Prince Charming had a brother . . . .

There are some places in the city where it's not safe to be, nether regions where the sun never shines. The alleys are veiled in midnight and shadows stalk each twilight corner like unhealthy, hunting beasts. Cross the border and meet your chances, Slim and None. The kills are frequent and rarely clean. Death comes from the fist, the knife, the gun -- a flash of lightning, a thunder of sound. The body down on the pavement, its life's essence soaking into the trash and asphalt nourishing nothing except the corruption that put it there. Lingering spirits can only project those last moments of fear and pain, the anguish of hopes lost, despair of dreams defeated, rage of a life unwillingly ended. Trapped in the terror of that final moment, the ghosts are as indifferent to the souls they infect as the brutes who killed them. They cruise the city's Dark Heart, wailing: "I claim you -- and you -- and YOU!"

That's how the city spawns at night. During the day, too.

Billy Prince didn't like this part of the city. He knew he didn't belong, not with his soft, yellow hair and private school polish. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake his background any more than he could disguise his wide, green eyes. Those bud green eyes marked him worse than the money-scent. It always took the hunters a beat or two before they picked up on the spoor of cold, hard cash -- major bucks, Daddy-bucks and surely the ransoming kind. No, the eyes betrayed Billy first. They revealed too much, they were too easily shocked and too quickly frightened. Fear like Billy's was more potent than money, the promised sport eyes promised worth consideration. There were those in the Dark Heart who pay for such a find and, after, Daddy-bucks could still be secured for whatever was left.

"You stick close with me," Curr growled whenever Billy was feeling down on his prospects. "I'll take care of you, Baby Guy. You'll be okay."

Curr was different. Curr had magic. He belonged in the Dark Heart. He was tough and fierce, street savvy with the scars to prove it. True, he was small and slim, just like Billy, but he was fast and he knew how to use his fists. And feet. And teeth. He was especially good with his teeth.

Curr was Billy's best friend. Without him, Billy was lost.

"Hey," Billy whispered, too scared to raise his voice much louder than a hiss. "Hey, Curr . . . look at that. Look down there."

Curr roused himself and looked, peering down into the alley from the window-hole of the abandoned building. He didn't ask any questions, Curr never wasted words. Besides, they could both smell the blood-to-come on the air.

Safer to be quiet, Billy thought to himself. Safer to be still.

Curr picked up the drift and nodded. Yes. Quiet is best.

Down below, one man crossed the alley's shadows strutting on his way from where to there. Another stepped out of the darkside of a pile of garbage like a piece of night firming up solid.

"Brother," the nightman said and brandished a cigarette. "You got a light?"

"No," the strutter said and moved to step on.

"Pretty chain you got there," the nightman went on, indicating the gold circling the strutter's throat. "You give it to me."

"Fuck you," the strutter said so the nightman shot him. He pulled a gun out from his jacket, aimed quick and pulled the trigger. The blast echoed through the alley, lightning bright and thunder loud. Billy jumped and covered his ears. He might have run, too, scurrying away to the far side of the room, but Curr put his hand on Billy's knee and kept him still.

Billy and Curr waited, one trembling, the other still as stone until it was finished. It didn't take long. The nightman fingered the gold, snatched it up. Then let it go. He rifled through the dead man's clothes and brought out a plastic lighter. He lit his cigarette and stashed it in his own pocket.

"Fucking liar," the nightman said and walked away.

Billy was aware of Curr mentally counting off seconds. Then Curr was up and moving down.

"Come on," Curr said. He made his way into the alley, springing from the broken window and over piled rubble like a mean, lean coyote in fluid little springs and jumps. He never hesitated, never made any noise. Billy scrambled after creating considerably more disturbance.

Curr crouched by the cooling body and scavenged the pockets. Billy shuffled away, scanning the ground instead.

"Here," Billy said. "I found the gold."

He held out the chain. Curr checked it briefly and shook his head.

"It's plate," Curr snarled. "Worthless."

"Oh." Billy was disappointed, also sad. He spilled the chain from one palm into the other. "So why wouldn't he give it up?"

"'Cause he was a fucking asshole." Curr turned the body and checked the back pockets.

Billy was unsure. "Maybe it was a present. Maybe his girlfriend gave it to him. Or even his mother. Maybe he couldn't give it up."

"Maybe he was just too stupid to live." Curr found a wad of cash tucked into the dead man's boot and pocketed it away in his leather jacket. "Let's motor, Baby Guy. Time to vacate."

They set out on foot, trotting out to the bright walkway. Here the old brick walls were festooned with neon bragging, Live Nudes - All Live Acts which always left Billy wondering what the dead acts were like. They peered in at the window displays noting various adult novelties, skin magazines specializing in every possible interest, leather toys and devices whose use Billy could barely guess at (and didn't want to know about). The air was thick with the odor of exhaust, sweat, urine, cheap perfume, all night taco stands and pizza-by-the slice. They purchased a calzone with more crust than filling from Sal's stand and shared a Coke. They dodged druggies hustling change, cigarettes and any other handout they could pocket. They greeted the working girls and boys, resplendid in designer cut offs, sling backs, open toes, leather, glitter and sequins. They brushed off the recruiters and joked with the players. It was a fine night, everyone moving in time to the street heat, even the citizens who had come out to cruise and choose. The rhythm of a heavy, rocking bass crashed out of the bars and strip joints. Billy and Curr waltzed with it.

"Let's hit Mercy Q's," Curr said after a while.

"Is that smart?" Billy asked. "Won't they look for us there?"

"It's as safe as any place." Curr shrugged and grinned. "We got cash now, don't have to hit the ATM's. If anybody spots us, we'll lose them in the crowd and hustle out quick."

"I saw a flyer. The Hunt is opening for Damascene at Mercy's tonight," Billy said, wistfully.

"Then we've got to go," Curr insisted. "We don't want to miss that."

So they went, stopping at the Princess Duck, the Rox and Bathory's along the way. By the time they reached Mercy Q's, Curr was full of night mood and plunged into the pit to slam with the crowd. He climbed up on the stage and dove into the dancers again and again. Billy didn't like that very much even though the dancers always caught Curr. Curr was too cool to let crash and burn with his bottle-black hair and moonlight skin, with his silver spiked dog collar, flaming skulls and studded belts.

"Lighten up, Baby Guy," Curr advised, catching his breath and a beer between sets. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, but he couldn't keep still. He swayed back and forth on the heels of his thick-soled engineer boots, still jig-jigging to the sound racing in his head.

"I'm trying," Billy said. "I like the music and everything but there's so much noise. So much yelling. It sounds like people fighting all the time."

"Well, yeah, sure that's what it sounds like 'cause that's kind of like what it is. Things happen, people get mad about stuff. Better to come here and let it out, y'know? That way you don't hit no kids, you don't hurt nobody."

