The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

Appetite for Murder by Simon R. Green

I never wanted to be a Detective. But the call went out, and no-one else stood up, so I sold my soul to the company store, for a badge and a gun and a shift that never ends.

The Nightside is London’s very own dirty little secret; a hidden realm of gods and monsters, magic and murder, and more sin and temptation than you can shake a wallet at. People come to the Nightside from all over the world, to indulge the pleasures and appetites that might not have a name, but certainly have a price. It’s always night in the Nightside, always three o’clock on the morning, the hour that tries men’s souls and finds them wanting. The sun has never shone here, probably because it knows it isn’t welcome. This is a place to do things that can only be done in the shadows, in the dark.

I’m Sam Warren. I was the first, and for a long time the only, Detective in the Nightside. I worked for the Authorities, those grey and faceless figures who run the Nightside, in as much as anyone does, or can. Even in a place where there is no crime, because everything is permitted, where sin and suffering, death and damnation are just business as usual… there are still those who go too far, and have to be taken down hard. And for that, you need a Detective.

We don’t get many serial killers in the Nightside. Mostly because amateurs don’t tend to last long among so much professional competition. But I was made Detective, more years ago than I care to remember, to hunt down the very first of these human monsters. His name was Shock-Headed Peter. He killed three hundred and forty-seven men, women and children, before I caught him. Though that’s just an official estimate; we never found any of his victims’ bodies. Just their clothes. Wouldn’t surprise me if the real total was closer to a thousand. I caught him and put him away; but the things I saw, and the things I had to do, changed me forever.

Made me the Nightside’s Detective, for all my sins, mea culpa.

I’d just finished eating when the call came in. From the H. P. Lovecraft Memorial Library, home to more forbidden tomes under one roof than anywhere else. Browse at your own risk. It appeared the Nightside’s latest serial killer had struck again. Only this time he’d been interrupted, and the body was still warm, the blood still wet.

I strode through the Library accompanied by a Mister Pettigrew, a tall stork-like personage with wild eyes and a shock of white hair. He gabbled continuously as we made our way through the tall stacks, wringing his bony hands against his sunken chest. Mister Pettigrew was Chief Librarian, and almost overcome with shame that such a vulgar thing should have happened in his Library.

“It’s all such a mess!” he wailed. “And right in the middle of the Anthropology Section. We’ve only just finished refurbishing!”

“What can you tell me about the victim?” I said patiently.

“Oh, he’s dead. Yes. Very dead, in fact. Horribly mutilated, Detective! I don’t know how we’re going to get the blood out of the carpets.”

“Did you happen to notice if there were any… pieces missing, from the body?”

“Pieces? Oh dear,” said Mister Pettigrew. “I can feel one of my heads coming on. I think I’m going to have to go and have a little lie down.”

He took me as far as the Anthropology Section, and then disappeared at speed. It hadn’t been twenty minutes since I got the call, but still someone had beaten me to the body. Crouching beside the bloody mess on the floor was the Nightside’s very own superheroine, Ms. Fate. She wore a highly polished black leather outfit, complete with full face mask and cape; but somehow on her it never looked like a costume or some fetish thing. It looked like a uniform. Like work clothes. She even had a utility belt around her narrow waist, all golden clasps and bulging little pouches. I thought the high heels on the boots were a bit much, though. I came up on her from behind, making no noise at all, but she still knew I was there.

“Hello, Detective Warren,” she said, in her low smoky voice, not even glancing round. “You got here fast.”

“Happened to be in the neighbourhood,” I said. “What have you found?”

“All kinds of interesting things. Come and have a look.”

Anyone else I would have sent packing, but not her. We’d worked a bunch of cases together, and she knew her stuff. We don’t get too many superheroes or vigilantes in the Nightside, mostly because they get killed off so damn quickly. Ms. Fate, that dark avenger of the night, was different. Very focused, very skilled, very professional. Would have made a good detective. She made room for me to crouch down beside her. My knees made loud cracking noises in the Library hush.

“You’re looking good, Detective,” Ms. Fate said easily. “Have you started dying your hair?”

“Far too much grey,” I said. “I was starting to look my age, and I couldn’t have that.”

“I’ve questioned the staff,” said Ms. Fate. “Knew you wouldn’t mind. Noone saw anything, but then noone ever does, in the Nightside. Only one way in to this Section, and only one way out, and he would have had blood all over him, but… ”

“Any camera surveillance?”

