"I assume you decided you'd rather have your questions answered now instead of later?" Cassiar asks.

"More or less," I say. "Okay, more more than less. You told me you knew what was going on in Thropirelem. What would that be, exactly?"

He looks at me steadily for a moment before answering. "Monsters, Ms. Valchek."

"Monsters," I say. I say it the way a farmer might say gophers, or a teenager might say algebra.

"Yes. I've been tracking a cult for some time now, and I have reason to believe they're based in your little town."

"Wait," Charlie says. "Tracking? Who tracks a cult?"

The faintest trace of a frown surfaces on Cassiar's face. "Well, I do. I'm sorry, I thought you were familiar with my work-or would have Googled me, at the very least."

"We've been having connection problems," I say. "Pretend we're Googling you right now-what's getting the most hits?"

"Probably my own Web site, Evilhunter. That's what I do, you see; I hunt monsters."

The phrase resonates in my head so strongly I can almost hear echoes. "You hunt monsters. Like a profiler?"

"No. I don't seek to understand evil-just to eradicate it. And the Gallows cult is one of the most evil groups I've ever encountered."

"Are you talking about the Gallowsman?" Charlie asks.

"Yes. You know it as a local legend, but it pops up all over the Midwest. Minor details change, but the central story is always the same. Local man named Jump-or Leap, or sometimes Hopper-has a run of horrible luck. Coldhearted villagers turn their backs on him, or execute him outright. He promises to come back and share his pain with them. Then people start to die. There are many variations of how they die, but it's usually something bizarre or improbable and always involves strangulation. The only way to stop it is for someone to hang themselves on purpose-to show the Gallowsman that somebody understands his pain."

Terrance hadn't told me the last part; then again, maybe he hadn't known it. Or maybe he hadn't wanted to risk the guilt in case somebody found me hanging from the rod in my closet. "So if this is such a widespread story, then why is the cult based here?"

"Because all stories have some element of truth to them, or they die out. This is the town where the actual event took place, over two hundred years ago."

"Hold on," I say. "Let's go back to the whole I-hunt-monsters bit. For whom?"

"For the good of all."

"Oh? That must be hard to bill."

"I write books about my exploits. They generate enough income to keep me going."

What I wouldn't give for an Internet connection right now-I can smell scam all over this guy. "I hate to be picky, but I'm not sure you're really what we're looking for in a monster-hunter right now. Do you have a resume you could leave with us?"

Cassiar sighs, uncrosses his legs, and leans forward. "I don't blame you for being skeptical, Ms. Valchek. Monsters, for the most part, are fiction. I've never come face-to-face with a vampire or a werewolf, though I have found evidence that suggests such creatures did once exist. And I believe they might again, if the Gallows cult has its way."

I pluck a porcelain knickknack from a shelf and toy with it. I'm not even sure what it's supposed to be-a puppy? A kitten? A horribly deformed duck? "If you don't hunt vampires or werewolves, what do you hunt? Sasquatches? The Loch Ness Monster?"

"Oh, I'm intimately familiar with the supernatural, Ms. Valchek. Demonic possession is all too real, as are malevolent spirits like poltergeists. But what the Gallows cult is trying to do is far worse; they're trying to drag something physical across the Great Divide. Not a spirit, not a nebulous entity, an actual being. In fact, they may have already succeeded-and it could lead to something utterly catastrophic."

"What, an evil undead hangman isn't bad enough?"

"He is only the first. Should the cult be able to bring him through, others may follow. As terrible as the Gallowsman is, his threat is nothing compared to monsters that could turn others into beings like them."

"Others. You're talking about the V and W words, right? Or should I throw a Z in there, too?"

He shakes his head gravely. "At this point, I don't know. But yes, vampires and werewolves are certainly possibilities. The living dead are less likely, for occult reasons that are difficult to explain-essentially, the Gallowsman already fulfills that role, which makes it difficult for anything similar to cross over without his active help."

Charlie nods. "And he doesn't play well with others. Luckily for us."

"Exactly."

I toy with the knickknack and don't say anything for a minute. I don't know what to think; Charlie clearly believes him, but I'm not so sure.

No, that's not quite it. Everything he's saying makes sense and fits with what we've discovered so far-it's the man himself I'm having trouble with. There's something off about him, something not quite right. It's like if I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, I'd see someone else.

But so far, he seems to know more about the situation than we do, and that's worth a lot. "Tell me about the cult. Why are they doing this? What do they stand to gain?"