"That makes sense," Billy Prince agreed, admiring how wise Curr was. Like always.

"Relax," Curr urged, his eyes glittering behind a ragged fringe of hair. That, too, was cool-looking, a lush mohawk that was growing out wild. Curr had green eyes, too, although they weren't much like Billy's. They were big, smart and sharp -- coyote eyes, trickster eyes. They saw things and understood them the way Billy never could.

The band started up again and Curr shoved his way back onto the floor. Billy followed. For a while, it was okay but it was hard for Billy to get used to all the hands and the screaming, snarling faces and he retreated again to the sidelines while Curr enjoyed himself. Billy watched the dance from a safe distance and let the flash wash over him. He kept a wary eye on the doors but, still and all, it was Curr who first spotted the Private Security Squad headed their way.

"Tit-suckers, twelve o'clock," Curr warned.

"That's Mr. Sloan," Billy cried. "Those are my father's men!"

"Right. Make it or break it, Baby Guy!"

Billy ran, chasing Curr's lead. No one in the bar paid him any special attention which hurt more than helped. He didn't seem anything more than an extremely motivated slammer crashing through the party so no one bothered to get out of the way. Glancing back, Billy went cold beneath his sweat. The crowd parted easily enough for Mr. Sloan and his men. Sloan was easy to spot, standing well over six foot with muscle to match. He was mostly bald and what little hair he had left was lacquered to the top of his head with spray. Sloan moved through the dance pit like a fairy tale giant, Fee, fi, fo, fum -- your ass is mine, you little bum!

Billy gained momentum and sprinted for the exit. Dashed through. Then tripped over a well placed foot and fell sprawling. Even so, he would have been up and away except the person belonging to the foot reached down and hauled him up by the collar. Another of Sloan's men. This one had a big nose and a leather jacket.

"Gotcha, you little runt," Big Nose said.

Billy twisted around kicking, utilizing tactics he hadn't learned at his father's country club. But Big Nose was wise to his technique and dodged. He grabbed Billy's jacket front.

"Temper, temper," he warned and shook a heavily ringed fist at Billy's face.

"Duck, Baby Guy!" Curr yelled out. "Use your head!"

Billy ducked. He cowered down as if he would dodge the fist. Then sprang back and smashed Big Nose in the chin with the top of his head just as hard as he could. Big Nose staggered back, counting stars and squalling but still holding on. Then Curr was there, fists and feet pounding, hitting, kicking. Striking home. He launched himself at Big Nose's face and the squall became a muffled scream. They all went down in a rumble of arms and legs. When Curr bounced up again, he spit a large section of proboscis out onto the ground.

"In your face, asshole!" Curr laughed. He targeted in a kick and sent it home. When Sloan and two more of his men appeared at the exit, Curr spat at them. Some of it landed on Sloan's Armani, some on his face. In the second it took Sloan to react, Curr and Billy were gone.

Billy ran hounding Curr's lead. Pursuit wasn't long in following but he wouldn't let himself look back this time. He wouldn't let himself think about anything except getting away. If he'd stopped to look at where he was running or what he was climbing up and over, he might have fallen behind. He might have been caught.

"This way," Curr hissed and beat a path back into the Dark Heart.

Billy and Curr navigated the darkened ruins and trash drifts. Eventually, the noise of the hunt faded away. Then Curr led the way to a rusting fire escape, up to the low rooftops and doubled back.

"Where are you going?" Billy demanded, fearful.

Curr cautioned him to silence. "Listen," he whispered.

They didn't have to strain to hear.

"That little bastard!" Big Nose howled. "I'm going to kill him! No -- first I'm going to hurt him. Then I'm going to kill him."

"Be my guest," Sloan said. "He went that way."

"Shit. Damn. I'm not going in there. You think I'm crazy?"

"He goes in there. And he comes back out, too." Sloan gazed into the alley, a seer working a reluctant crystal. "A kid like that, a little prep school bastard. Where'd he learn how to fight like that? How'd he learn to survive out there?"

"Luck." Big Nose spat out the word. His voice was muted behind the handkerchief he held to his face. "It's just luck. But it ain't going to last."

"Nothing lasts."

"And Mr. Prince wants him back?" This from one of the others.

"He's the only son, the one and only heir to the mighty money empire," Sloan said. "Edward Prince has got more money than Donald Trump -- and twice the trouble. Billy Prince has been in and out of every big name boarding school in the States and a couple in Europe. There's always been problems. I don't know what set him running this time but Mr. Prince is determined to get him back."

One of the men laughed. It wasn't a friendly sound. "Hell. I'd kill him -- then adopt."

"Billy!" Sloan stepped up into the mouth of the alley dark. "Billy -- if you can hear me, there's some things you ought to know."

Billy and Curr waited, spying over the top of a low wall surrounding a flat roof. They could see Sloan and his men although they themselves made no more than a shadow in the flat, dark night.

"Billy, your dad wants you to come home," Sloan called. "He's got me looking for you. There's others looking, too. He's got your ATM code covered at every bank in the city. If you try to use it you'll be picked up. No more easy cash, Billy. You're broke. You've got to come home. You've got to make it up with him."

Billy trembled, listening to Sloan's voice ringing out, loud and clear. His fingers closed down on the edge of the wall and dug into the surface, tearing away what was left of his fingernails. Curr kept still and silent, his lips drawn back over stained teeth in what might have been a smile.

The air was thick with quiet, the listening-kind of quiet that meant everyone within earshot, living and not, was hanging onto Sloan's words, wondering, speculating, Is there something in this for me? What's going to happen next?

"I found you tonight, Billy," Sloan continued. "I'm going to find you again. Next time, I'll get you."

"Not if I get you first, dickhead," Curr yelled out. He took up a fist-sized brick and hurled it. Sloan's reflexes were outstanding. He sidestepped the missile before impact.

Curr's laughter barked out over the indignation and outrage that bellowed up from below. But their collective fury was only so much blow. It was impossible to track shadows in the Dark Heart and they knew Sloan would not give chase, not this time. Still, there would be other nights and other chances. Sloan would make certain of it.

Billy ran and ran, blind. His sole purpose was to get away, to put distance between himself and his father's men. He might have kept running, too, except that Curr grabbed hold of him and slowed him down. Forced him to stop. Billy collapsed on the roof, oblivious to the grit and gravel. He folded his arms over his legs and let his head fall onto his knees. For long minutes, all he did was breathe, dragging in air for his oxygen-starved body. He breathed and shook.

"They can't take me back," Billy gasped out when he could, fighting tears. "They can't. I won't . . . won't go."

"Those asswipes?" Curr jeered. "You're scared of them, Daddy's private dicks?"

Billy's answer to that was obvious. He shuddered.

