy
adds.
“That’s just what she wants you to think, friends. But it’s all
smoke and mirrors. She’s just another rich standard, same as the
one before her, and same as the one that’ll surely come after.”
A group of bikers that have to be freezing their asses off blow
by at ten thousand fucking decibels, snapping my attention.
Fox nudges me. “What’s this about?”
 “Pretty sure a ‘no’ vote for Sarah.”
Fox rubs her palms against her arms. “Doesn’t look like he
has much of an audience. You see Dexter anywhere?”
No sign of him on the sidewalks or in the parking lot.
“No. You want to go grab some lunch and come up with a
plan of attack?”
“I could go for a patty melt,” Fox says.
We leave the street preacher to his street preaching.
 Chapter 5

O ne burger and four

hours later, we’ve
talked to a nearly a
dozen business owners and community leaders. Every conversation
is the same song in a different key. They need money, jobs, a fucking
chance out of The Glow—the usual shit. For the most part, everyone
we spoke with seemed to be hopeful that Sarah is different but are
waiting to see results before they throw her a parade. A parade in
down here would be a weird thing. I want to see it. Next council
meeting I’m suggesting a parade.
Fox loosened up about three conversations in and has
seemed fine ever since. I’m not sure what got into her before, but it
seems to have passed. Maybe the damn cold chased it away. We
left the Bronco parked at Stewart’s and have been walking from
business to business. Even wearing thick coats, it’s still cold as hell.
“I’m freezing.” Fox shivers and leans into me.
I wrap my arm around her. The sun is nearly set and The
Glow bars are already filling. The magic in the air tastes like cheap
beer and depression. I focus on the alcohol, the warmth of a good
buzz. When I went all Wonder Twins with Sarah, it gave me access
to magic like I’d never felt before, an endless well of energy. Half a
year taught me how to harness it like a pro. Or at least less like a
fuck-up. I form the buzzed magic into a bubble of heat, wrapping Fox
and me in warmth. The freezing air still cuts through, but it doesn’t
sting anymore.
Fox hums. “That feels nice.”
“Glad you like it.”
“It’s nice being married to a wizard. Why aren’t more people
married to wizards?”
“I hate when you call me that.”
“I know, but you’re cute when you act mad.”
I kiss the top of her head.
Four more blocks to the car. Why the hell did I park so far
away? This was a terrible idea. We round a corner and I can’t help
but smile.
A small house rests crammed between a three-story
apartment complex and an old hotel that’s been converted into office
units. When I say crammed, I mean it, too. It’s like whoever built the
businesses took out a measuring tape and put them exactly on the
property lines. Bits of trash cover mismatched roof shingles. Fast
food cups, a dirty baby diaper, a literal bag of trash, maybe more.
People suck.
“Hey,” I say. “Let’s talk to one more person before we call it a
night.”
Fox points at the derelict cabin. “This place?”
“Hell yeah, this place. I know the guy. He’s an old friend.”
Fox arches an eyebrow. “How old?”
“Few years older than me, give or take.”
Fox blows out a breath of steam. “So, not young then.”
“Fun fact, we’ve served in four major wars together.” I lead us
up a small stone walkway.
 “Which four?”
“Revolutionary for America, Civil for the Union, WWI, and
WWII.”
“No others?”
I shrug. “Got old and tired. Didn’t really believe in them, you
know?”
“I get it.”
“That’s weird,” I say when we get to the small porch.
“Georges is always on his porch.”
“Maybe he went inside,” Fox offers. “It is cold as shit out
here.”
“Maybe.” I drop the heat spell, let go of Fox, and walk up the
stairs.
Ancient, water-logged boards bend under the weight of each
step. The first plank of the porch is gone. I step over the gap to the
front door and give it a few knocks. “Georges, open up. It’s your
favorite immortal-ish friend.”
Silence inside the house. Something isn’t right. I tiptoe
across the porch to the front window. Scraping away frost, I peek
through. Boards cover the entire window from the inside of the
house. What the fuck?
“This is wrong.”
I try the door. Locked. Nope. I snatch some magic out of the
air and flip the deadbolt. The handle turns, but the door won’t budge.
Taking a step back, I throw my shoulder into the door. Wood splinters
as it opens an inch. Criss-crossing two by fours block the door. My
heart pounds in my chest as I take another shot at breaking through.
