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  “Okay, pal,” she said to Elvis. “Here we go.”

  Elvis chortled happily and leaned forward when she stepped off the curb and hurried toward the entrance of her apartment building. He liked to go fast. Actually, he got excited about anything that promised a bit of an adrenaline rush. Probably all the caffeine, Sierra thought. Then again, maybe it was the predator in him. Underneath all that adorable gray fuzz beat the heart of a natural-born hunter. Dust bunnies, she had discovered, were omnivorous, but they were definitely not vegetarians.

  She rezzed the security lock, opened the door, and moved into the small, dark hallway. The manager, Sacker, or the Slacker, as he was known to the tenants, still had not replaced the overhead light. The only illumination came from the dim wall sconces on the landings above. She paused again, waiting to see if the sensation of being watched faded now that she was indoors. It didn’t.

  “You think maybe I’m going over the edge and getting downright paranoid?” she said aloud to Elvis. “I’d hate to think that when I look at the Runt, I’m seeing my future.”

  Elvis mumbled something. He was either offering reassurance or asking for a treat. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

  She went quickly up the shadowed stairs to the third-floor landing and rezzed the lock of her own door. The tiny one-bedroom apartment was tranquil and welcoming. Once inside, Elvis bounded down from her shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen. By the time she arrived, he was on the counter in front of his treat jar.

  She raised the lid and waited. Elvis liked to make his own choice. He fluttered up to sit on the rim of the jar. Maintaining his grip with his hind legs, he leaned down and selected a chocolate cookie from the little heap inside.

  “That’s it for now, King.” She replaced the cookie jar lid. “I’ve got to go change. I wonder what a girl’s supposed to wear to a tacky MC wedding. That wasn’t covered at Miss Pendergast’s Academy for Young Ladies. Guess I flunked out before we got to that subject.”

  Her short term at what her mother had called a “silly finishing school” had been her own idea. It had seemed like a good one at the time. Several girls in her class had spent a year getting “polished” at Miss Pendergast’s. As the notoriously unsuccessful, unfocused underachiever in a family of successful, focused overachievers, she had been lured by the promise of instant sophistication. In her seventeen-year-old fantasies she had seen herself emerging from the academy with elegant social skills and a worldly attitude that would instantly catapult her into a successful, achieving life.

  But boredom had set in after the first week. She had quickly discovered that devising themes for elegant parties and paying exquisite attention to the details of interior design and table settings had an extremely limited appeal. She had been “counseled out,” as the saying went, at the end of the first quarter. She suspected that the only reason she hadn’t been asked to leave sooner was because of her family name. The director had been very reluctant to offend a McIntyre.

  The entire episode had become just another family joke, one of many founded on her inability to find her passion, as her grandmother Larken liked to say. Grandmother Larken, from whom Sierra had inherited her intuitive talents, was the only one who had ever really understood her. When things went wrong, as they inevitably did, Sierra knew she could turn to the older woman for comfort and advice. But there was no point calling her this afternoon. Like everyone else in the family, Grandmother Larken disapproved of MCs.

  Sierra made her way into the bedroom, stripping off her jacket and skirt as she went. She opened the door of her closet and surveyed the contents.

  Her wardrobe was a mix of a few of the high-end clothes she had brought with her from Resonance and the more moderate apparel that she had bought for her new life here in Crystal. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her colleagues at the Curtain to think that she was a wealthy socialite who was merely amusing herself with a short-term career as a reporter. No one at the Curtain knew that she was connected to the McIntyres of McIntyre Industries, and she intended to keep things that way.

  For some reason the decision of what to wear to the registrar’s office was a lot more difficult than it ought to have been, given the circumstances. When Elvis drifted in, cookie in paw, and took up a position on the windowsill, she turned to him for advice.

