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Deamons - Part 1Deamons - Part 1
Nice is a very nice place indeed, I see why they named it Nice. I wouldn't mind staying here a few more days, some sun would do me nice, but we had work to do. Keenan had been tracing the whole day, which left me alone with Vladislav. I didn't like the guy very much, and neither did he like me. I don't think he liked anyone now that I think about it, I never seen him smile once. He was Russian and was always waring a coat, even in this hot weather he wouldn't take it off. Maybe it reminded him of the cold winters at home, I don't know. Everybody know I hated him, but yet I got teamed up with him time after time.
Suddenly Keenan was standing in front of us, he was a guy that you never saw coming. He was also Vlad's opposite, always glad and willing to chat. He was Irish and had an uncontrollable black curly hair, kinda funny to watch.
"I located him" he said seriously and looked at me. He was a very good tracer, no doubt. "I'll be driving him your way, so move forward a
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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