Something pops in my shoulder as I bounce off the reinforced entry.
Fuck this. I step back to grab some magic. My thoughts are
scrambled. Panicked. Georges has lived here for over three hundred
years. He was born here. No way in hell he’d board it up.
 “Fuck,” I growl. My head is too busy. I can’t focus on the
magic.
An orange glow lights up my face as Fox swipes her
telekinetic sword through the gap in the door. The blade slices the
planks with no resistance.
“Thank you.” I push through the wreckage into George’s
small living room.
Fox keeps her energy blade in hand as she creeps behind
me. I left my guns in the car. This was supposed to be a peace-
keeping mission and I didn’t want to spook anyone showing up to
business meetings strapped. Mistake. That’s not true. I don’t need a
gun. I need to calm down and focus.
The magic in Georges’ house tastes like rotted wood and
homemade wine. I gather up the magic and calm my mind.
I flick on the light switch to my right. No power. Shit. I turn on
the flashlight on my phone and sweep it across the room. Boards
cover all the windows. The back door is the only thing uncovered. I
creep across the room to the small kitchen. A stove from the 80s sits
a foot below the rest of the counters, sagging with the floorboards. I
try the back door. Doesn’t budge. Sealed from the outside, I’d bet.
“Where are you, Georges?”
Fox guards my back as I creep to the bedroom door. It’s
unlocked. I push the door open a crack. Shine the light through.
Nothing tries to kill me. Push a little more. My light lands on
something solid where the bed should be. Open the door completely.
The light illuminates a solid concrete casket.
“What the fuck?” Fox says over my shoulder.
I walk in. The room is empty, save the casket.
“Is this where…?” Fox asks.
“Yes. This is the spot where he was born.”
When a normal quasi-immortal dies, they are reborn in the
exact place of their birth. Georges was born in this room three
hundred and twenty-five years ago.
“Does that mean…” Fox slides her hand across the
concrete.
A thick layer of dust coats the top of the box.
“Surely, he’s not in here, right?”
I focus on the damp, moldy energy in the house. The casket
is solid, no lid, but it doesn’t matter. The magic builds as I focus on
where the lid would be. The impenetrable stone softens. If I did the
spell right, I should be able to break through the top. I take a step
closer, draw my fist back.
Fox stands behind me, sword at the ready.
A scream echoes in the room as a hand punches through the
top of the casket.
“Shit.” I jump back next to Fox.
She grips her spectral blade in both hands.
Another skeletal hand appears. The scream continues as a
skeleton clambers out from inside the box. The bone-thin man stares
at me. His eyes are wide above sunken in cheekbones. The
screaming pauses as it stares at me.
“Georges?” I take a step closer.
Back in ’73, Georges went on a huge coke binge. He OD’d
like three times that year. Quit eating. Just woke up and brushed his
teeth with blow and Crown Royal. Even at the height of addiction he
wasn’t half this skinny.
“How long have you been in there, Georges?”
Georges tilts his head to the side, blinks translucent eyelids.
“Georges, buddy? You in there?” I reach out my hand.
The skeleton screams again. The windows shake under his
shriek.
“Sam?” Fox glances at the front door. “We need to do
something about him. People are going to notice.”
 “It’s fine.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “We can fix this.
Right, Georges?”
The skeleton tucks his legs into his chest. He whimpers as he
rocks in his concrete deathbed.
“Everything’s going to be okay. All right? Just need you to
trust me. We’ve done this before, right?” I take another step forward
and wrap my arms around him. It feels like holding a child.
Georges yelps when I touch him.
“We’re going to fix this just like back in Cantigny. Remember?
You caught that bullet in the leg.” I chuckle at the memory but
swallow the smile as my hands slide up his shoulders. “It wasn’t
even that bad. Field medic could have stitched you up, but you said
you hated France, in that thick -ass French accent of yours. You spit
and told me to send you home. Took damn near a month for you to
get back from Mountain City to the front lines.”
I cup his cheeks in my hands. “This is going to be just like
that. Okay? Do you understand?”
Georges shivers in my grip. I look up at the sky and pray that
whatever god might be up there forgives me as I snap my friend’s
neck with one brutal twist of mercy.
 Chapter 6