“The kind of people who come here, to read the kind of books they keep here, really don’t want to be identified. So, no surveillance of any kind, scientific or mystical. There’s major security in place to keep any of the books from going walkabout, but that’s it.”

“If our killer was interrupted, he may have left some clues behind,” I said. “This is his sixth victim. Maybe he got sloppy.”

Ms. Fate nodded slowly, her expression unreadable behind her dark mask. Her eyes were very blue, very bright. “This has got to stop, Detective. Five previous victims, all horribly mutilated, all with missing organs. Different organs each time. Interestingly enough, the first victim was killed with a blade, but all the others were torn apart, through brute strength. Why change his MO after the first killing? Most serial killers cling to a pattern, a ritual, that means something significant to them.”

“Maybe he decided a blade wasn’t personal enough,” I said. “Maybe he felt the need to get his hands dirty.”

We both looked at the body in silence for a while. This one was different. The victim had been a werewolf, and had been caught in mid-change as he died. His face had elongated into a muzzle, his hands had claws, and patches of silver-grey fur showed clearly on his exposed skin. His clothes were ripped and torn and soaked with blood. He’d been gutted, torn raggedly open from chin to crotch, leaving a great crimson wound. There was blood all around him, and more spattered across the spines of books on the shelves.

“It’s never easy to kill a werewolf,” Ms. Fate said finally. “But given the state of the wound’s edges, he wasn’t cut open. That rules out a silver dagger.”

“No sign of a silver bullet either,” I said.

“Then we can probably rule out the Lone Ranger.” She rubbed her bare chin thoughtfully. “You know; the extent of these injuries reminds me a lot of cattle mutilations.”

I looked at her. “Are we talking little Grey aliens?”

She smiled briefly, her scarlet lips standing out against the pale skin under the black mask. “Maybe I should check to see if he’s been probed?”

“I think that was the least of his worries,” I said. “This must have been a really bad way to die. Our victim had his organs ripped out while he was still alive.”

Ms. Fate busied herself taking samples from the body and the crime scene, dropping them into sealable plastic bags, and tucking them away in her belt pouches.

“Don’t smile,” she said, not looking round. “Forensic science catches more killers than deductive thought.”

“I never said a word,” I said innocently.

“You didn’t have to. You only have to look at my utility belt and your mouth starts twitching. I’ll have you know the things I store in my belt have saved my life on more than one occasion. Shuriken, smoke bombs, nausea gas capsules, stun grenades… A girl has to be prepared for everything.” She stood up and looked down at the body. “It’s such a mess I can’t even tell which organs were taken; can you?”

“The heart, certainly,” I said, standing up. “Anything else, we’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”

“I’ve already been through the clothing,” said Ms. Fate. “If there was any ID, the killer took it with him. But I did find a Press Pass, tucked away in his shoe. Said he worked for the Night Times. But no name on the pass, which is odd. Could be an investigative reporter, I suppose, working undercover.”

“I’ll check with the editor,” I said.

“But what was he doing here? Research?”

We both looked around, and Ms. Fate was the first to find a book lying on the floor, just outside the blood pool. She opened the book, and flicked quickly through it.

“Anything interesting?” I said.

“Hard to tell. Some doctoral dissertation, on the cannibal practices of certain South American tribes.”

I gestured for the book, and she handed it over. I skimmed quickly through the opening chapter. “Seems to be about the old cannibal myth, that you are what you eat. You know; eat a brave man’s heart to become brave, a runner’s leg muscles to become fast… ”

We both looked at the torn open body on the floor, with its missing organs.

“Could that be our murderer’s motivation?” said Ms. Fate. “He’s taking the organs so he can eat them later, and maybe… what? Gain new abilities? Run me through the details of the five previous victims, Detective.”

“First was a minor Greek godling,” I said. “Supposedly descended from Hercules, at many removes. Very strong. Died of a single knife wound to the heart. Chest and arm muscles were taken.”

“Just the one blow, to the heart,” said Ms. Fate. “You’d have to get in close for that. Which suggests the victim either knew his killer, or had reason to trust him.”

“If the killer has acquired a godling’s strength, he wouldn’t need a knife any more,” I said.

“There’s more to it than that.” She looked like she might be frowning, behind her mask. “This whole hands-on thing shouts… passion. That the killer enjoyed it, or took some satisfaction from it.”

“Second victim was a farseer,” I said. “What they call a remote viewer these days. Her head was smashed in, and her eyes taken. After that; an immortal who lost his testicles, a teleporter for a messenger service who had his brain ripped right out of his skull, and finally a minor radio chat show host, who lost his tongue and vocal chords.”