"Oh, come on, man. It's okay," Curr coaxed. He made a comic face. "That guy is such a wuss. Can't you just picture the old man and lone Sloan? How do you think they do it? Does Daddy make him get on his back like a girl or does he do him on his knees like a dog? What do you think, Baby Guy?"

"I think Sloan's too old for him." Billy looked up and there was anger in his wide green eyes to companion the fear and the pain. "I know Sloan's too old for him."

"Yeah . . . yeah." Curr faltered a bit, suddenly self conscious, a little embarrassed. He stopped pacing and sat down with Billy. He stayed quiet, a small frown of concentration worried his moon-green eyes.

"Well, we made hash of Daddy tonight, didn't we?" Curr asked after a long while. "We showed him good. We got away."

"I can't go back there. I won't. Not now. Not again. Not after . . . ."

"Don't worry about it," Curr broke in. "We're okay. We got magic, remember? Here -- see?"

Curr reached behind him and pulled a .45 semi-automatic out of the holster secured at his back. The holster was a crude, handmade contrivance. But the gun was a beauty, a presentation piece made to Wild Bill Donovan, founder of the OSS, from Colt's Hartford works at the end of World War II. It was crafted from blued steel, the color of a full-moon midnight, with silver filigree on the slide and obsidian grips.

The gun was the prize of Edward Prince's private collection. The gun had secured Billy's escape the night he'd left home. It had never been fired. This pristine condition made the .45 that much more valuable as a collector's prize and, as far as Billy was concerned, a protective talisman. The Blue was magic.

Curr released the safety and cradled the gun in both fists. The sliver lacing glittered, a web of death in the black dog morning. He pulled back the slide.

"Cocked and locked, Baby Guy," Curr growled. "Six Winchester silver-tip hollow points in the mag and one in the pipe. Real silver, too. So long, Mr. Werewolf. Good-bye Dad-dy." He took careful aim at a mongrel star, pantomiming fire and recoil. "No more spring breaks." Aim. Shoot. Recoil. "No more Thanksgiving holidays. No more Christmas at-homes with the folks. Ho-Ho-Ho, Daddy, you've been a very bad boy this year. No toys for you."

Curr gave Billy a sideways grin, still sighting along the barrel. His expression was almost jolly except Billy couldn't smile back.

"Why does he keep after me? Why can't he just let me go?"

Curr offered no reply and Billy fell into silence again. They watched dawn dissolve the early morning black to muddy gray.

"He's going to get me, isn't he?" Billy finally said. It wasn't quite a question.

"You stick close with me," Curr replied, automatically. By now his was a ritual response. "I'll take care of you, Baby Guy. You'll be okay."

"I'm not going back there." Billy swallowed, tasting blood. "Never, never again. I'd rather die first."

"Yeah. I know."

"What did I ever do to him?" Anger again. And fear. And grief. "Why did he do that? Why did he always hurt me like that? What did I do?"

"Nothing. You didn't do nothing."

"Then why?" Billy asked again. And again. "Then why?"

He dozed under a lullaby of unanswered questions while Curr watched the sun shove its way up over the horizon. Night's black beasts closed their eyes and turned tail for home. The morning star bloodied the sky, beating down both rich and poor upon its blazing altar. Curr put the .45 back in its crude holster and settled down with Billy. Heat and light made visions of gore behind his eyelids. Like the celebrated Sredni Vashtar, Curr's thoughts were red thoughts. His sharp, white teeth gnashed together in anticipation of dreaming.

But a noise of stealthy footsteps crunching on the pavement below brought them both awake and up, Curr on point, sniffing for trouble. In the near alley, a tattered crone rattled along, dragging her bags beside her. Her fists were clenched onto plastic and canvas, an angry mother towing unwilling children off for discipline. Wraith-thin, her clothes and trappings fluttered about her leaving debris in her wake, decay on the hoof.

She stopped at the fire escape at the building directly opposite and began to move up the rusty rungs with the quick and quiet scrabble-scurry of an accomplished pack-rat. It was a deserted building, the same as too many others in the Dark Heart. Each window was marked with giant "X," crossbones without a skull. The firewalk swayed away from the wall and back but the old woman only paused when she reached the broken platform several floors up. A big chunk of the escape was missing, dividing the ground route from the top.

She's not going to camp up there for the day, is she? Billy wondered, uncomfortable. Curr stayed mostly still, watching.

"Girl!" the crone hissed. "Girl-child, let down the rope. I be home. I be here."

Several rapid heartbeats passed. The Bag-Queen called out again, more loudly. Angry, too.

"Girl-brat -- the rope! Damn you, move!"

A bright head appeared at the broken window one floor up from the platform, a pale sun shining out of a dismal pit. Then a knotted length tumbled down from the sill. First the bags were hauled up and over. The rope appeared once again and the Bag-Queen took hold. She scrambled up the knots and disappeared in, sliding over the ledge and into the black hole. The smack of flesh on flesh rang out across the alley.

"Take your time with me, will you? Leave me to dangle ass up in the wind?"

The noise that followed carried quite clearly in the smog fogged morning. It was over fast, however. Silence curdled back in waves.

"Show's over. Go to sleep," Curr said.

But Billy Prince only stood and stared, wide-eyed, across the alley.

"Sleep," Curr growled, insisting. And when Billy tried to protest, to question, he shook his head. "That ain't nothing to us."

They found a new, clear spot and curled together, falling into slumber like puppies with no clear beginning or ending of form. Still, their dreams were very different. Billy fled from faces distorted with screaming, from descending fists and other things he tried not to see or remember. Curr's dreams were of the hunt, of lightning and thunder and body bags which left a smile on his child's mouth.

Twilight found them up and about again but not as usual. Billy watched the window across the alley for any sign of movement. Curr prowled restlessly.

"I'm hungry," Curr said.

"Let's wait a while and see what happens," Billy said back, determined. "Who do you think they are? Why are they living there? What's going on?"

"Who cares?" Curr shook his head. "I smell trouble here. Danger."

"You always smell danger."

"Always right, too."

Billy didn't protest. There wasn't any point. They both knew Curr was right more often than not, especially about intuiting the bad stuff. Still, Billy wouldn't move away from his lookout post.

The night came in, swallowing the day's despair, bringing out the hunters. When it was well and truly dark, the Bag-Queen appeared at the window again. She spied about carefully, peering this way and that, looking all around their desolate little cul-de-sac. All was still. There wasn't even a breeze to toss the street litter about. The rope came out of the window and soon the old woman was down and away.

"You want to go check it out?" Curr said. It wasn't much of a question.

Billy nodded, intent.

"Yes," he said.

"Won't do me no good to say this feels like trouble, will it?"

"Don't be like that. You heard how it was over there last night. You saw her, didn't you -- that girl? Besides ...." Billy tried a smile on him. "You want to know what's going on, too, don't you?"

"Yeah, but I don't have to."