A
r
e
y
o
u okay?” Fox rubs my back.
We’re both huddled up against the wall of Georges’ bedroom,
waiting for his body to stitch itself back together.
“I’ve seen him die a hundred times, more than once by my
own hand,” I say. “But I’ve never seen him like that. What is this?”
Fox shakes her head at the wreckage of the concrete coffin.
“How long was he in there? Who did this?” I ask.
Fox doesn’t say anything. I’m talking to the air and she
knows it. The wood floor hurts my ass. I stand up and walk over to
the casket. The top half is broken into pieces from Georges clawing
his way free. I grab a chunk of stone and examine it. There are deep
claw marks etched in the rock. Deeper than anyone could make
before starving to death. I click on my flashlight and peer inside. The
interior is littered with dozens of broken fingernails.
“Fuck.” I turn away.
 Georges and I have lived through a lot. I’ve been killed in a
lot of awful ways in my life, even been tortured before. This? This is
sick. The casket is built around his rebirth place. There’s no telling
how many times he’s died only to be born again right back in the
same fucking box.
“What kind of monster?” I say.
A light glows in the middle of the coffin. The rebirth begins.
Tendons and nerves and organs and skin stitch themselves together
with the magic of Georges’ birthplace. I’ve seen this trick before and
don’t feel like watching again.
Snatching the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, I hold
them up. “Want one?”
Fox nods.
I light two and hand her one. We get through half the pack by
the time the process completes. A haze of smoke hangs in the room
like a curtain.
Georges gasps for air and I stand up from the wall. No matter
how many times you go through the rebirth process, it hurts like hell.
Better than being perma-dead though. Probably.
I walk over and look down at Georges. His body is back to
healthy. Big ears stick out from his close cropped black hair. There’s
meat on his bones.
“Hey, buddy,” I say with a smile. “You good?”
Georges stares at the ceiling.
I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Georges?”
He doesn’t blink. No screaming. No shivering. He’s catatonic.
“Is he okay?” Fox asks.
“I think he’s in shock.”
“What do we do?”
“Rebirth didn’t fix it, but I guess that’s not completely
surprising. It only fixes the physical. This is more than that. What
about your herbalista friend? Do you think she could help?”
“Rosita? Maybe. He looks pretty bad.”
I wave my hand in front of his face again. No reaction. Shit.
“Do you care to go get the car while I get him dressed?”
Fox takes a step toward the door and freezes. “Go alone?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to leave him here.”
She thinks about it and takes out her phone. “I’ll get us a ride.
It’ll be faster than me running five blocks.”
“Okay?” I have no idea what that’s about, but we can figure it
out later. “Grab him some clothes out of the dresser over there.”
Fox finishes ordering up a taxi and fishes out a pair of
sweatpants and Ramen Noodles t-shirt. I scoop Georges out of the
tomb. He’s totally unresponsive. It takes both of us, but we manage
to get him clothed in time for a ten-year-old Ford Focus to pull up
outside.
We each grab an arm and drag Georges to the car. Fox
opens the back door and we slide Georges in. Fox takes the front
and I sit in back.
“Is he dead?” the driver, a woman with gray hair knotted in a
bun, asks.
“Just had one too many to drink,” Fox says. “We’re taking him
to Santa Rosita’s for a bit of a pick-me-up. Boss is going to kill us if
he calls in to work again tomorrow.”
The lie flows so smoothly that I’m suddenly worried about
work tomorrow. Our driver swings a right and Georges falls over on
my shoulder. So much for worrying about anything other than my
immortal zombie friend. I push him upright and buckle the seatbelt.
Hopefully that keeps him straight. Rosita’s isn’t far and our driver has
us out front in ten minutes.
Fox thanks the driver and helps me unload Georges. As we
carry him across the lot, a group of teenagers scurry out of Rosita’s
laughing.
 “Dude, let me do it,” one says.
“Fuck you, man. You’ll never sell it.”
The first kid reaches for a potion bottle, but the other is faster.
He uncorks the lid and downs the liquid.
“That’s rough.” The kid belches. He wraps both hands around
his stomach and pukes into the parking lot.
“Whoa. Shit. Are you okay?”
When Potion Kid stands back up, he looks like a sixty-year-
old man. Gray hair, wrinkles, the whole deal.
“I feel like shit,” Potion Kid says. “Did it work?”
“Dude, that’s so awesome. Let’s go.” He slaps the faux old
man on the back. “She said this stuff only lasts like an hour and the
liquor store is like five blocks from here.”
The two kids sprint down the sidewalk.
Fucking glamour potions. A liquid spell that turns the user
into looking like anything they imagine for a short amount of time.
They are illegal to sell, but down here no one gives a shit. The few
times someone has been dumb enough to play dress-up Downtown
they found themselves dead or buried so deep in the jail they’re
probably jealous of Bart’s living situation. Herbalistas generally
charge out the ass for the potion, cash only of course.
Fox and I carry Georges inside the small shop full of trinkets
and herbs.
A small woman with a gentle smile approaches us. “Hola,
senora zorra y guapo esposo.”
“He still doesn’t speak Spanish,” Fox says.
Rosita gives me the stink eye. “How can I help you anoche?”
“It’s my friend.” I shrug Georges into a giant wicker chair.
“He’s…he’s an immortal and he’s been tortured.”
Rosita leans in. I grip Georges’ shirt in my hand to keep him
from falling over. She sniffs his breath.
 “Tortured how?” Rosita peels Georges’ lip up to check his
teeth.
“Someone locked him in a concrete box.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know, but he’s immortal and I think he starved to
