Soon the island became another Bay Area tourist attraction. Sightseeing cruises increased exponentially whenever the Other land was visible. People began calling it Avalon, the shining land of myth and fable.
But Rune had heard whispers of another name. There was another population in the Bay Area. It was not the population that took cruises, ate in restaurants or went to see touring Broadway shows. It lived in the corners of old abandoned buildings, and hid when night fell and all the predators came out. The crack addicts and the homeless didn’t call the land Avalon. They called it Blood Alley.
The island was visible now in the distance, the immense orange-red ball of the setting sun shining through its unearthly silhouette. A small colony of Vampyres reputedly lived on the island. Rune watched it thoughtfully, shifting his stance to take in the change in gravity as the Lear tilted into a wide circle that would bring it into a landing pattern for SFO.
As the seat of the Nightkind demesne, the Bay Area had many Vampyre enclaves, especially in Marin County where an extensive community surrounded the home of Julian Regillus, the official Nightkind King. As far as Rune knew, the street people did not whisper of Julian’s community with the same kind of fear as they did the island. Was that because of the island’s otherworldly habit of appearing and disappearing, or because of who lived there?
Alex the pilot heaved a sigh and said, “I am required by FAA regulations . . . blah blah . . . seat belt . . . blah . . .”
Rune burst out laughing. “If we wouldn’t lose all the shit that’s not anchored down in the cabin, I’d be tempted to just pop open a door and hop out.”
Daniel shot him a look. “Thank you, sir, for refraining from that action.”
“You’re welcome.” Rune clapped the co- on the shoulder and left the cabin.
Truth was, he wasn’t in all that big of a hurry, and they set down soon enough. When they had taxied into position and Daniel opened up the Lear, Rune thanked him and took off. He shapeshifted just outside the jet and, cloaking his Wyr form from scrutiny, he launched into the air and flew into the city.
He was undecided about where to land, since he wasn’t familiar enough with the location of 500 Market Street that he could locate it from the air. Finally he chose to set down near the west end of the Golden Gate Park. As he spiraled down toward a paved path, his shadow flickered over a slender furtive figure that stood in front of a sign and shook a can of spray paint in one fist.
Rune landed, changed back into his human form and let his cloak of concealment drop away. He slung his duffle bag onto one shoulder and watched as the figure tagged the sign. The brown creature looked like an anorexic humanoid female, with a skeletal frame and long spidery hands and feet. Her dripping hair had strands of seaweed tangled in it.
She glanced over her shoulder, caught sight of him and scowled. “What are you staring at, ass-wipe?”
He said in a mild tone, “Not a thing, my good woman.”
“Keep it that way.” She darted to a nearby trash can, tossed away the spray paint can and dashed across the path to dive into a nearby pond. Soon the quiet sound of brokenhearted sobbing came from underneath a weeping willow at the pond’s edge.
Rune walked over to the sign. It was one of the myriad signs that were posted throughout the Bay Area’s ponds, lakes and rivers that warned tourists: Please Do NOT Feed the Water Haunts.
This particular sign had one word blacked out with spray paint. It now read: Please Do Feed the Water Haunts.
Welcome to the Nightkind demesne, the home of water haunts, night elves, ghouls, trolls and Vampyres. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of several night elves trotting through the park. Unlike real Elves, night elves were typically slender and child-sized creatures, with large eyes and large bald heads and pointed ears, and they schooled together like fish.
He strolled over to the willow tree and cocked his head to look underneath the dripping leaves. The water haunt sat in the water, her bony thin shoulders hunched. She caught sight of him and sobbed harder.
He dug in his duffle bag. The water haunt gave a piteous whimper, her lips trembling, as she tracked his movements with a mud-colored gaze. He pulled out a PowerBar and held it up. The haunt’s eyes fixed on it. She wailed as she crept close. He raised a finger. Her wailing sailed upward on a questioning note and hitched to a stop.
He told her, “I’m onto your tricks, young lady. You try to bite me and I’ll kick your face in.”
The water haunt gave him a crafty grin that had a great many teeth. He indicated the PowerBar and raised his eyebrows. She gave him an eager nod. He tossed her the bar, and she snatched it out of the air. With a whirl and a splash, she dived to the other side of the tree to devour her prize.
He shook his head and checked his watch. He had about a half hour to sunset. Plenty of time to walk west, connect to Market Street, and find out if he needed to hook either a left or a right in order to reach his destination.
Bob started up in his head again as he headed out of the park. Every little thing is going to be all right.
Oh no. Not again. He wanted to at least start out this venture with some semblance of sanity. As he strode down the street, he unzipped a side pocket on his duffle and fished around inside until he nabbed his iPod. He popped in the earbuds and scrolled through his extensive playlists for something else. Anything else. Anything at all.
“Born to be Wild.” Yeah, that’d do. He punched play.
Steppenwolf’s strong raw voice sang in his ears.
Fire all of your guns at once and explode into space.
It was twilight, one of the world’s threshold places, the crossover time between day and night. The dying sunshine caught in his lion’s eyes. They flared with radiance as Rune smiled.
TWO
Market Street in San Francisco slashed diagonally through the city from the Ferry Building at the northeast shore to Twin Peaks in the southwest. The street was one of the city’s major thoroughfares and had been compared to the Champs-Élysées in Paris or Fifth Avenue in New York.
Now dusk was approaching on a Friday evening in the heart of the Nightkind demesne. That made Market Street a hip and happening place. The tall skyscraper surroundings provided an effective shield from the last of the day’s sunshine. Tourists and shoppers crowded the sidewalks.
A pair of white-skinned, beautiful and elegantly clothed female Vampyres strolled arm in arm toward him. They bent their heads and whispered together as he approached, looking at him sidelong with kohl-lined eyes and pale smiles. When he smiled back, the nearest Vampyre’s eyes widened and her ivory skin washed with a delicate blush of color. Rune considered it quite a compliment, coming from the undead.
The crowd grew denser as he approached his destination. It was the thickest just outside the sleek tall skyscraper that was 500 Market Street. Rune studied the throng curiously as he threaded his way to the front doors. The members of the crowd were all human.
One frail-looking woman pushed in front of him pulling a portable tank in a cart, a thin oxygen tube threaded under her nostrils, and he paused to let her past. As she brushed against him, he caught the scent of serious illness underneath her lilac perfume. The sour, medicinal smell lingered in his nostrils, evoking images of pain and decay, until he turned his head and emitted a polite cough that cleared his lungs. Another pale, thin man was in a wheelchair, accompanied by his wife and a younger man who looked to be his son.
Rune stripped off his earbuds and put away his iPod, then he pushed through the revolving doors and surveyed the main lobby. It was dominated by uniformed security guards, metal detectors, and lines of people that led up to bulletproof glass-plated windows. He rubbed the back of his neck and was about to step outside and check the number on the building again when he heard his name called from the bank of elevators across the lobby. He swiveled back around.