Curr made an annoyed sound and got up. They tracked their way down into the alley and onto the firewalk. All in all, it was a very bleak area, the soil so toxic nothing could grow, not even weeds. The graffiti was so ancient and layered with soot, it was impossible to read. Still, Billy and Curr needed no translation of the brick's cryptic memorandums. They understood the glyphs were saying, Turn Back Now. . . this means you, fool!

They went up the rusty ladder, rung after rung, step after step.

"Girl-child -- let down the rope!" Curr growled out in a very decent imitation of the Bag-Queen's voice. "Let it down, I say."

Billy and Curr waited, pressed hard against ancient brick and crumbling mortar -- but not for long. The knotted rope came tumbling down at them before Curr finished his call.

Up, up and over Billy Prince went, fist over fist, foot over foot. When he appeared at the window ledge, the girl with the yellow hair gave a shrill, sharp shriek and scrambled away. Then stopped. And stared.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Looking for you," Billy said.

"Did my Mama send you?"

"No." Billy swung his legs over the sill and came into the room. The girl took some more steps backwards but she didn't run. She watched him with great, unblinking brown eyes.

"You're not scared of me, are you?" Billy asked.

"Yes, I am. Very much."

"Why don't you run away?"

"Because . . . because I want to see." She shrugged a little and dragged a fistful of hair from out of her face. "Besides, where would I go?"

Billy glanced around the vast, junk laden room.

"This is it?" he asked.

"Yep." She sniffed and shrugged again. Her hair fell back into her face. "Are you sure my Mama didn't send you to get me?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, who are you then?"

"A friend." Billy crossed further into the room, trying to explore in the feeble light but for every step he took in her direction, the girl took one away. "I'm not going to hurt you," Billy said.

"Okay." She nodded, agreeable, but still kept a cautious distance between them.

"Yeah, okay," Billy Prince said. He took one, very deliberate step away from her, his heel coming down hard on the dusty wooden floor. A little less fear filtered through the girl's brown eyes.

That was good. Billy didn't want her to be afraid of him. She looked as though she might be as old as fifteen, maybe as young as twelve. She wasn't very tall. At least, she wasn't any taller than Billy and that was nice. She was quite slim, an obviously budding female-type beneath her filthy, over-sized, tie-dyed shirt. The t-shirt seemed to be the whole of her current wardrobe, that and her hair. It was long, thick and mostly blond although it looked more collie-colored up close with streaks of white and toffee brown mixed through. Billy thought it was very pretty even though it needed a wash. She folded her arms beneath her small breasts and regarded him just as curiously.

"You got any other name besides 'Girl'?" Billy asked.

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

She shook her head.

"It's a secret. Gran said I mustn't tell. Not ever."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'll get it good. And then the bad people will come and take me away."

"What bad people?"

Girl screwed her face up into an expression of evil ferocity -- at least, as evil as she could appear. Her hands made grasping, clawing motions in the air.

"You know," she insisted. "The Bad People. The police people."

"Oh," Billy said. He put his hands in his pockets, peering around. "You've got a really big place. There's a lot of stuff here."

"Gran brings it home every night."

"Can I look around?"

"Sure," Girl said. "'S'okay."

Billy looked around, poking into this and that. Pretty soon, Girl was at his side, exploring, too. Next, after that, she was guiding him along, pointing out favorite treasures and choice secrets. The building was an old factory, an ancient sweatshop where hundreds had poured out their blood and souls in return for the miserly wages that kept them alive from week to week. Girl led Billy to the far-back of the floor, to a scorched and blackened area.

"We can't go any farther than here. We'd fall through," she said and Billy saw that this was true. "This is where the ghost mama comes," Girl continued, whispering. "Gran says, when the fire started, she wouldn't leave her baby. She wasn't supposed to have the baby there so she hid him in the cloth, in the basket. Then, when the fire came she couldn't go and she didn't get out. Now they're here forever. When Gran goes away nights, I hear her singing. You can hear the old machines going, clickety-clack. But the ghost mama sings louder, baby songs like how my Mama used to sing sometimes."

"She stayed with her baby?" Billy asked, awed. "She wouldn't leave?"

Girl shook her head, solemnly.

"Gran says they was found together. Smoke got 'em."

"Wow."

They sat down near the edge of the scorch marks and waited and listened but the ghost mother didn't show. Girl settled against Billy and pulled his arm around her like a blanket. That startled him a little, pleased him more.

"How long have you lived here?" Billy asked.

"A long time . . . since forever." She grimaced with child-like exaggeration.

Billy smiled. "Surely, not forever?"

She shrugged a little and batted at her hair. Billy was getting used to those gestures. They seemed to be Girl's prerequisite for communication.

"Well, there was before," she explained. "But Gran told me not to talk about that."

"I won't tell her you talked."

"No, you won't. You can't. You can't let Gran find you here. She'd kill you dead, that's for sure. Or . . . or she'd hurt you, really bad."

Billy understood that it wasn't a child's brag and didn't argue. He asked instead, "She leaves you alone every night like this?"

"Yes. Every night." Girl scratched at an old scab. "She looks for things to bring back to the ghost mama so she'll leave us alone. She looks for things to trade, things to eat. She looks for children, too, but I'm the only one she ever got."

"How did that happen?"

"At the Fresh Market -- where they sell the flowers, where they sell the fruits and the vegetables and stuff. We was shopping, my Mama and me, but she traded me away to Gran."

"Why?"

"So the new baby would be a boy-baby. A baby to keep. That's what Gran said."

"Your mother was pregnant?"

"Yeah. She was having another one. Didn't want me."

"I don't know about that. What if Gran lied? What if she just wanted to steal you away from your mother?"

"Then how come Mama didn't come get me?" Girl demanded, suddenly furious. "How come she didn't find me? She didn't send you, did she? She didn't send the others."

"What others?"

Shrug. Shove. Girl sat up and folded her arms around herself.

"You know. Others...." Girl's eyes were sad. The whole business was a series of wounds, old and new, and they still hurt. "I don't want to talk no more," she said.

And, so, they didn't.

But Billy Prince thought he understood about the 'others.' Derelicts and outlaws, scavengers and street gypsies would have surely stumbled on the Bag-Queen's hideaway over the years just as he and Curr had. Perhaps they had followed the old woman home looking for easy game only to find their own uneasy death.

When dawn came near, it found Girl and Billy still sitting together, sharing warmth, sharing silence, half asleep. Curr crept up and shook Billy awake.

"Better hustle, Baby Guy. Granny Bag-Queen's on her way."

"Shit," Billy said and Girl started up. "I've got to go," he told her.

Girl was smart. She knew the need for speed was upon them and led the way through more than a decade's worth of collected debris -- back to the window, back to the fire escape! Billy followed Curr's racing shadow out over the ledge.