death in there more than once.”
Rosita drops his lip and looks up at me. Her narrow-eyed
gaze takes me in. “Why?”
“I wish I fucking knew. He’s my friend and someone did this
to him.”
The old woman straightens. “If, and I mean if, I can help him.
It won’t be cheap.”
Sarah’s AMEX weighs in my pocket like a concrete coffin.
“Money is no issue.”
“Leave him with me. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Rosita reaches behind a display cabinet and gathers dried herbs.
“We can wait,” I say.
“No. This will take time and you get in my way.” She shoos
me toward the door with a basket of sage. “Vas.”
I stand my ground. The sage basket pokes into my stomach.
Fox wraps her arms around me. “There’s nothing we can do
for him now. The best we can do is stay out of the way. Senora
Rosita has my phone number, right?”
Rosita nods.
“And she’ll call as soon as she knows something?”
Another nod.
“See? Come on. Let’s get out of here. You need a shower
and some rest.”
I look over at Georges. He’s slumped in his chair staring at
nothing. Fox is right, of course, but I feel like shit leaving him here.
Why didn’t being reborn fix him? It should have fixed him. As long as
we’ve known each other, I’ve seen Georges beat up, blown up, shot,
stabbed, and killed in a hundred different manners. Why is he broken
now?
Fox kisses my cheek. I press the heel of my palm into my
eye.
My vision clears and we’re standing on the sidewalk outside
Rosita’s. When did that happen?
“Let’s get home,” Fox says. “It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah,” is all I manage.
“Do you want me to call us a ride to the car?”
I look around, getting my bearings. We aren’t anywhere near
our ride. “Probably a good idea,” I say.
While Fox orders us up another driver, my phone rings. No
way am I answering. Nothing good can come from answering the
phone. Nothing. Something in the back of my head itches. A tiny
voice whispers, “Pick it up. Pick it up.” Each ring the voice gets
louder.
“Fuck.” I grab the phone out of my pocket and answer.
“What?”
Silence for a beat. I take the phone away from my ear to
make sure I’m still connected. A picture of Sarah takes up half the
screen with the word “Headache” underneath.
I sigh, in no mood for a waiting game. “Sorry. Long day.
What’s up?”
“No problem,” Sarah says, enough of an edge in her voice to
tell me it probably is a problem. “I was just calling to remind you the
city gala starts in less than an hour.”
Fuck.
Fox scrunches her eyebrows and nods at the phone. I take it
away from my ear and put it on speaker.
 “Shit. I’m sorry,” I say. “We have been down here in The Glow
preaching the good word all day and totally forgot about the gala. I
don’t think we can make it.”
Another moment of silence. “Absence isn’t acceptable,”
Sarah says. “You’ve known about this event for months now. It’s the
first big event of my time here and I’ve got some investors interested
in meeting my head of security.”
Head of security is a bullshit title. Sarah wants Fox on her
crew, and she needs an excuse for me to hang around because I go
where Fox goes. At least the head of security title seems to scare
most people away from trying to talk to me. The truth is, Sarah is the
most powerful magic-user in the city and she doesn’t need any damn
personal security. A couple black suits at the Burgess Tower
entrances, sure, but otherwise Sarah is her own wrecking crew.
“Listen—”
A group of motorcycles blasts up the road. Drowning out
anything I was about to say. “Stupid fuckers.” The engines drown
that out, too. I stomp my foot, waiting for the pack to pass.
Fox snatches the phone away from me. “Hey, it’s Fox. I know
you’ve got a lot riding on this, but we’ve been there for you every
step of the way. We aren’t going to make it tonight.”
“Fox.” Sarah’s voice was harsh with me, but she says Fox’s
name as a plea. “Please? This party is going to be full of wealthy
rhinos with dainty birds on their arms and they all want me dead. I
could really use some backup.”
Fox’s shoulders melt. She blinks up at me with those
apologetic eyes. I’m too tired to be angry. There’s nothing I can do
for Georges. Something earlier set Fox off, if she can put that behind
her, I guess I can, too. Besides, if I’ve learned one thing about rich
people parties, it’s they have the absolute best booze. Nothing like
getting shitfaced on scotch as old as I am.
I give Fox a small nod of approval. She blows me a kiss and
says, “Alright. We’ll be there.”
 “Thank you.” Sarah sounds relieved.
Fox ends the call as a brand new Mini Cooper rolls up to the
curb. The window rolls down and a large werewolf whose beard
merges seamlessly with his chest hair yells, “Hey, yo. You the Fox
and the Hound?”
“That’s us.” Fox smiles and holds the door open for me.
“She’s clearly the fox,” the hair says into the rearview mirror.
“But you don’t look like much of a hound.”
Great. A cab driver who thinks he’s a comedian.
Fox closes the door behind her. “I’ll double your tip if you
don’t say another word.”
The hair drops his jaw and watches Fox in the mirror. He
decides cash outweighs insults, shifts the little shitbox into gear, and
peels out into traffic.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 He sank into his chair, debating his problem. There was in Rodrigo a
strange intuition about women. His success with them had, apart from his
physical attractiveness, consisted in an ability, far greater than that of the
usual predatory male, to understand them. He thought now that he
understood Mary. In a quiet, conventional way she had fallen in love with
John Dorning, he reasoned from his recent observation of them, and John
with her. Their love was still in its budding state. Unless it were interfered
with, it would grow steadily into a steadfast union. John would ask her to
marry him and she would assent. Her love would be mingled with pity, but
yet it would be as near pure love as modern marriages usually subsist upon.