“Why that last one?” said Ms Fate. “What did the killer hope to gain? The gift of the gab?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” I said. “Presumably the killer believed that eating the werewolf’s missing organs would give him shapechanging abilities, or at least regeneration.”

“He’s trying to eat himself into a more powerful person… Hell, just the godling’s strength and the werewolf’s abilities will make him really hard to take down. Have you come up with any leads yet, from the previous victims?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing.”

“Then I suppose we’d better run through the usual suspects, if only to cross them off. How about Mr. Stab, the legendary uncaught immortal serial killer of Old London Town?”

“No,” I said. “He always uses a knife, or a scalpel. Always has, ever since 1888.”

“All right; how about Arnold Drood, the Bloody Man?”

“His own family tracked him down and killed him, just last year.”

“Good. Shock-Headed Peter?”

“Still in prison, where I put him,” I said. “And there he’ll stay, till the day he dies.”

Ms. Fate sniffed. “Don’t know why they didn’t just execute him.”

“Oh, they tried,” I said. “Several times, in fact. But it didn’t take.”

“Wait a minute,” said Ms. Fate. She knelt down again suddenly, and leant right over to study the dead man’s elongated muzzle. “Take a look at this, Detective. The nose and mouth tissues are eaten away. Right back to the bone in places. I wonder… ” She produced a chemical kit from her belt, and ran some quick tests. “I thought so. Silver. Definite traces of silver dust, in the nose, mouth and throat. Now that was clever… Throw a handful of silver dust into the werewolf’s face, he breathes it in, unsuspecting, and his tissues would immediately react to the silver. It had to have been horribly painful; certainly enough to distract the victim and interrupt his shape change… while leaving him vulnerable to the killer’s exceptional strength.”

“Well spotted,” I said. “I must be getting old. Was a time I wouldn’t have missed something like that.”

“You’re not that old,” Ms. Fate said lightly.

“Old enough that they want to retire me,” I said.

“You? You’ll never retire! You live for this job.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve done it so long it’s all I’ve got now. But I am getting old. Slow. Still better than any of these upstart latecomers, like John Taylor and Tommy Oblivion.”

“You look fine to me,” Ms. Fate said firmly. “In pretty good shape too, for a man of your age. How do you manage it?”

I smiled. “We all have our secrets.”

“Of course. This is the Nightside, after all.”

“I could have worked out your secret identity,” I said. “If I’d wanted to.”

“Perhaps. Though it might have surprised you. Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. Professional courtesy? Or maybe I just liked the idea of knowing there was someone else around who wanted to catch murderers as much as I did.”

“You can depend on me,” said Ms. Fate.

Our next port of call was the Nightside’s one and only autopsy room. We do have a CSI, but it only has four people in it. And only one Coroner; Dr. West. Short, stocky fellow with a smiling face and flat straw-yellow hair. I wouldn’t leave him alone with the body of anyone I cared about, but he’s good enough at his job.

By the time Ms. Fate and I got there, Dr. West already has the werewolf’s body laid out in his slab. He was washing the naked body with great thoroughness and crooning a song to it as we entered. He looked round unhurriedly, and waggled the fingers of one podgy hand at us.

“Come in, come in! So nice to have visitors. So nice! Of course, I’m never alone down here, but I do miss good conversation. Take a look at this.”

He put down his wet sponge, picked up a long surgical instrument, and started poking around inside the body’s massive wound. Ms. Fate and I moved closer, while still maintaining a respectful distance. Dr. West tended to get over-excited with a scalpel in his hand, and we didn’t want to get spattered.

Dr. West thrust both his hands into the cavity and started rooting around with quite unnecessary enthusiasm. “The heart is missing,” he said cheerfully. “Also, the liver. Yes. Yes… Not cut out, torn out… Made a real mess of this poor fellow’s insides; hard to be sure of anything else… Not sure what to put down as actual cause of death; blood loss, trauma, shock… Heart attack? Yes. That covers it. So; another victim for our current serial killer. Number six… how very industrious. Oh yes. Haven’t even got a name for your chart, have we, boy? Just another John Doe… But not to worry; I’ve got a nice little locker waiting for you, nice and cosy, next to your fellow victims.”

“You have got to stop talking to the corpses like that,” I said sternly. “One of these days someone will catch you at it.”