"Wait," Girl called. "You'll come back, won't you?"

Billy halted in mid-flight. Girl had never learned to hide what she was feeling. The direct appeal shining out of her great eyes pierced him right through the heart.

"See you tomorrow," he promised. "We can listen for the ghost mama again."

For the first time that night, Girl looked skeptical. She had heard promises before.

"How do I know you really mean it? How do I know you'll really come?"

Some rungs below, Curr laughed nasty. Billy Prince frowned down at him.

"I'll come back for this," Billy said and pulled the strutter's gold chain out of his pocket. "That's real gold. My mother gave it to me. You take care of it for me, okay?"

Girl grasped the broken chain and held it tight, glowing with responsibility and purpose.

"I'll take care of it," she promised.

Billy darted close and left a kiss on Girl's grimy cheek. "Tomorrow," he said.

And fled.

Billy and Curr scurried back to their rooftop. They settled into shadow-shelter just in time to watch Granny Bag-Queen come home. In silence, they watched her ascend. In silence, they settled back after. Thinking. Considering.

But not for long.

"Fucking liar," Curr growled softly. "Your mother...!"

"I had to say something."

"Why say anything? Why lie?"

"Sometimes that happens. Lying doesn't always have to be a bad thing, does it?"

"Lies always come out bad," Curr said.

Billy flushed bright red, chewing on the wreck of his thumbnail. "I'm sorry," he said. "I won't do it again."

Curr sighed. "You're going back again. Aren't you?"

"You know I am."

"Not smart." Curr gazed up at the sky, studying the blackness between the zillion or so points of light. There was always more dark than stars. "This is not a smart move."

"You're probably right. Maybe I should have brought her with us."

"Oh, positively." Curr's laughter howled out into what was left of the night. "Now that would have been a real brilliant thing to do. Not!"

They didn't talk any more after that, just settled down for day-sleep like baby vampires. Once again, the dreams that came for Curr were still in happy shades of red and black. However, Billy's dreams were of a time before Curr when there was only Sheba. Billy Prince dreamed of Mothers who never came, of lost children and dogs.

In Billy's dreams, there is always a full moon and Werewolf Daddy reaching for him in the deep-dark early morning. There is the suffocating money smell, alcohol and smoke on Daddy's breath, expensive cologne on his hairy hide . . . the heavy, humid, relentless advance of one creature forcing his way into another's space.

"Fight me." It is a big voice from a big man, slurred with liquor and lust. "Put up your fists and fight! Be a man, you little puke."

Billy Prince does fight but the struggle never lasts long. Too soon he is curling up, curling away, trying to get away. He tries to make himself as small as possible, he tries to become invisible. That doesn't work either. In the end, Billy becomes nothing more than a tiny baby again, crying and calling for help. He calls for "Mama." But if Mama hears, she never comes. Afterwards, Daddy says things to Billy that are almost worse than what he does.

Almost.

There is never any help. It never stops. It goes away, yes. Sometimes, there are great long chunks of time when the Werewolf stays away. But always, he comes back.

Until the night with Sheba. She was just a little dog, a black mongrel terrier with a silver-spiked collar that Billy found abandoned on the road near the house. Home for the holidays again, this time Spring Break at the Big House in the woods. Billy was wandering the lavish, tree-lined drive when he found her. It didn't take boy or dog long to recognize the friend in each other.

"That's one sorry looking mutt," Cook said while Billy filched roast beef and pate de foie gras out of the pantry for Sheba's dinner. "You better not let your Daddy catch her in this house."

"You won't tell?" Billy asked, his body tight with tension.

"Not me! I don't say nothing! I don't believe in making trouble for nobody or no one. But you better watch out for your Daddy. You know how he is."

Billy knew how Daddy was -- better than Cook. He managed to keep a low profile, he and Sheba. Everything would have been all right except that the Werewolf had to pick that time to come out to hunt and to hurt. Only two nights away from going back to school, too. It would have been all right except for that.

Werewolf Daddy came into the bedroom, late, just like always. Billy lay still and scared, his mind screaming awake at the sound of the door-click. His hands immediately closed down on the warm lump of fur that sprawled beside him on the bed. A low, menacing growl sounded out in the dark.

But it didn't come from Daddy.

And it sure didn't come from Billy.

"What the...?" Daddy said, puzzled, and stepped in the pile of dog crap Sheba had deposited at the door. He slipped, losing a slipper, sat down hard and cracked his head back against the door.

Billy yelled out and Sheba charged, launching herself at the intruder with every ounce of muscle she had in her twenty pound, short-legged, wire-haired body. Then Werewolf Daddy was yelling and yelping, too. He sounded angry -- but he sounded hurt and scared as well. That was certainly a first. Billy Prince stood on his bed and screamed, "Get him, Sheba! Get him!"

Lights were suddenly going on all over the house. Then Daddy was up and running, trying to get away. His expensive robe was torn, his leather slippers were both gone. There was dog crap and dog spit and blood all over him. Sheba wouldn't let go. She chased him down the hallway as he fled, snapping, biting and snarling. Daddy had to stop and pry her loose only to have her charge again. Daddy kept running, crashing into walls, knocking over furniture. Sheba kept following close. Billy ran behind.

If he had been less excited, if there had been less confusion, Billy would have noticed that they were headed into the gun room. He yelled out in his sleep, seeing that again, and Curr had to wake him up. The sun was high in the sky and the daylight was hot but Billy sat up in the rooftop shade and shook as if caught in an arctic wind.

"You're dreaming again," Curr said. "You're here now. It's just dreaming."

"He shot her," Billy wailed. "He shot my dog."

"Yeah, yeah -- I know."

"He just blew her away. He just kept shooting, till there wasn't anything left!"

"Naw, that's not true." Curr ran his finger under the spiked collar he wore. "There was this. And all the stuff that happened next."

"When you showed up."

"When I showed up," Curr snarled pleasantly, showing teeth.

"We went for him then," Billy said.

"Yes."

"And Sheba was with us."

"Yes."

"Right there in the gun room."

"Yes."

"She joined the hunt and stalked with us. She led the charge and fought with us. She gave us magic and helped us escape. Sheba the hunter, who dreams of the kill. Sheba the undying...."

Billy Prince and Curr chanted together -- two voices and two souls locked in a single, shared body. One voice was soft and well-spoken; the other was a gravel-coated snarl. One heart held the burden of ruined innocence; the other carried the core of rage. One child lived to love and be loved. One defended and survived. Comforted by the now-familiar litany, they rocked together, hidden in the rooftop shade. Curr circled his legs with his arms, Billy Prince lay his head on his knees. The sun beat down on punk-rags and a flaming-skull leather jacket, on bottle-black hair growing out yellow. A pair of pale green eyes fluttered shut.

"You stick close with me," Curr's voice growled softly from between Billy's lips. "I'll take care of you, Baby Guy. You'll be okay."