"Unless it were interfered with." In this last meeting with Mary, brief as
it had been, Rodrigo detected something that would ordinarily have set his
heart to exulting. Mary's coming to him, her eagerness to extend her
personal greetings alone, her face and manner, her desire to remain longer
and her obvious disappointment at his rather, curt reception of her, had
convinced him of something that, never addicted to false modesty, he did not
hide.

"Unless it were interfered with." Well, he took a sad little triumph in

assuring himself, he could interfere if he chose, successfully interfere. Just
now, when she was here, he could have, if he had yielded to his selfish
desire, swept her into his arms and made her his forever. He could have
killed that budding love for John within her by appealing to the force of her
original love for himself, by rushing her off her feet with his superior
strength and feeling. He was sure of this.

Mary Drake still loved him, was the refrain that kept pounding in his
heart. He could have her now if he wanted to take her. If he remained near
her, he would not be able to keep his love silent. He would have to tell her.
Every fibre of his being would revolt against the sacrifice. He would not be
strong enough to give her up to John, though John needed her, loved her,
depended upon her to keep him out of the dark shadows that had so
tragically enveloped him.

No, Rodrigo concluded, he would have to go away—and stay away. Go

away at any cost. Go away as soon as he decently could.
 Having spent the day in the details of securing his baggage and
unpacking it amid the familiar scenes of the Park Avenue apartment, he met
John and had dinner with him at their favorite little French restaurant.
Afterward, in the softly lighted living-room of the apartment, over their
pipes they talked.

"I have been wondering," John said, "why you came back so suddenly,
without warning us. I had been expecting a letter or cablegram for weeks. I
had begun to worry about you. You left no forwarding address with me.
And, of course, I would not have asked you to cut short your vacation
anyway. Poor chap, you were tired out, and, to tell you the truth, you don't
look particularly chipper now."

"I received a letter from Mary. She spoke of certain 'developments.'"

Rodrigo said doggedly, anxious to have it over. "She urged me to return and
talk with you."

John asked quietly, "Did she say what those 'developments' were?"

"No."

John smiled, "Wonderful, competent Mary! She insisted I write you to

come back. I refused, because I felt you were coming soon anyway. She,
strangely enough, was not so sure. So she wrote you herself? Well, perhaps
she was wise."

"And the 'developments' she spoke of?" Rodrigo's voice sounded very
small.

John tapped the ashes from his pipe, looked at his friend gravely.
"Rodrigo," he said, "I have found out the truth about Elise."

Rodrigo started with the unexpectedness of the answer, a chaos of

thoughts running suddenly riot within him.

"I know that she is dead," John continued. "And I know that you know
she is dead, that you have always known it. But wait, I will begin at the
beginning! You will remember that I spoke to you before you left about
selling my house in Millbank. Well, I kept putting that off because I dreaded
to enter the place. You see, I had left everything exactly the way it was
before—she went. While my mental condition was still uncertain, I did not
want to disturb things. I felt that the shock of going there, seeing her room,
her clothes, everything that my happiness, my life, had depended upon,
would be too much for me. Even after I came back from California feeling
so much improved, I kept putting it off. I dreaded the ordeal. But three or
four weeks after you left, I pulled myself together, told myself that those
foolish fears were nonsense, a sign even that I had gone a little mad. So I
went over there, and I spent two whole days in the house, alone. I put my
house of memories in order. And, Rodrigo, I found out many terrible things."