  “This is a business arrangement,” she explained. “Does that mean another suit? Then again, it’s supposed to look like a real wedding. Maybe I should wear something a little more formal. Lord knows there will be photos. Fontana and I are going to be plastered across the cover of the Curtain tomorrow. Hope he realizes what he’s in for now that he’s decided to go over to the dark side of journalism.”

  Elvis munched his cookie. She thought he looked like he was trying to be supportive and helpful, but she couldn’t be sure.

  A glance at the clock told her that time was getting short. She had to make an executive decision, and she had to make it right now. She yanked the simple, long-sleeved, black, all-occasion dress off the hanger and pulled it on over her head. Everything about it was discreet, understated, and elegant; not too dressy for late afternoon but with enough flair to go smoothly into the evening. She knew that because her cousin Tamsyn had helped her select it. Tamsyn had unerring taste in clothes.

  “Tamsyn says you can never go wrong with a little black dress,” she explained to Elvis.

  She found the pair of black pumps on the floor of the closet, slipped some gold hoops into her ears, and rushed into the bathroom to apply lipstick and a little fresh powder. When she looked into the mirror, only one word came to mind.

  “Aargh,” she said to Elvis, who had drifted in to watch. “My hair.”

  In desperation she seized one of her array of headbands and slapped it on her head. It was the only way to tame the raging sea of curls.

  Hurrying out into the hall, she shrugged into a light overcoat, grabbed her purse, and raced for the door with Elvis back on her shoulder. Picking up on her sense of urgency, he muttered enthusiastically.

  She went back down the stairs and out onto the street. The fog had thickened. That was going to slow traffic even further. There was a good chance now that she might actually be late to the wedding. Somehow she did not think that Fontana would appreciate that. Guild bosses were probably accustomed to punctuality from others.

  She stepped out into the empty street. Halfway across, cold dread and icy panic swept through her senses, an invisible gale-force wind that stole her very breath.

  Instinctively, she stopped. Elvis went immediately from a ball of fluff to a sleek little predator, all four eyes showing. He growled softly in her ear. She looked around frantically. This was the same feeling she’d experienced this afternoon just before the Oscillator 600 had nearly flattened her. But there were no vehicles in sight, and she heard no engine.

  She searched first one end of the street and then the other, turning on her heel. Nothing moved in the gray mist.

  What’s wrong with me? Maybe I’m losing it. Too much stress. Not enough sleep.

  Elvis muttered again, more urgently this time. She realized that all four of his eyes were focused behind her.

  She swung around and finally saw him: a dark, shadowy figure moving out of a doorway. He came purposefully toward her. Elvis growled again and whipped around to stare at another doorway on the opposite side of the street. A second man moved out of another vestibule and glided toward her car.

  They were close enough now that she could make out the black leather jackets, leather chaps, and the black motorcycle helmets worn by both men. The visors of the helmets were pulled down, obscuring their features.

  Night Riders. There had been a flurry of reports about the gang in the mainstream press lately. The police had started special patrols in certain neighborhoods, but not this one. There had been no trouble here.

  Obviously, the situation had changed.

  She weighed her options. She would never make it to the safety of her c
ar. Retreating back to her apartment building was equally impossible. That left only one alternative.

  “Hang on,” she said to Elvis.

  Clutching her purse, she ran for the door of the Green Gate Tavern. Her high-heeled pumps skittered treacherously on the pavement, but she made it to the sidewalk.

  The Riders had not anticipated her choice of destination, but they changed course quickly. Both of them broke into a run. The ominous thuds of their boots echoed in the fog.

  Elvis clung fiercely to her shoulder, teeth bared. She sensed that if they were cornered, he would try to attack the Riders. That was the last thing she wanted. He would be no match for the two men or the mag-rez guns they were no doubt carrying. Theoretically, it was illegal for anyone but a duly authorized member of a law enforcement agency to carry a mag-rez, but that had done little to keep them out of the hands of criminals.

  One of the men partially raised his helmet.

  “Get her,” he shouted to his companion.