"What would I do without you?" Billy murmured, exhausted.

Curr chuckled softly and said, "I am Siva the Destroyer, I am Natesa of the Dance. I am Coyote -- and when I track down the Road Runner, that bird is toast! I'm the living shadow on your bedroom wall, Peter Pan and Captain Hook all rolled into one. There's a part of me that is Inigo Montoya who loved his father and hunted his killer. There's another part that is the Grey Mouser who never knew his. There's a little slice of David whose daddy was a vampire and whose brothers were Lost Boys. I'm Scaramouche and Abu, the Thief of Baghdad, Son of the Thief of Baghdad, Grandson of the Thief of Baghdad and Johnnie One-Eye and Old Yeller -- except, of course, I never die. I am never captured, never taken. I always get away in the end."

They continued to rock together, Billy and Curr, Curr and Billy, drifting back into sleep.

"I know your dreams, Billy, I am your strength." Curr whispered, still smiling. "I'm the one who's smart. I hunt to kill. I fight to win. I'm the big brother who is always there for you. I'm the best friend you never had. You'd croak without me, I guess."

"Yeah," Billy agreed, "I guess," and, consoled, dropped into blissfully dreamless sleep.

The day's catharsis brought peace for several weeks. Their waking-time together was agreeably spent and a new pattern of existence evolved. During the commuter twilights, they ran the fringes of the Dark Heart, helter-skelter, scavaging food and finds. When the night set in, they returned to Girl to share their plunder and regale her with their exploits. Curr was not always a willing visitor but, from time to time, even he came out to speak. Still, almost every night, there was a discussion when Billy would argue to go to Girl while Curr remained obstinately opposed.

"Still don't feel right," Curr complained. "It's not natural."

"Like this is natural, the way we're living here?" Billy demanded, smiling. (He was smiling a lot these nights.)

"I smell danger."

"Of course you do. What would you expect here? Anyway, I thought you liked living on the edge."

"Don't like living stupid," Curr snapped back.

Billy could not resist the urge to plead; it was necessary to him that Curr want what he wanted. "We promised we'd go back to see her," he said. "You were the one who said we would never break a promise. Never tell a lie."

"I said I'd never lie to you," Curr corrected. "But we've got to keep safe. Got to stay smart. We've been going to the same place every night. People will see. People will find out, track us down. Take us back."

"You won't let that happen. You're too smart for them. Besides," Billy coaxed. "You like visiting Girl, too."

They both knew that was true even if Curr wasn't ready to admit it.

"I'd like visiting Girl more if we could really party." Curr leered in his lethal, coyote way. "We could be having an excellent time together if you weren't so uptight about fucking. There isn't anything wrong with the cuddle and squeeze except for that stuff that happened with you and your old man. Besides, I think Girl would like it."

"I don't want to talk about that," Billy would say and go sulky himself. That kind of chatter made him mad although not with Curr. He was certain Curr had a point, that the failing in this area lay with himself. Still, it was not a subject he felt inclined to discuss. So they always tabled that conversation and went on -- usually up the fire escape and the knotted rope to Girl.

That was how their evenings went until it all ended. One night, Billy climbed up the knots and started in only to find Granny Bag-Queen waiting inside the window, not Girl. It was the last thing they had ever expected.

The Bag-Queen reared up sudden, wailing banshee loud and whirling a rusty bicycle chain over her head. She was so close Billy could count the scales on her flaking, ancient flesh, look into the rotting-gum mouth and reel back from the stench. Her gray-white hair frizzed out around her face like lightning-stoked snakes. Billy froze where he was, one hand on the ledge, the other wrapped around the rope.

The Bag-Queen whipped the chain out at him, aiming for his face, for his eyes and Billy threw himself back. That move wouldn't have saved him. Sweating palms did. Billy slid down the rope a half-foot and the links went spinning over his head. By the time Granny brought the chain back again, Curr was there.

Curr launched himself at the Bag-Queen, teeth bared, fingers clawed. Granny went down in a heap beneath him, her howls of rage turning to wailing pain and shock. They rolled a space across the floor, hit a solid heap of bags and broke apart.

Curr came up, snarling, covered in cobwebs that clung to his clothes, his skin, his mouth. He brushed them aside, noted the glitter. Hesitated. He hadn't been rolling in spider-junk. This was hair, long and shining, collie-colored.

"What did you do?" Billy and Curr demanded, one voice frightened, the other angry.

"You ruined it," the Bag-Queen hissed. "You ruined everything!"

"Where is she?"

"Gone from here . . . gone forever!" They circled each other, glowering. "Thief," the Bag-Queen accused. "You stole my baby, you hurt my child!"

"What are you talking about?" Curr snapped.

"She was mine, mine! I'm the one who found her. I took care of her!" The old woman's breath came harsh and heavy, complicated by tears. Her eyes were bright; they were hungry sparks in her face and full of hate. The Bag-Queen shook and her rags trembled around her spreading a fallout of yellow silk. "You took her away!"

That wasn't so and Billy and Curr knew it. Billy would have taken time to argue. He would have said, "We didn't do anything. No one's ever hurt Girl except you. No one's ever beat her except you. You're the one who locked her up in here. You're the thief, the one who stole her from her mother!"

Billy's talking would have gotten them killed.

Curr, however, never wasted words. He charged the witch again, moving fast when he spotted the knife in her hand. The Bag-Queen fought back. She'd butchered before and knew what she was doing. There was more bone and gristle than meat and blood to her scrawny carcass. It was as if most of what made a person a living being had been leeched out of her long ago. She was tough to hold onto. She was hard to kill. But somehow, Curr managed it.

Curr circled the body when it was done, breathing fast and rocking on his toes like he had that night at the dance pit. His eyes were moon-bright and green fire, wide and rimmed white. The shallow cuts she'd left him wept dark tears. He darted forward and kicked the blade out of her clenched corpse-fist. Waited. Watched. He circled her a third time and kicked the body. Jumped back. Granny flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Trapped air rattled out of her lungs in a final hiss.

"Same to you, you old witch," Curr growled, showing teeth.

And that was the end of the Bag-Queen.

Billy eventually came forward. He crouched beside the body and stared. "She's dead," he gasped out, amazed. "You killed her."

"Yeah. I did."

"So how are we going to find Girl?"

Curr scowled, puzzled. "You heard her. Girl's not here."

"How can you be sure? She could be unconscious. She could be . . . she could be dead, too, buried under this trash."

"Naw, you'd smell that." Curr frowned and shook his head. "She's gone. Somebody took her."

"But who . . . how?"

"Think -- old Queenie was waiting for us tonight. She couldn't have known about us unless she saw something. Or unless somebody told her. Girl wouldn't have blabbed so it was somebody else that talked. Someone else took Girl away."

