He jogged along in the mostly dark. The infrequent orangy streetlights didn't do much to brighten his path, but they suited his mood. He'd spent the last three hours stocking shelves with cans of dog food and boxes of cereal, and his day had been spent running lab tests. Night job, day job.

His eyes ached from the fluorescent lights of the supermarket, and his nose burned from all the chemical scents in the lab.

Here, he had the illusion of being away from it all. He smiled, and sucked in a deep breath of clean air. This might be the industrial section, but after midnight it was the quietest place in town.

The day-drudge buildings were empty shells at the moment. In a few minutes he'd get clear of the factories and loop past the old city cemetery.

More empty shells.

The moon was rising and it was as fat and yellow as he'd ever seen it. The wind ruffled his hair, and touched him briefly with an icy breath. Autumn was coming. The rustle of scattering leaves was loud in his ears. Yellow moons, yellow pumpkins. Children's laughter and costumed invaders at his front door. His smile widened.

He'd outgrown his fear of all things dark a long time ago. His eyes were keener than most, and he'd found that what was bleak and black to others was seldom fearful to him. He was certain he'd left all his childhood fears behind.

He was nearing the graveyard now, and he could smell it on the wind. Old flowers, new blossoms, stagnant water, fresh-turned earth. None of these bothered him. What snagged him was the light.

Little flickers of dancing light were hovering in the windswept night. Maintaining themselves against a wind that was tearing at his clothes now, and making his eyes stream.

What the hell?!

Not mere light--flickers of flame. Scattered across the cemetery and beyond--buried in the shrubbery landscaping and rising from the shadowed skeletons of cross and stone.

Oh, God! His breath caught and he missed a step.

The fitful clouds ripped apart, and moonlight etched the staring figures on his vision--confusedly silhouetting vacant buildings, angel wings, and snarling beasts.

Teeth and claws and flaming eyes.

In that moment, an eardrum-shattering howl hit his sensitive ears. It was both obscene and mournful, carrying with it the scent of rotten meat and ordure. At his back...

Some part of him recognised the sound, the stench, and his body broke into a sweat.

No mere memory--something worse. They say the smell brain never forgets...

Hunters. Hounds.

And in that moment, he was suddenly certain they'd been waiting for him...

Quist picked up the phone reluctantly. "I'm not here," he said, with a sigh. "This is a recording. Call back next year." He added sarcastically, "Maybe you haven't noticed, but it's the middle of the night--"

But it wasn't the damned fool he'd thought--it was his damned fool of a brother instead.

"Have you seen Zander?" Mac's voice was worried.

Quist smirked at the phone. "What--no 'hello'?" he retorted. "What's this sudden fascination with Zander?" He sniggered. "'s there something you're not telling me?"

"No joke, Quist!" The concern in Mac's voice made Quist frown. "He's in trouble."

Quist shook his head, still unwilling to accept it. "What kind of trouble? Have you been sniffing something nasty again?" he asked kindly.

"Find him," Mac ordered. "Now."

"I've got company. I can't just go off and abandon a beautif--"

Mac cut across his blathering, to say harshly, "If we don't find him--soon--he's going to die."

Quist ripped out of his driveway with a squealing of tyres. This kind of night affected him much the way it did Zander. Truth be told, he was happier being out on a windswept evening, than cloistered in the so-called safety of his house.

He wondered, briefly, whether he should be worried about Mac. He'd had these premonitions or whatever they were, before, and they'd always proved out. If he said Zander was in trouble, chances were he was. Shame Mac couldn't be a little more specific, though. It would be nice to know whether Grocery Man was facing the long end of a knife, or the short end of a gun. Things that might make a rescue a little more difficult.

He glanced around. Who the hell would mug somebody in a place like this? Maybe ol' Zand had changed his route, and was now jogging through the red light district.

I would, if I worked nights...

Mac sometimes acted like Zander was his kid brother as much as Quist. Maybe he felt that way. Both Zander's parents had died when he was sixteen, and Mac had been watching out for him ever since. It had been years now, but Mac still kept tabs on him. They'd never lived very far from Zander, either.

Quist raised his eyebrows. Mac had always seemed flamboyantly heterosexual to him, but there was no accounting for tastes. Maybe Mac did have a thing for Zander. He thought about it: my best friend and my brother. And grimaced. How totally unappealing. Appalling, even...

He was still silently berating Mac when he reached the locked gates of the supermarket loading yard.

No Zander--and stupid Mac was supposed to have met him here. He felt like a fool for chasing down a grown man, who'd no doubt elected to spend the night at some lady's house. And I'll be damned if I'll ask him where he's been! he thought. Mac could be a real dumbass sometimes.

It was obvious there was nobody here. Quist's eyes were as keen as Zander's and it was easy to scan the parking lot. For thoroughness' sake, he climbed off the motorcycle to make a better search.

He'd no sooner lifted the helmet than he heard it. Gooseflesh danced along his skin at the long, drawn-out howl in the distance. His nostrils flared and his gut tightened. Some part of him recognised the sound.

He also knew what it meant.

Mac was right...