Rodrigo, his eyes fixed intensely upon his friend, shuddered.

But John went on calmly. "Well, I had to break into her desk, among
other things, and I found there letters, love-letters from other men. Among
them were letters from you, showing me, Rodrigo, that she loved you and
that you had had the courage to repulse her love. My idol crashed then and
there down to the floor, and the whole world went black again. Rodrigo,
there in that room alone I came as near going crazy as I hope ever to again in
this world. I cursed God for letting me see that He had made life so hideous.
I wanted to die. But I came through it. I think that it was those letters of
yours—those letters were striking blows for my happiness—that brought me
through. That is twice you have saved my life, Rodrigo—once from Rosner
and once—from myself."

Rodrigo rose and cried suddenly, "Don't say that, John! I can't bear it!"

"Please, Rodrigo," John restrained him. "I understand. You have always
tried to protect my happiness. You tried to keep me from knowing that I
loved a woman who never existed. But she is dead now. After I came out of
that house and went back to my father's and told them what I had found, they
confessed to me that anonymous notes had come to me soon after Elise's
disappearance hinting that I might learn something about her if it were
possible to identify the victims of the Van Clair fire. My father and Warren
had kept those notes from me. They felt it was time now to tell me about
them. And it became clear to me. The woman who died in the Van Clair fire
was Elise."
 Rodrigo cried out, the secret wrenched from him almost without his
volition, "I know she was! And I sent her there that night, John! You'll
remember you went to Philadelphia and wired me to take the midnight train
and meet you the next morning. Well, she came to me that night in the
office, where I was working on the estimates. I was in a reckless mood,
disappointed—but no matter, it was no excuse for me. I sent her to the Van
Clair, intending to follow. Oh, I didn't go. I got my senses back, thank God!
But I was responsible. I thought I had grown so good, and I knifed my best
friend." He lifted his pale, stricken face to John, pleading for mercy, "I've
been through an ordeal too, John. The difference between us is that—I
deserved it and—the ordeal is going to go right on. Even though I've torn
this awful secret out of me at last!"

John Dorning was silent, stunned, trying to realize the significance of his
friend's confession.

And again Rodrigo cried out, pleadingly, "I couldn't tell you before,
John. I had to let you go on driving yourself crazy from anxiety about her. I
thought it would kill you to know. Mary begged me to tell you—but I
couldn't." Tears were in his eyes. His strong body was shaken with emotion.
Suddenly he flung himself at John's feet and no longer tried to control his
weeping.

And finally John spoke, and Rodrigo wonderingly looked up and saw
that John had a little smile on his face, that he was laying gentle hands upon
the recumbent back. "I knew something was tearing at you," John said, "And
I'm glad you told me about—Elise. Knowing her now for what she really
was, I can forgive you, Rodrigo. None of us are perfect. God knows I have
found that out. You were my friend even that night of the Van Clair—in the
critical moment you were my friend. And you always will be."

Dorning helped Rodrigo to his feet, made him smile again, took his
hand. Rodrigo clutched it, crying, "John, you are a saint. If you hadn't
forgiven me, if you—" He turned his head and went slowly back to his chair.

"I told Mary what I had discovered about Elise," said John. A light of
understanding burst upon him with these words. He ventured, "Rodrigo, had
you told her already of—the Van Clair?"
 Rodrigo nodded affirmatively.

John was thinking rapidly.

"What did Mary say?" he asked.

"She called me a coward for not telling you the truth, sick as you were.
She said she could not—respect me, if I didn't."

John said almost to himself, "Mary thought a lot of you, Rodrigo—does

yet."

"She loves you," Rodrigo answered softly, but he could not quite keep
the despair out of his voice.

John glanced at him understandingly at last, but he said nothing. When,

after a long silence, they resumed the conversation, Dorning strove to
change its subject.

"I wish you'd take it easy for a while at the shop, Rodrigo. You don't look
well," he said gently. "Rosner has things quite well in hand. We miss you,
but I do want you well and perfectly happy when you come back to work."

"I was thinking of returning to Europe," Rodrigo replied, attempting to

make his statement as matter-of-fact as possible.