Billy clapped his hands over his ears. He didn't want to hear what Curr had to say. He didn't want to hear but he didn't have any choice.

Curr stepped over the Bag-Queen's corpse like he would pass over any other large pile of rags. He stopped at the window and Billy and Curr peered out into the alley. Outside, the lot was still and silent, filled with the crush of hidden menace. They should have been able to hear the city sounds, the start and stop of distant traffic and wailing sirens. They should have heard the clatter of people fighting, people cursing, laughing and talking. But there was nothing. All those noises were gone, swallowed by a more immediate threat.

"You know who's out there," Curr said.

"Sloan and his men." Billy shivered. "They've found us."

"They're the one's got Girl. I told you it wasn't safe here. Told you it wasn't smart." There was no reproach in Curr's voice, just flat fact. "We can't stay here."

"We can't go either. Not if they've really got her."

"That's your choice then?"

Billy understood. "You're going away now, aren't you?"

"Got to," Curr said. "You know that. I can't be caught. Can't be taken."

Billy didn't answer right away so Curr said, "Thought you was going to die before you went back home. Stay free or die -- that was the deal."

"Yes. I know."

"I take it now you're considering other options."

"They've got Girl with them, you know what that's like. She's our friend. I can't leave her with them." Billy trembled feeling the tears in his voice and in his heart.

"Choose it or loose it, Baby Guy," Curr spoke slowly, his voice growing softer and more distant with every word. "There ain't no dreams except the ones you make yourself and we kind of blew this one. Everything else is nightmare."

The grief, the terror finally traveled up to Billy's eyes and ran down over his face.

"Oh. God," he whispered. "I can't go."

"No," Curr finished, sadly. "I don't guess you can . . . but I have to."

And he did.

Billy Prince took in a deep breath. His hands closed onto the window frame driving splinters into his skin and mashing his shredded fingernails. It hurt a lot but the emptiness hurt more. The void was horrible. It was a sudden cancer of the soul, an instant of absolute, internal decay. He was alone. Billy swayed where he stood, holding his air as if he could suck back that essence which had so recently and effortlessly taken flight. When at last he let go, the sound of it was like a scream. It was a noise of dying.

In the dark below the firewalk, the shadows rushed forward. Billy watched them come and hoped for the decisive shock of mindlessness, that the part of him which still reasoned might still escape after Curr. When that didn't happen, he hoped for something more final.

Instead, Big Nose in leather spiraled up the knotted rope and thrust his head into the room. A white bandage stretched over his face, glowing very stark against his swarthy skin.

"Hello, Billy-boy," Big Nose said. "Miss me?"

Curr would have said, "Like the plague," and shoved him off his perch into damage and possible death with a grin and a wave. Billy could only stare, nauseated with the understanding that whatever was happening now, it was going to get much worse much faster than he was prepared for.

Big Nose hit Billy with his forearm across the head as he jumped inside. The man was a professional and understood how easy it was to break a hand hitting people in the face hard enough to knock them out. Billy collapsed at the first blow but Big Nose laid in two more jabs and a kick before the others got into the room. Personal payback. Loan Sloan did some shouting when he arrived and Big Nose shouted back.

But Billy Prince was unaware of all that and pretty much stayed unaware for a long time after. When he finally woke up, he was hurting badly. The pain was sharp and very personal. He opened his eyes and tried to move. Then immediately reconsidered.

Billy knew the room he was in, his father's gun room. Nothing in the Dark Heart had ever been as terrible as this. It was a monument to killing, a shrine to death. There were guns on the walls, revolvers, pistols, rifles and shotguns, all lovingly cared for and loaded. There were knives and swords, mounted heads and glossy animal hides. Billy remembered the parties, his father showing off, talking to other men and women about his collection. He remembered the quiet times when his father would get Billy alone and tell him more personal stories about velocity, penetration and effect, cartridges, speed loads, spattered bodies, severed limbs and slow-dying kill. He was surrounded by all the old, familiar odors -- the scent of machine oil and essence of sulphur. Memory struck his senses like a fist. Then someone moved nearby, close enough to touch. Billy flinched away but the presence persisted, coming closer.

"Billy...." It was Girl's voice whispering at his ear. "Billy, are you awake? Don't go to sleep again, okay?"

He opened his eyes and tried sitting up. Girl crouched beside him, clutching his hand in both of hers. Her eyes looked bigger than ever; they were red and bruised looking and not as pretty as he remembered.

"What happened to your hair?" Billy asked.

Girl's hair had been shorn away to the scalp. Blood crusted several small wounds. The trembling in her hands became shaking.

"Gran found where I hid your Mama's chain," Girl said. "She wanted to know where I got it. She started yelling and everything but I didn't tell her anything. Gran was real mad. She done this to my head. She scared me, she hurt me and I started yelling, too. I was yelling for you -- but those men came instead. They took me away with them. They said they was taking me to you but you weren't there. And then, when you did come, you was all banged up and hurt. Then we come here." Girl began to cry again, her hands became talons on Billy's arm. "I don't like it here. I want to go home. I want Gran."

"Gran's dead," Billy said. "She tried to kill us. Curr got her."

"Don't care. I want to go home. Take me home."

Girl's wails pierced Billy's aching head like a series of red hot nails. He struggled up and put his arm around her, trying to quiet her, trying to think. Every movement brought on a fresh sequence of razor knives and rocks-on-flesh traveling up and down his body -- through his body. Pain pulled him away from the first rush of fear.

"I'll get you home," Billy promised. "I'll get you back to your real home with your real mother, okay? Just stop crying. Now you can tell me your real name, all right? Okay?"

The tears only got worse.

"Don't remember," she sobbed. "I don't remember my name. It's gone ... it's all gone."

"You've got to stop crying," Billy pleaded. "Please, Girl -- it's not helping."

He might have said more but the words quit in his throat. Edward Prince rose up from his chair by the fireplace and, suddenly, there was tangible, breathing nightmare strolling towards them. He arrived heralded by the scent of liquor, smoke and the heady aroma of cold, hard cash. Edward wore his riches like armor; money protected; money attacked; money absorbed and conquered. His eyes were green with it, narrow and cutting-sharp. Billy only saw his father as the Big Man, a Werewolf, a Monster, but by true physical account, Edward Prince was no more than average in size. Still, others shared Billy's vision. The larger-than-life projection of who Edward Prince was and what he was filled any room he was in. Edward Prince demanded acknowledgement, he could not be ignored. He subdued or seduced anyone who crossed his path.

Edward Prince regarded his son with an expression locked between amusement and contempt. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly lyrical, a mixture of Ivy League and Board Room, a blend of international excursion and Iacocca candor.

"Do you mean to tell me that with all of the available flesh in the city, this is the best you could do?" Edward began. "No, wait ... don't tell me. She followed you home, just like that other little bitch, right? Now you want to know if you can keep her."