"Beyond occult power? The Gallowsman's a locus, not just for despair but for bad luck itself, the swirling destructive side of chaos. Like a curse come to life."

"Doesn't sound as if he gets invited to a lot of parties. So why would the cult want him around?"

"When brought here by the death of a suicide, the Gallowsman has a specific purpose-to bring suffering to the one the suicide blames for their pain. But when there's no suicide, he has no focus. He can be directed by those that summoned him."

"Like a weapon," Charlie says.

"When needed, yes. But there is another very real, very tangible benefit to summoning the Gallowsman. He draws ill fortune and hopelessness to him-and away from those he is bound to."

I frown. "So he's like a giant four-leaf clover and supernatural Prozac, in handy two-legged form?"

Cassiar smiles. "I suppose. Who wouldn't want an endless supply of happiness and good luck? Especially when you could inflict the opposite on your enemies?"

He has a point. It's a little undefined for my tastes, but I'm getting the feeling that's how magic works-it's always a little fuzzy around the edges. "So as long as the Gallowsman hangs around-sorry-the cult does a happy dance and never rolls snake eyes. Not great for anyone hunting them, right? And speaking of which, what does any of this have to do with me?"

I didn't really intend to raise my voice like that, but I'm a little surprised at Cassiar's reaction. He looks ... sad.

"Summoning an otherworldly entity always requires a sacrifice, but in the case of the Gallowsman, it's a little different. He's drawn to pain-emotional torment. From what I've been able to find out, you're supposed to be the source of that torment."

Well, that would explain the pictures. "So they're planning on using me as bait? Torture me and wait for the Gallowsman to show up?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Well then, I guess you don't have all the answers after all, Mr. Cassiar. Because unless our local pastor managed to hang himself from the eaves of a three-story building without a window or a ladder, the Gallowsman is already here. You were right about one thing, though-he didn't come alone. You want to meet a genuine, unalive vampire? Keep your eyes out for our local greengrocer, Jimmy Zhang-he's suddenly developed a real sweet tooth. If, you know, by sweet you mean blood and by tooth you mean teeth. And while none have actually shown up yet, I have it on good authority that the lupine contingent are going to be putting in an appearance, too."

I'm a little out of breath by the end, but once I started I couldn't stop. It was like I had this bizarre need to prove myself to him, as if we were comparing schizophrenic stories and mine just had to be crazier.

He regards me calmly. He looks more thoughtful than worried. "I see," he says at last. "It seems I've miscalculated the timing. Things are further along than I thought."

"You think?"

"Jace," Charlie says. "Calm down. What we've got to do is figure out how to handle this."

"Handle? Handle? We've got a demon with a rope fetish, a murderous cult, and half the cast of a horror movie, all inside the city limits of a town you can walk across in twenty minutes! And that's if you stop and talk to all the people you know along the way, only you won't because they might eat you!"

"Your friend Charlie is right, Jace. We need to find a way to quietly contain the situation-"

"Quiet? No, no, no. Quiet time is over. Now is wide-awake, the house is on fire and we need to do something time."

Charlie gives Cassiar a glance he thinks I don't notice. I do, but I don't bother responding. "You know what this is? This is that moment in the movie or book or comic where the good guys screw everything up. This is where they decide to take on the monster all by themselves. Well, sorry, but no goddamn way. We call in the authorities. We get lots of people with lots of equipment-giant crucifixes, automatic weapons loaded with silver bullets, all the garlic they can carry-and we blitz the whole town. Spotlights, teams of at least six, and nobody ever, ever, ever goes off on their own-"

"Jace," Charlie says gently. "This is a small town in the middle of nowhere. We've got a sheriff and one part-time deputy. We might be able to rustle up some guns, but we don't have any silver bullets or the know-how to make them."

"We'll ask the Internet! It knows everything!"

Charlie sighs. "Okay, sure. But how long is that going to take? Where are we going to get the equipment we'll need? You have a metal foundry in your basement you're not telling me about?"

I'm starting to run out of steam. "No. But-"

"The only people that are going to believe you are the ones who already know the truth. And they'll be the first ones to call you crazy."

Which everybody else will agree with. "Okay, but ... we need help, Charlie. We're way out of our league, here. This is a league we didn't even know existed twenty-four hours ago, and now we're supposed to compete at a professional level? Let's at least try to sign up a few more players!"

