Excerpt

Chapter One

Ferox wrenched the keys out of the ignition and threw herself out of the truck after the Padre, running at a crouch and stopping by the back tire. She touched the tiny button on her leather collar and said softly, "Unit Three, on scene." The Padre sprinted toward the auto shop. Once he had his shoulder against the bricks, he adjusted his glasses and drew his hunting knife.

This was the first karakuri hunt for any of Ishmael's Tiger Dogs under the CIRCE administration. They had to make this hunt count, they needed to do it by the book, and they needed to do it without exposing the nature of their mission to social media. They owed it to Ivy.

Ferox had two choices: to run from the truck past the shopfront and garage bay doors to take a position on the eastern side of the shop, or to go around behind. She pressed the button on her collar again and murmured, "Tower One, check my position?"

"We have you, Ferox."

"What's behind here? Is there a back exit?" Ferox asked.

Tower One responded with action. The compartment on the roof of the truck unfolded, and a drone came buzzing out, hovering uncertainly on the wind. A moment later, the noisy thing tilted and scuttled forward, over the roof, and disappeared behind the shop.

The place was eerily quiet. Traffic flowed steadily past the intersection two blocks up, though nothing came down this way, thanks to the CIRCE-coordinated roadblocks. On three sides, apartment and office buildings blotted out the bright afternoon sky. Parking lots were full. Even this one was chock-a-block with crumpled beaters waiting for their turn in the shop. Somewhere, music was playing. And yet, the whole neighbourhood felt like it had been evacuated. Even CIRCE wasn't this good.

A soft beep preceded the message in her ear. "Three egress points in the rear," the calm voice at Tower One said. "One office door, two bay doors. All three closed. Standing by."

There could have been a dozen people in the waiting room of that shop. The only thing she could see distinctly was the neon marquee flashing the letters "O-P-E-N".

The Padre was as tense as a guard dog pulling at his leash. He remained crouching, knife in hand, waiting to spring at the first thing that showed its shadow. He raised his thumb, and Ferox bolted from cover to his side. "Flush or pincer?" she asked. The Padre looked suddenly flustered. He was in attack mode, not decision mode. Remembering all the apartment buildings, with all their glossy windows and the eyes behind them, Ferox said, "Pincer. Count of five." If there was going to be action, it would be indoors and out of sight. The Padre nodded very briefly. She tapped his shoulder and ran.

At the end of the wall, she paused again, risking a glance around the corner. The drone was bobbing in place, its camera pointed at her like a serene, curious eye. Not even the birds were chittering in the hedge between the shop and the apartment block. It was a rather rundown area of southern Ottawa, but Ottawa was no ghost town. So why is it so damned quiet?

She crept around the corner, keeping her head below the bottom sill of the window. The office door was black, metal, and probably locked. Ferox shifted her weight, drew her knives, and peered through the crack between the door and its frame. No deadbolt.

And she'd lost count. She swore under her breath.

"Five!" the Padre shouted.

Ready or not, she yanked open the door and slipped inside. At the other end of the corridor, the Padre was nearly on all fours, frozen under a tinkling bell as his door slowly closed.

The radio was wrapping up Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself" when the announcer yelled the station call signs and catchphrase. The station went to commercial. Somewhere, a cheap coffee maker hissed and sputtered. The waiting room and corridor were deserted.

The Padre scowled as he slowly rose, blocking out the flickering OPEN sign shining in the window behind him. Ferox also straightened, though she was careful to keep her knees soft. A sheet of yellow paper blew off the front desk to roll across the floor like a tumbleweed.

The soft beep preceded dispatch asking, "Unit Three, status?"

The Padre visibly perked. He pointed to his ear, then to the floor. The Padre was right. Someone was underneath them, moving around. Now the questions were: how many people downstairs, and how to get at them? Ferox squirmed, because the only appropriate answer to both questions seemed to be: it doesn't matter, get out now. Cliché or no, it was too quiet.

Oh, what's wrong with you, dummy? We've hunted scarier things than one lame human being. Capture, transport, interrogate, hand over to the lab for rehabilitation. Easy.

They'd done this a million times before, in simulation, with hardened, super-muscled werewolves playing the part of the humans, no less. And that was after three years in the field, tracking down bonewalkers and rogue lycanthropes. This would be their first actual karakuri—a vampire's familiar. They'd endured many gruelling months of training for this very moment. There was zero reason or need for the quivery, creeping feeling between her shoulder blades. Come on, stupid. Ivy's counting on you.

To Ferox's right was an open, flimsy-looking office door, beyond which was a square cinderblock and drywall room with a metal desk, three mismatched chairs, and a battered, once-white computer that looked like it belonged on the set of Star Wars. There was no way into the basement from there.

The Padre's nostrils flared, making Ferox involuntarily take a deep breath. Either his sense of smell was stronger than hers, or he knew what to sniff for. He jerked his chin toward the main body of the shop, through another open door. There were no cars in either of the two bays. Beyond the garage doors, Ferox could hear the drone buzzing.

The Padre soundlessly weaved his way between a rolling tool chest and a computerized diagnostic station, pointing down. There were grates set into the concrete floor, and they were dimly lit from below. Ferox had seen setups like this at quick-stop oil replacement shops. Two technicians would work on each car as it came in, one working on the engine itself, and the other down below to ensure the proper collection of draining fluids.

Now she could hear the guy breathing, moistening his lips. He was just out of sight, between the two refill stations.

A beep. "Tower One to Unit Three, status, over." Annoyed, Ferox touched the talk button twice, making the line beep without giving away their position.