Laytham Ballard once protected humanity as part of the Nightwise, a secret order of modern-day mages dedicating to holding hellish supernatural forces at bay, but that was before a string of sadistic ritual murders shook everything he believed in―and sent him down a much darker path. One that has already cost him most of his soul, as well as everything he once held dear. Now a powerful faerie mob boss has hired Ballard to find his lost-lost daughter, who went missing several years ago. The long-cold trail leads him across the globe, from the luxurious playgrounds of the rich and famous to the seedy occult underbelly of Los Angeles, where creatures of myth and legend mingle with street gangs and sex clubs, and where Ballard finds his own guilty past waiting for him around every shadowy corner. To find Caern Ankou, he will have to confront old enemies, former friends and allies, and a grisly cold case that has haunted him for years. But is Caern still alive? And, perhaps more importantly, does she even want to be found? "Reminiscent of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods ” ― The Wall Street Journal on The Brotherhood of the Wheel A fun, rollicking, dark, and disturbing romp through a magical western world . . . a whirlwind of shootouts, assassins, cults, zombies, magic, attractive ladies, dubious morals, and demonic possession, sure to keep you on your toes. ― San Francisco Book Review on The Six-Gun Tarot Praise for Nightwise: “Belcher’s relentlessly vivid imagination and brilliant prose drive this sensational noir urban fantasy . . . this is a book that is wholly addictive.”― RT Book Reviews “A dark and dangerous magical world, an awesome anti-hero, stellar writing―what more do you need.”― Books, Bones & Buffy “Another fine effort from Belcher, ripped from a dark, dark place.”― Kirkus Reviews “Belcher tells a tense, tightly-paced story.”― Publishers Weekly R.S. BELCHER won the Grand Prize in the Strange New Worlds SF-writing contest. He runs Cosmic Castle, a comic book shop in Roanoke, Virginia, and is the author of The Six-Gun Tarot. The Night Dahlia By R. S. Belcher Tom Doherty Associates Copyright © 2018 Rod Belcher All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7653-9012-7 CHAPTER 1 I watched the playground on the other side of the high, chain-link fence, trying to figure out which of the elementary school children had the gun. The kids were doing like kids do, running around, chasing each other in circles, laughing, screaming. A few climbed on the monkey bars, others jockeyed to get a turn on the swings or the slide; a few played hopscotch. I couldn't recall ever being that young, happy, or clueless. I hoped to hell I could keep them that way. "Hoped to hell," I'm a fucking riot. The sun was beating down on me, but no one had noticed I didn't cast a shadow on the sidewalk. I had hocked it a while back. I was getting the stink-eye from the circle of teachers near the double doors that led into the school, probably into the school cafeteria if it was anything like my old alma mater, Welch Elementary, back in West Virginia. The teachers' worried frowns as I stood at the fence, studying the children at play, insulted me. I had tried so hard to blend in. Jeans, steel-toed work boots, a maroon-and-black paisley button-down with the sleeves up and the tails out. An old army medic satchel hung over one shoulder as my "murse." My long black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. I was goddamned eye candy. Shit, I even left the Aqualung trench coat at home. It was too damned hot for it anyway. Late spring in Texas is kinda like autumn on the surface of the sun. I saw one of the teachers raise a blocky walkie-talkie to her lips and speak into it as she bored death rays into me with her baby browns. I smiled my most sincere smile — Aw, shucks, I'm jist a good ol'boy, standing here, minding my own beeswax. I mean no harm to y'all's planet — and lit up an American Spirit. I needed to find the little darling quick, because I was sure I was about to get a visit from the school's cop, and I didn't have time to try to convince Officer Friendly I wasn't a perv or a psycho. I tuned out the heat, the teachers' resting bitch faces, and the sounds of traffic behind me. I did catch a quick burst of a car's radio through a rolled-down window blasting "Nasty Freestyle" by T-Wayne, then I pushed that away too. I focused on the tingling pressure up and down my spinal column, the bone road to the seat of self. I felt a geyser of aggressive, passionate, and destructive crimson power wash over my root chakra and gush upward to guide my Ajna, my "third eye." My gaze was pulled to the far left, near the school's brick wall, and I found the source of the scarlet energy. It was a little boy, about nine years old, wearing a red-and-blue-striped T-shirt, jeans, and an Avengers backpack. He was pulling something out of it, looking about furtively as he did. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and glassy. His skin was l