"Not because of anything you have said here to-night, I hope," John
urged at once. "I want you to believe me, old man, that your confession
hasn't made any difference. It's rather relieved my mind, to tell the truth. I
suspected something was up that I did not yet know about. It's made me love
you more than ever, drawn us closer."

"I appreciate that, John. I feel the same way," Rodrigo said.

Nevertheless, he told himself, he was going away. He would see Mary;

deliberately kill her love for him, throw her into John's arms. John needed
her. John deserved happiness. It was the least he could do for John. But it
was not a confession of weakness, his wanting to see Mary again. He must
see her, must do something that would convince her he was unworthy of her
love, that would strangle any desire in her to keep his memory alive after he
was gone. He must disappear from her heart as well as from her sight.

CHAPTER XX

Rodrigo walked slowly into the offices of the Italian-American Line late
the next morning, like a man lately condemned to the scaffold, and booked
passage on a vessel sailing for Naples the following Saturday. Then he took
the subway uptown.

The warm sun drenching the exhibition rooms of Dorning and Son, the
cheerful good mornings of the clerks, mocked at his mood. He summoned a
masking smile on his face and held it while he opened the door of John's
office and strode in. Mary was sitting beside John at the latter's desk, their
heads quite close together. They had been talking confidentially, almost
gayly. Their faces sobered as they looked up at the intruder. It seemed a
warning to Rodrigo that he must go through with his program. The faint
hope, conceived the night before, that the "developments" Mary had written
him about, concerned the discovery of Elise's treachery only and had nothing
to do with an announcement of a troth between Mary and John, vanished. It
was unmistakable. They loved each other. It showed in the quick, warning
glance that passed between them as he entered, in the way they almost
sprang apart at the sight of a third person.

They greeted him warmly enough, and almost immediately John

departed on the excuse of a conference with Henry Madison. Rodrigo took
the seat that his partner had vacated. He did not have to urge Mary to
remain.

His voice simulated a careless nonchalance as he smiled at her and said,

"I hadn't a chance hardly to say a word to you yesterday, Mary."

"That wasn't my fault," she pouted. He was surprised to discover that

Mary could pout. He thought she had never looked more adorable. Sophie,
Rosa, Elise—never in their prime had they been as beautiful as Mary.

"Did you enjoy your vacation?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Very much," he replied, smiling as if in memory. "You know, Mary,

there's no use pretending—I've never changed. I found it out when I got
abroad. I can't play the hermit. It isn't in me. Over here, with you around,
perhaps, I can hold myself in leash. But I am not like you or John, like
Americans, at heart. There is something in my blood. I was torn up
physically and emotionally when I left, and I had to forget somehow. That
isn't an excuse, of course, but it may explain things to you a little. I—I sank
into the old rut over there, Mary. The different environment, the different
sort of women, the liquor, everything." He flung out his hands hopelessly, in
a continental gesture.

"You saw some of your old friends?" she asked quietly.

"Many of them. And they were unchanged too. It was the same old story.
I met a girl in Naples whose father had once blackmailed me for an affair
with her—and now I suppose he'll be blackmailing me over again. In
London, I ran across Sophie Binner. You remember Sophie? We became
quite good friends again. She seems to be my sort. I'm what you called me—
a coward." He sighed, and watched her face.

But her face, strangely enough, did not flinch. She asked him in the same
quiet voice, "You are trying to tell me that you are the same man you were
that first day here, when you tried to play sheik with me, flirted with me?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I shouldn't think you would have come back here—after playing fast
and loose all over Europe, after betraying the trust John and I put in you."

"I came in response to your letter," he said with some dignity.

"Nevertheless, you shouldn't have come in that case. You should have
stayed with your—friends."
 "I know. You are right," he said. "And I am going back to—them. I
booked my passage this morning. I am sailing in a week for Italy, and this
time I am not coming back."

She started. Her face lost its imperturbability. She said, "And that is all
you have to say to me?"

He leaned toward her, his throat filling with a storm of words. But then
he fell back, lowering his head. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "That is all—
that and—please think as well as you can of me, Mary. And go on—loving
John and taking care of him."

Her lips were twitching a little now. "Do you want to know what I really
think of you?" she asked suddenly.

He raised his tired eyes, his eyes that were saying what his lips were
sealed against, and he nodded his head.

She suddenly left her chair and came to him, laid her hands upon his
shoulders, and said clearly and proudly, "I think that you are a terrible fibber.
I think you have a crazy notion that John and I are in love. And I know this
—I love you, Rodrigo, and you are never going to leave me again."