  The other one needed no urging. They moved in on her from two directions. She vaguely realized that no shots had been fired. That was probably a good sign. Evidently they didn’t intend to shoot her dead in the street.

  But what did they want? According to what she had read, purse snatching wasn’t the gang’s style. They were into more sophisticated businesses: extortion and drugs.

  She was only a few feet away from the front door of the Green Gate when the heel of her left shoe snapped, throwing her violently to the side. She went down hard on the wet pavement. Her coat protected her from a bad case of road rash, but she knew she would have bruises in the morning. Elvis leaped from her shoulder.

  She stared at the door of the Green Gate, willing it to open.

  “Help.” What she had intended as a full-throated shout for assistance came out as a weak yelp.

  Adrenaline got her back on her feet in an instant. Miraculously, her glasses were still on her nose. She staggered on the broken heel and almost went down a second time.

  The nearest Rider closed in fast. His associate was not far behind.

  “Damn bitch,” the first Rider growled. He reached for her with a black-gloved hand. “I’m gonna show you what happens to women who give me trouble.”

  She was aware of a flash of movement at the corner of her eye. Then she saw Elvis. He dashed up the Rider’s leather-clad pant leg, white cape flying. She realized that he was heading for the only portion of the Rider’s body that was not encased in leather: the small, vulnerable area at his throat.

  An instant later the Rider screamed in pain and astonishment. He shoved up his visor and scrambled back, batting wildly at his neck.

  “Something bit me,” he yelped. “Get it off me. Shit, I’m bleeding.”

  The other Rider paused. “What in green hell?”

  Sierra half staggered, half ran for the Green Gate. “Elvis. Come here. Hurry.”

  He was already on his way back down the Rider’s pant leg. He reached the pavement, deftly avoiding a kick from a heavy black leather boot, and scampered toward her.

  “I just got bit by a rat,” the injured Rider yelled. “I’m gonna need shots.”

  The other man ignored him. He charged after Sierra.

  She shoved open the tavern door and stumbled inside.

  Three khaki-and-leather-clad men lounged on stools at the bar. Simon Lugg, the proprietor, looked at her.

  “Sierra?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Night Riders,” she got out, whirling to slam the door shut. “Call the cops. Hurry.”

  It was too late to get the door closed, let alone lock it. One of the Riders shoved it open with such force that Sierra was thrown back against the nearest booth.

  The Riders surged into the room. One had a hand clamped to the side of his neck. Both raised their visors higher in order to see in the eternal gloom that was the Green Gate.

  “Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt,” the first Rider barked. “We just want the woman.”

  “Sorry, I’ve got a real strict dress code here at the Green Gate,” Simon said. “No tie, no service.”

  “Shut up, old man,” the second Rider snarled. He reached into the pocket of his black jacket.

  “Man, I really hate being called old,” Simon said.

  “Look out,” Sierra shouted. “I think he’s got a gun.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Simon asked, producing a mag-rez from under the bar.

  There was a moment of profound stillness as both sides contemplated the standoff. The three patrons swiveled on their stools. They studied the newcomers with keen interest.

  “Well, well, well,” Mitch Crozier said. “What have we got here? Couple of biker wannabes, you think?”

  “Nah.” Jeff Duvall shook his head. “Looks more like they just came off a movie set.”

  “Whoever the hell they are,” Andy Bunt announced with a toothy grin, “they wandered into the wrong neighborhood.”

  Mitch chuckled with anticipation. The tiny chunk of crystal set into his front tooth gleamed. “That they did.”

  The Riders finally began to comprehend that they had blundered badly.

  “We don’t want any trouble with you guys,” the first one said. “Like I told you, we’re after the woman.”

  “Can’t have her,” Simon announced. “She’s a friend. Don’t know how it is with you Riders, but hunters look after their friends.”

  The atmosphere in the gloom-filled bar suddenly shivered with energy. Four wildly flaring balls of green fire materialized directly in front of the two Riders and began drifting toward them.

