murdering young women and Internal Affairs came around to askyou questions."

murdering young women and Internal Affairs came around to askyou questions."

Modred gave Paul a slight nod as they got into the car.

"Anyway, she's clean," said Paul, picking up the cue. Loomis thought that he was using his sensitivity to

read their minds, when actually it was Modred, or Wyrdrune, or perhaps both of them, relying on the

runestones to detect any possible trace of the Dark One. Paul was happy to be spared the task. He

would not have liked knowing what some of his friends were thinking now.

"Who's next on the list?" asked Loomis, reaching for the thermos with the coffee.

"Lorimer, William G.," said Modred, glancing at the printout. He read off the address on Paseo de

Peralta.

"Okay, let's move it," said Loomis to their driver. "We're not even halfway through the list yet."

As the car pulled away from the curb, gliding silently about two feet above the surface of the street,

Loomis sipped his coffee and glanced out the window at the growing darkness.

"He's out there somewhere," he said. "I just know it. I can feel it."

"Developing a bit of sensitivity yourself, Joe?" Paul asked with a smile.

"Just an old cop's instincts," Loomis replied. He exhaled heavily. "This whole thing is getting out of

control. The last three adepts we spoke to were already expecting us. The word is out. They're all on the

phone to each other. And now, on top of that, we've got a bunch of thaumagenetic vigilantes out there,

fucking animals trying to do our job. It's crazy. That goddamn cat of yours is going to get me fired."

"I'll have a talk with Gomez," Paul replied wearily. "I'm sure he meant well, but . . ." he trailed off.

"Don't look a gift thaumagene in the mouth," said Modred. "They may turn out to be very helpful."

"Yeah, well, maybe," Loomis conceded, "but I keep thinking about the headlines in the papers. 'Pet

Posse on Patrol, Cops Caught Catnapping.' The commissioner will have a hemorrhage and I'll be the

laughingstock of the city."

Suddenly the emerald runestone in Modred's forehead began to glow.

They had been sitting in the park on the downtown plaza, across from the Palace of the Governors. Not

far away, a group of young people dressed in the tatterdemalion fashion of renaissance punk sat in a

circle on the ground, smoking cigarettes and listening to music coming from a tape player. The rectangular

box reeled among them on stubby, retractable little legs, performing an old, nostalgic pre-Collapse dance

known as the Slam. The sounds issuing from its speakers brought to mind the image of electric guitars

being fed into a meat grinder. It kept knocking into their knees as they laughed and shoved it back and

forth between them.