Dr. West stuck out his tongue at me. “Let them. See if I care. See if they can get anyone else to do this job.”

“How long have you been Coroner, Dr. West?” said Ms. Fate, tactfully changing the subject.

“Oh, years and years, my dear. I was made Coroner the same year Samuel here was made Detective. Oh yes, we go way back, Samuel and I. All because of that nasty Shock-Headed Peter… The Authorities decided that such a successful serial killer was bad for business, and therefore Something Must Be Done. It’s all about popular perception, you see… There are many things in the Nightside far more dangerous than any human killer could ever hope to be, but the Authorities, bless their grey little hearts, wanted visitors to feel safe, so…”

He stopped and looked at me sourly. “You’d never believe he and I were the same age, would you? How do you do it, Samuel?”

“Healthy eating,” I said. “And lots of vitamins.”

“Why haven’t you called in Walker?” Ms. Fate said suddenly. “He speaks for the Authorities, with a Voice everyone has to obey; and I’ve heard it said he once made a corpse sit up on a slab and answer his questions.”

“Oh he did, he did,” said Dr. West, pulling his hands out of the body with a nasty sucking sound. “I was there at the time, and very edifying it was too. But unfortunately, all six of our victims had their tongues torn out. After our killer had taken the bits and pieces he wanted. Which suggests our killer had reason to be afraid of Walker.”

“Hell,” I said. “Everyone’s got good reason to be afraid of Walker.”

Dr. West shrugged, threw aside his scalpel and slipped off his latex gloves with a deliberate flourish, as though to make clear he’d done all that could reasonably be expected of him.

Ms. Fate stared into the open wound again. “Our killer really does like his work, doesn’t he?”

“He’s got an appetite for it,” I said solemnly.

“Oh please,” said Ms. Fate.

I moved in beside her, staring down into the cavity. “Took the heart out first, then the liver. Our killer must believe they hold the secret of the werewolf’s abilities. If he is a shape-changer now, he’d be that much harder to take down.”

Ms. Fate looked at me thoughtfully, and then turned to Dr. West. “Do you still have all the victims’ clothes and belongings?”

“Of course, my dear, of course! Individually bagged and tagged. Help yourself.”

She opened every bag, and checked every piece of torn and blood-soaked clothing. It’s always good to see a real professional at work. Eventually she ran out of things to check and test, and turned back to me.

“Six victims. Different ages, sexes, occupations. Nothing at all to connect them. Unless you know something, Detective.”

“There’s nothing in the files,” I said.

“So how were the victims chosen? Why these six people?”

“Maybe the people don’t matter,” I said. “Just their abilities.”

“Run me through them again,” she said. “Names and abilities, in order, from the beginning.”

“First victim was the godling Demetrius Heracles,” I said patiently. “Then the farseer, Barbara Moore. The teleporter, Cainy du Brec. The immortal Count Magnus, though I doubt very much that was his real name. The chat show host, Adrian Woss, and finally the werewolf, Christopher Russell.”

“This whole business reminds me unpleasantly of Shock- Headed Peter,” Ms. Fate said slowly. “Not the MO, but the sheer ruthlessness of the murders. Are you sure he hasn’t escaped?”

“Positive,” I said. “No-one escapes from Shadow Deep.”

She shook her masked head, her heavy cloak rustling loudly. “I’d still feel happier if we checked. Can you get us in?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m the Detective.”

So we went down into Shadow Deep, all the way down to the darkest place in the Nightside, sunk far below in the cold bedrock. Constructed… no one knows how long ago, to hold the most vicious, evil and dangerous criminals ever stupid enough to prey on the Nightside. The ones we can’t, for one reason or another, just execute and be done with. The only way down is by the official transport circle, maintained and operated by three witches from a small room over a really rough bar called The Jolly Cripple. If the people who drank in the bar knew what went on in the room above their heads… they’d probably drink a hell of a lot more.

“Why here?” said Ms. Fate, as we ascended the gloomy back stairs. “Secrecy?”

“Partly, I suppose,” I said. “More likely because it’s cheap.”

The three witches were the traditional bent-over hags in tattered cloaks, all clawed hands and hooked noses. The great circle on the floor had been marked in chalk mixed with sulphur and semen. You don’t want to know how I found out. Ms. Fate glowered at the three witches.

“You can stop that cackling right now. You don’t have to put on an act; we’re not tourists.”

“Well pardon us for taking pride in our work,” said one of the witches, straightening up immediately. “We are professionals, after all. And image is everything, these days. You don’t think these warts just happened, do you?”