Billy watched his father approach. Girl's sobs died down to whimpers; she snuffled, staring up from the floor. Edward regarded them pleasantly.

"Gone mute have you, boy? Don't you have anything to say? Aren't you glad to be back?"

"No," Billy answered honestly.

"Well, it's good to have you home again, son. You know how your mother and I worry."

Edward struck him hard enough to knock him off the couch. Billy tumbled onto the floor and kept rolling, anxious to dodge a possible foot. Girl quickly swallowed her noise and scrambled out of the way. She got her back to the wall and waited, very alert, actively seeking escape.

Billy staggered up to his feet. He hazarded a step or two, trying to keep an eye on Edward, trying not to pass out again.

"I'll give you this," Edward Prince said. "You kept us guessing. You made Sloan work for his money. No one thought the little bookworm would last a minute out there without his books to keep him company, without his stories and videos to hide in. I never thought you could survive without your library."

"So I'm not like you, I know that," Billy croaked out, at last. "But what's the point? Why bring me back?"

"You took something that belonged to me." Edward walked back to the fireplace and took up the .45 Blue from the mantle. "Nobody steals from me, not even my son."

Girl blinked rapidly in astonishment, very indignant. "No," she cried out. "You're the thief. That's Curr's magic. That belongs to Curr!"

Girl charged Edward before Billy could stop her. Head down and determined, she rocketed out of her corner. She hit Edward mid-section and nearly knocked him off his feet. The .45 went flying out of his hand which was just as well because Edward needed both of them. Girl fought like a ferret caught in a trap. Her fists and feet hit home quite accurately, she bit into his hand and held on. It required all of Edward's efforts to hold her off and drive her away. By the time he managed it, he was panting and bleeding, his clothing was torn and his skin was bruised. The Werewolf was loose and he was angry.

"You mangy, filthy, little bitch," the Monster roared and raised his fist. "How dare you?"

"Don't you hit her," Billy warned. He captured and held the .45 in both hands, aimed it steady. "Don't move! Don't move or -- or I'll blow your brains out."

Werewolf Daddy regarded him somewhat seriously. "You sound almost as if you mean it," he said.

"I do."

"All right. Say I believe you. What now?"

Billy swallowed and considered. There was really only one way to go but that was a very scary thought.

"I said, what now?" the Werewolf insisted, bellowing.

"Shut up!" Billy yelled back. He was glad to see he wasn't shaking anymore. He stood very firm with his legs outstretched and arms out straight, just like he had seen the shooters at the range.

Just like his father.

Not a happy thought, that. A shudder racked through Billy's body and for a long moment he reconsidered, If I put the gun against my own head, if I pull the trigger just once, then it's over. It's done. I'm out of here.

"Give it up, Billy." Werewolf Daddy snicker-snarled, shifting into a more comfortable posture. "You're not going to shoot. You don't have the nerve."

"Don't come any closer," Billy warned. He held his ground, frozen into place. "Don't move."

The Werewolf took one step towards him. Then another. "You couldn't kill me the night you ran away," he said. "I don't believe you can do it now either."

"I won't let you hurt me any more," Billy said. "I won't let you hurt Girl."

But Werewolf Daddy just kept moving in. There wasn't much that looked human about him now. His green eyes had gone yellow, slanty and glowing, his shoulders were hunched-up muscles, ready to spring for the kill. His teeth were sharp, his hands were clawed. The size of him, the smell of him filled the room, floor to ceiling. Billy shook his head, trembling. Surely, it wasn't possible to destroy such a beast. What new horror would take place if he tried?

What would happen if he didn't?

"Pull the trigger, son. I dare you," Werewolf Daddy laughed, genuinely amused. "Show me what you're made of, boy. I double-dog dare you."

"Please," Billy gasped out. He closed his eyes. He squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The boy felt himself turn ghost-white. Sweat popped out on his face and poured over his skin like a rush of blood. The grips went slick in his hands. He pulled the trigger again.

Again -- nothing! The Blue wouldn't work. It wouldn't fire.

The beast lurched towards him suddenly, gaining ground, moving fast. His jaws split open in a ragged tooth grin that stretched from ear to ear.

"I knew you couldn't do it," the Werewolf said. "You spineless little puke."

"Release the safety, Baby Guy! Damn, do I have to tell you everything?"

Curr's voice barked out from across the room. Billy freed the safety and tried the trigger again. The Blue worked just fine, just like magic. Lightning flashed and thunder roared seven times for seven silver bullets, creating a miniature, room-sized tempest and a wash of scarlet rain. The first bullet stopped the Werewolf and jerked him back, a film monster caught up and suddenly hurled into reverse. Each additional impact shoved him farther and farther away. The Werewolf howled, dancing backwards, pitching over the mahogany coffee table. He crashed into a display case of antique single-shot, muzzle-loading pistols. He rolled onto the carpet, twitching, rolling, thrashing the air with hands and feet and snapping jaws. He was very surprised and quite pissed off -- but Werewolf Daddy died all the same.

When the monster was truly dead, Curr sauntered over to investigate, still wearing Girl's body.

"You nailed him, Baby Guy." S/he beamed. "I knew you could."

"You came back," Billy said, pleased.

"Told you I'd take care of you. Told you you'd be okay."

"I don't know about that." Billy's legs began to wobble so he sat down. "I killed my father ... didn't I? He's dead, isn't he?"

"Werewolf Daddy has cruised his last full moon," Curr declared. "He is muy finito."

"There's going to be trouble about this," Billy whispered, pale.

"Think about it, Baby Guy. Would they let anything happen to the heir of the mighty bank roll?" Curr jeered. "Wait till you tell them what's been going on with you and Daddy. They'll croon a new tune fast enough, you bet. Girl will talk, I'll help her. Your mother will talk. Even Loan Sloan will back you up now. Count on it."

"But nobody helped me before," Billy stammered, baffled. "Nobody ever did anything."

"Yeah ... you know, that's right." Curr grinned a coyote smile -- very hungry. "We might want to address that later. In private, don't you know?"

"What's happening to me?" Girl gasped, confused. "What's going on?"

"Curr's here," Billy explained.

Girl appeared unsure. Billy took her hand and squeezed it gently. "It's really all right," he promised. "You'll get used to it."

"You stick close with me," Curr growled pleasantly and Girl's eyes took on a moon-green shine. "I'll take care of you, Baby Girl. You'll be okay. And you know what else?"

"No," Billy said, curiously. "What else?"

"If this plays out the way I think, I believe we're all going to live happily ever after."

Outside in the hall, they all heard the sound of several people running, coming closer. Billy continued to look doubtful but Curr's grin broadened.

"Trust me, my children," he said, his voice full of cheer and red times to come. "It's never too late to have a happy childhood."