Charlie thinks about it. "Like who?"

"How about the sheriff? He already knows something weird is going on. Maybe if we show him what we've found out so far-"

"I wouldn't recommend that," Cassiar says quietly.

"Why?" I demand.

"Because Sheriff Stoker is a high-ranking member of the Gallows cult. He is, in fact, their second-in-command."

It's funny, how the mind works.

You can load it up with all kinds of contradictory information, and it'll adapt. You can overload it with sensory input, and it'll adapt. You can deprive it of any input at all, and it'll adapt. It's based in three pounds of jellylike flesh that's mostly water, and is capable of producing art, mathematics, language, and emotion.

But it has its limits.

I thought I was doing fine. Supernatural beings, my TV talking to me, evil cults out for my blood ... but somehow, the simple fact that Sheriff Stoker is one of the bad guys just stops me dead. I got used to the idea of reality not being trustworthy a while ago, but the notion that someone I respect-and yes, I do respect cops, believe it or not-is a genuine Bad Guy just knocks the wind out of me. It hits me on a much deeper level than a nasty revelation; it feels like a personal betrayal.

"I have to go," I say. My voice sounds flat and unreal, like a bad recording. I'm out of the room and halfway down the stairs before Charlie catches up with me. He doesn't try to stop me, just says, "Jace? Are you okay?"

"No," I say. My voice sounds puzzled, but a little relieved, too. I don't feel either of those things. "I need to go home."

"Okay, we can do that-"

"Alone, Charlie. I need to be alone." That isn't true, I know it isn't true, but I can't explain. Not even to Charlie. "Stay here, talk to Mr. Cassiar. See if you can come up with a plan."

"I don't think you being alone is such a good idea right now-"

I'm already out the front door and down the porch steps. "Come by before it gets dark. Zhang won't do anything before then."

"I ... all right. Just be careful, okay?"

I nod, but don't look back. I need to go home.

I need my shows.

I remember.

I remember the last time I felt this way. It was when I had my breakdown, when they had to take me away in an ambulance and sedate me. That was the last time I felt this ... shattered.

My memories of the event have always been fragmented. Little bits of broken-glass sharpness mixed into a thick, murky broth of amnesia, like a stew made of mirror shards and tapioca. I remember the jab of the needle. I remember the way the blood spurted when I broke the EMT's nose. I remember being very, very concerned that nobody touch the remote.

But I didn't remember the breakdown itself. Not until right now.

Everything's very far away. My thoughts are very loud, and I don't have a lot of control over them; they jump from subject to subject, memory and imagination blurring together, making random connections. A small, quiet part of me is watching this happen, like someone watching TV. That's the part that's in control of my body, making me walk to my house, unlock the door, breeze past Galahad, and unearth my stash. Not the regular one, under the fridge; my secret stash.

It consists of exactly one DVD in a paper envelope, and it's duct-taped to the underside of a bookshelf. It's the one I watched over and over again, the one that convinced me I was somebody else, the one I swore I'd never watch again.

It's also the very first time the Sword of Midnight shows up, though nobody knows who she is yet. I can't believe I forgot that.

I slip the disc into the machine, turn on the TV. Galahad is watching me with a worried look on his face, but I'm careful to keep the remote well away from him.

"You don't understand," I tell him. "This has ... this has what I need."

I sit down on the couch. The remote feels impossibly heavy in my hand, like a gun. I find that strangely comforting.

I know why Cassiar's calculation was off, why the Gallowsman is already here. It's because of my breakdown. That was the emotional torment that drew him to my little town, and he's been here ever since. Waiting. Getting stronger. Sucking down everyone's despair and bad luck and storing it for later, for whatever purpose his master had in mind.

But his master is dead now. And I don't know what will happen next.

I hit PLAY.

"Coming up on CSI: Transylvania this week:"

Forensic Investigator Helsing kneels beside a headless corpse in the moonlight. CSI Larry Talbot stands behind him, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat.

"Vic was decapitated with a silver-edged weapon," Talbot says.

"Yes, he was," Helsing murmurs. "But look at this-bite marks on the right breast, with scorching around the edges. Pre-mortem, and probably made by silver."

"Silver teeth? That would rule out a pire or a 'thrope."

"You'd think so. But obviously, someone has fangs for the mammaries...."

The opening bars of The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" swell, and then the scene cuts to the opening credits of The Bloodhound Files.