I gave her my best hard look, and she got the transport operation underway. The three witches did the business with a minimum of chanting and incense, and down Ms. Fate and I went down, to Shadow Deep.

It was dark when we arrived. Completely dark, with not a ghost of a light anywhere. I only knew Ms. Fate was there with me because I could hear her breathing at my side. Footsteps approached, slow and heavy, until finally a pair of night vision goggles were thrust into my hand. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and from the muffled squeak beside me, so did Ms. Fate. I slipped the goggles on, and Shadow Deep appeared around me, all dull green images and fuzzy shadows.

It’s always dark in Shadow Deep.

We were standing in an ancient circular stone chamber, with a low roof, curving walls and just the one exit, leading onto a stone tunnel. Standing before us was one of the prison staff; a rough clay golem with simple pre-programmed routines. It had no eyes on its smooth face, because it didn’t need to see. It turned abruptly and started off down the tunnel, and Ms. Fate and I hurried after it. The tunnel branched almost immediately, and branched again, and as we moved from tunnel to identical tunnel, I soon lost all track of where I was.

We came at last to the Governor’s office, and the golem raised an oversized hand and knocked once on the door. A cheery voice called out for us to enter, and the door swung open before us. A blinding light spilled out, and Ms. Fate and I clawed off our goggles as we stumbled into the office. The door shut itself behind us.

I looked around the Governor’s office with watering eyes. It wasn’t particularly big, but it had all the comforts. The Governor came out from behind his desk to greet us, a big blocky man with a big friendly smile that didn’t touch his eyes at all. He seemed happy to see us, but then, he was probably happy to see anyone. Shadow Deep doesn’t get many visitors.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said, taking our goggles and shaking my hand and Ms. Fate’s with great gusto. “The great Detective and the famous vigilante; such an honour! Do sit down, make yourselves at home. That’s right! Make yourselves comfortable! Can I offer you a drink, cigars…?”

“No,” I said.

“Ah, Detective,” said the Governor, sitting down again behind his desk. “It’s always business with you, isn’t it?”

“Ms. Fate is concerned that one of your inmates might have escaped,” I said.

“What? Oh no; no, quite impossible!” The Governor turned his full attention and what he likes to think of as his charming smile on Ms. Fate. “No one ever escapes from here. Never, never. It’s always dark in Shadow Deep, you see. Light doesn’t work here, outside my office. Not any kind of light, scientific or magical. Not even a match… Even if a prisoner could get out of his cell, which he can’t, there’s no way he could find his way through the maze of tunnels to the transfer site. Even a teleporter can’t get out of here, because there’s no way of knowing how far down we are!”

“Tell her how it works,” I said. “Tell her what happens to the scum I bring here.”

The Governor blinked rapidly, and tried another ingratiating smile. “Yes, well, the prisoner is put into his cell by one of the golems, and the door is then nailed shut. And sealed forever with pre-prepared, very powerful magics. Once in, a prisoner never leaves his cell. The golems pass food and water through a slot in the door. And that’s it.”

“What about…?” said Ms. Fate.

“There’s a grille in the floor.”

“Oh, ick.”

“Quite,” said the Governor. “You must understand, our prisoners are not here to reform, or repent. Only the very worst individuals ever end up here, and they stay here till they die. However long that takes. No reprieves, and no time off for good behaviour.”

“How did you get this job?” said Ms. Fate.

“I think I must have done something really bad in a previous existence,” the Governor said grandly. “Cosmic payback can be such a bitch.”

“You got this job because you got caught,” I said.

The Governor scowled. “Yes, well… It’s not that I did anything really bad…”

“Ms. Fate,” I said, “Allow me to introduce to you Charles Peace, villain from a long line of villains. Burglar, thief, and snapper up of anything valuable not actually nailed down. Safes opened while you wait.”

“That was my downfall,” the Governor admitted. “I opened Walker’s safe, you see; just for the challenge of it. And I saw something I really shouldn’t have seen. Something no one was ever supposed to see. I ran, of course, but the Detective tracked me down and brought me back, and Walker gave me a choice. On the spot execution, or serve here as Governor until what I know becomes obsolete, and doesn’t matter any more. That was seventeen years ago, and there isn’t a day goes by where I don’t wonder whether I made the right decision.”

“Seventeen years?” said Ms. Fate. She always did have a soft spot for a hard-luck story.