And then he reached out and clutched her fiercely, devouringly into his
arms, kissed her again and again, crying her name pitifully like a baby. And
when at last he, still holding her tightly, raised her face so that he could look
at it and prove he was not dreaming, he saw that she too was weeping.

He cried, "Mary! Mary! Oh, my dear," again and again. And again and
again he kissed her.

Finally he let her go to adjust her disheveled hair and clothes into some
semblance of order. She smiled at him and asked, "How could you think I
could love anybody but you—coward or no coward? Oh, I found out while
you were gone how foolish I was ever to risk losing you. I lay awake
reviling myself that I had sent you away—yes, I did send you. And I had to
have you back—or dash over to Europe and search for you."

"But John?" he asked. "I thought John and you——"

 "I love John too, but as a brother. I always have. And he has felt the same
towards me. But you—oh, my poor, poor boy!" He seized her greedily again,
and his lips were upon hers as a knock sounded upon the door. He released
her, looked at her so guiltily that she laughed aloud.

"It is only John," she said happily. "He knows—about us. He confirmed
my suspicions that you were torturing yourself with this silly idea that he
and I were in love. He even foretold that you would pretend to be the bold,
bad man of old. John is wise, you see, wiser even than you. But not half so
——"

And then John walked in and read their faces at a glance.

CHAPTER XXI

But, after all, Rodrigo sailed for Italy the next Saturday. Though he had
changed his booking from a single to a double cabin and the passenger list
read: The Count and Countess Rodrigo di Torriani.

John Dorning, looking almost as radiant as the bride and groom, saw
them off at the pier. For a long time they stood chatting on the deck of the
great vessel together, these three young people amid the throng of waving,
shouting tourists. When the warning blasts sounded from the smokestack
whistle, John whispered banteringly to Rodrigo, "This time you will not call
upon any of your ex-lady friends, eh? Rosa or Sophie—you bet I was glad to
get that good news of Sophie. Well, cable me when you land. And please
come back on schedule. You are leaving Dorning and Son terribly
handicapped, you know—my two best partners away at once." He kissed
Mary and pressed Rodrigo's hand, and hurried down the gangplank. He
stood there, a thin, but sturdy figure, waving to them while the great ship
backed out into the channel and pointed her bow toward the east.

"John Dorning is the finest of all the men that ever lived," Rodrigo said
solemnly.
 "Almost," Mary replied.

Gliding through the magic moonlight over a mirror-like sea, they sat
very close to each other that evening in deck-chairs, and she said to him, at
the end of a long conversation, "And that is why I love you most, Rodrigo—
because you have conquered yourself."

"And so has good old John," he replied.

"Yes, so has John. And both you—and I—have found joy because of
that. It's the only way to win real happiness."
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBRA ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S.

copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in
these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it
in the United States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of
this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept
and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and
may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the
terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of
the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as
creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research.
Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given
away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with
eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject
to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
 PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free

distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or
any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and

Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree
to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be
bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from
the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in
paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be

used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people
who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a
few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.
See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with
Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the
collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the
individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the
United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in
the United States and you are located in the United States, we do
not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing,
performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the
work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of
course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™
mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely
sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name
associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of
this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its
attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without
charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also
govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most
countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the
United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms
of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying,
performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this
work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes
no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in
any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other

immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must
appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™
work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or
with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is
accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived

from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a
notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright
holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the
United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must
comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through
1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted

with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted
with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of
this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project

Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a
part of this work or any other work associated with Project
Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this

electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form,
including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you
provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work
in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in
the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,

performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing

access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the
method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The
fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark,
but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty
payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on
which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your
periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked
as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information
about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who

notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that
s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
 copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and
discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project
Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of

any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in
the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90
days of receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™

electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend

considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe
and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating
the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may
be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to,
incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a
copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or
damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except

for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph
1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner
of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party
distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this
agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and
expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO
REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF
WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE
FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY
DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE
TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL,
PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE
NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you

discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it,
you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by
sending a written explanation to the person you received the work
from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must
return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity
that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a
replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work
electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to
give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in
lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may
demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the
problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in
paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF
MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied

warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted
by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the
Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the
Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any
volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability,
costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or
indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur:
(a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b)
alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project
Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of

Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.
It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and
donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the

assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a
secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help,
see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project

Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,

Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to

the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without
widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can
be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the
widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small
donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax
exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating

charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and
keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in
locations where we have not received written confirmation of
compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of
compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where

we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no