  “Ghost light,” the injured Rider said, backing quickly toward the door. He seemed genuinely awed. “Shit.”

  “Yeah, who would have thought a bunch of washed-up hunters could still pull a lot of green heat aboveground?” Simon said with menacing good cheer.

  Even the most powerful hunters could not maneuver a flaring ball of dissonance energy quickly. At best a ghost could only be driven at about the speed of a fast walk. But the erratic, acid-colored psi fire was scary stuff, especially in a confined space. Sierra knew that even the slightest brush with one of the UDEMs would be enough to knock the Riders unconscious.

  The intruders understood that, too. Swearing furiously, they nearly trampled each other on their way out of the tavern. A few seconds later they disappeared into the fog.

  Inside the Gate, the ghosts winked out.

  The muffled thunder of motorcycle engines sounded out in the street. Two black cycles flashed past the window and vanished.

  Simon made the illegal mag-rez go away under the bar. “You okay, Sierra?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She collapsed onto the nearest vinyl seat, shivering with reaction. Anxiously, she peered around. “Elvis? Where are you?”

  He bounced at her feet, fully fluffed once more, only his blue eyes showing. She leaned down, seized him in both hands, picked him up, and kissed him in the vicinity of the top of his furry head.

  “My hero,” she said. “Oh, dear, you lost your sunglasses.”

  “Jake can make him another pair,” Andy said.

  “I hope so. Elvis loves those dark glasses.” She plopped him on her shoulder and surveyed the four men. “Actually, you’re all my heroes today. On behalf of Elvis and myself, I’d just like to say thank you, thank you very much.”

  They grinned.

  “Just takin’ care of business, ma’am,” Simon said modestly. “Like the King here expects us to do.”

  She smiled at the four. Over the course of the past six months, she had come to know the small group of aging, retired hunters very well. They were regulars here at the Green Gate in the afternoons when they gathered to drink beer, play cards, and reminisce about their glory days down in the catacombs.

  Mitch and Jeff were life partners who had formalized their relationship with a Covenant Marriage shortly after leaving the guild. They operated a small antiquities shop at the end of Jade Street. Andy played a lot of cards and
went to the races. Simon owned the Green Gate. At night the tavern was a favorite haunt for ex-hunters. One way or another, all of the stories she had done on the Guild were a result of her friends here at the Gate.

  “Where in green hell did those guys come from?” Andy asked, reaching for his beer. “We haven’t had any problem with the Riders around here before.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She was safe now, but the unease that had been making her restless for the past couple of days was as strong as ever. “It was as if they were waiting for me when I left my apartment.”

  Simon frowned. “Think it’s related to one of your stories in the Curtain?”

  She shuddered. “I don’t see how. I’ve never done a piece on the Riders. All of my investigative reporting has been focused on the Guild and the disappearances.”

  “You mentioned the damage that the ghost juice is causing here in the Quarter,” Mitch reminded her. “Word is the Riders are behind the dealing. Maybe they wanted to throw a scare into you. Tell you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “I’ve done pieces on the victims of juice but not on the Riders themselves,” Sierra said. “In fact, I’ve blamed the Guild for not doing more to take care of the hunters who become addicts.”

  “Speaking of which,” Simon said, “how did your interview with the new boss go today?”

  A fresh wave of panic lanced through her. She leaped to her feet and nearly toppled over when she automatically put weight on the shoe with the broken heel. “Good grief, I almost forgot.”

  Mitch’s forehead wrinkled. “Forgot what?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Fontana at a quarter to five.” She checked her watch. “That’s less than fifteen minutes from now. Come on, Elvis, we have to hurry.”

  She limped toward the door.

  “Hold on,” Simon said. “Why are you meeting the new Guild boss again this afternoon?”

  She opened the door. “I forgot to tell you that I’m marrying him.”