“Seventeen years, four months, and three days,” said the Governor. “Not that I obsess about it, you understand.”

“Is Shock-Headed Peter still here?” I said bluntly. “There’s no chance he could have got out?”

“Of course not! I did the rounds only an hour ago, and his cell is still sealed. Come on, Detective; if Shock-Headed Peter was on the loose in the Nightside again, we’d all know about it.”

“Who else have you got down here?” said Ms. Fate. “Anyone… famous?”

“Oh, quite a few; certainly some names you’d recognise. Let’s see; we have the Murder Masques, Sweet Annie Abattoir, Max Maxwell the Voodoo Apostate, Maggie Malign… But they’re all quite secure, too, I can assure you.”

“I just needed to be sure this place is as secure as it’s supposed to be,” said Ms. Fate. “You’d better prepare a new cell, Governor; because I’ve brought you a new prisoner.”

And she looked at me.

I rose to my feet, and so did she. We stood looking at each other for a long moment.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said. “But it’s you. You’re the murderer.”

“Have you gone mad?” I said.

“You gave yourself away, Sam,” she said, meeting my gaze squarely with her own. “That’s why I had you bring me here to Shadow Deep, where you belong. Where even you can’t get away.”

“What makes you think it was me?” I said.

“You knew things you shouldn’t have known. Things only the killer could have known. First, at the Library. That anthropology text was a dry, stuffy and very academic text. Very difficult for a layman to read and understand. But you just skimmed through it and then neatly summed up the whole concept. The only way you could have done that was if you’d known it in advance. That raised my suspicions, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to be wrong about you.

“But you did it again, at the autopsy. First, you knew that the heart had been removed before the liver. Dr. West hadn’t worked that out yet, because the body’s insides were such a mess. Second; when I asked you to name the victims in order, you named them all, including the werewolf. Who hasn’t been identified yet. Dr West still had him down as a John Doe.

“So; it had to be you. Why, Sam? Why?”

“Because they were going to make me retire,” I said. It was actually a relief, to be able to tell it to someone. “Take away my job, my reason for living, just because I’m not as young as I used to be. All my experience, all my years of service, all the things I’ve done for them, and the Authorities were going to give me a gold watch and throw me on the scrap heap. Now; when things are worse than they’ve ever been. When I’m needed more than ever. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

“So I decided I would just take what I needed, to make myself the greatest Detective that ever was. With my new abilities, I would be unstoppable. I would go private, like John Taylor and Larry Oblivion; and show those wet behind the ears newcomers how it’s done… I would become rich and famous, and if I looked a little younger, well… this is the Nightside, after all.

“Shed no tears for my victims. They were all criminals, though I could never prove it. That’s why there was no paperwork on them. But I knew. Trust me; they all deserved to die. They were all scum.

“I’d actually finished, you know. The werewolf would have been my last victim. I had all I needed. I teleported in and out of the Library, which is why no one saw me come and go. But then… you had to turn up, the second-best detective in the Nightside, and spoil everything. I never should have agreed to train you… but I saw in you a passion for justice that matched my own. You could have been my partner, my successor. The things we could have done… But now I’m going to have to kill you, and the Governor. I can’t let you tell. Can’t let you stop me, not after everything I’ve done. The Nightside needs me.

“You’ll just be two more victims of the unknown serial killer.”

I surged forward with a werewolf’s supernatural speed, and grabbed the front of Ms. Fate’s black leather costume with a godling’s strength. I closed my hand on her chest and ripped her left breast away. And then I stopped, dumbstruck. The breast was in my hand, but under the torn open leather there was no wound, no spouting blood. Only a very flat, very masculine chest. Ms. Fate smiled coldly.

“And that’s why you’d never have guessed my secret identity, Sam. Who would ever have suspected that a man would dress up as a super-heroine, to fight crime? But then, this is the Nightside, and like you said; we all have our secrets.” And while I stood there, listening with an open mouth, she palmed a nausea gas capsule from her belt and threw it in my face. I hit the stone floor on my hands and knees, vomiting so hard I couldn’t concentrate enough to use any of my abilities. The Governor called for two of his golems, and they came and dragged me away. They threw me into a cell, and then nailed the door shut, and sealed it forever.

No need for a trial. Ms. Fate would have a word with Walker, and that would be that. That’s how I always did it.

So here I am, in Shadow Deep, in the dark that never ends. Guess whose cell they put me next to. Just guess.

One of these days they’ll open this cell and find nothing here but my clothes.