"Hello, Joe," she said. "I'm Lori. Want to party?" Brennan smiled. "I'm looking for a man," he began. "Wrong place, Joe. We got all kinds of girls-white ones, black ones, brown ones, ones like you never seen before, but if you want a man-"

"A friend, I mean," Brennan added hastily. "Lazy Dragon-"

"Oh." Lori nodded. She linked arms with Brennan and drew him toward her. Her sleek hip pressed against Brennan's, her long, lean silk-covered thigh brushed against his as they walked.' "I should have guessed with the mask and all. Marilyn Monroe, right? She's one of my favorites. I'll take you up myself. I can use another taste."

"Sure."

Brennan followed, somewhat mystified, but satisfied that his minimal disguise was doing its job. They went through the parlor area, raucous with the j -jazz flowing from Twelve Finger Jake's nimble digits and the chatter of thirty girls and fifty prospective johns, up a flight of stairs, and down a corridor ending in closed double doors guarded by a couple of Werewolves wearing Mae West masks identical to Brennan's.

"What's up?" one of them asked as Brennan and the girl approached. Brennan nodded. "Relief. Let me check in with Dragon."

"Just one of you? Who gets off?"

Brennan shrugged. "Not my decision."

The Werewolf grunted, stood aside, and Brennan and Lori went through the doors.

Inside was a large room decorated with the exuberantly lavish taste one might expect in an establishment like Chickadee's. Half the walls were wallpapered in a silver-and-gold paisley pattern, the other half were mirrored, making the room seem much bigger than it really was. The overstuffed couches and fat hassocks scattered about the room were all occupied by house girls and men wearing suits that were as tasteful as the wallpaper.

A naked girl was lying languorously on one of the couches with lines of what looked like cocaine laid out on her body between and over her ample breasts, up her sleek legs, and converging at the juncture of her thighs. Three men were taking turns snorting lines leading to their favorite body parts. Other girls wearing mostly makeup were circulating with trays with drinks and little silver bowls filled with powders or pills of various sorts.

Lori said, "See you later, hon," and moved off into the drift.

Lazy Dragon was sitting in a corner of the room, sipping a drink from a long-stemmed glass. As Brennan watched he virtuously turned down a bowl of white powder offered him by a sleek black woman whose body was covered by fluffy feathers.

"What do you want?" Dragon asked as Brennan approached. He was a young man, Asian, small and trim looking. He was also a potent ace who could animate then possess animal figurines he carved or folded out of paper. Right now he didn't appear to be in a good humor.

"No rest for the wicked, is there?"

Dragon stiffened at the sound of Brennan's voice, half rose, then sank down in his chair. "What the hell are you doing here, Cowboy?" he said, using the name Brennan had taken when he'd gone undercover and joined the Fists.

Brennan shrugged. "Looks like a fun party. I'd hate to see anything break it up." He looked steadily at Dragon. "What's going on, anyway?"

Dragon looked at him for a long time before answering. "The guy over there," he said, indicating a tall, thin, wastedlooking man in white linen trousers, jacket, and shirt, "is Quinn the Eskimo. You've heard of him."

Brennan nodded. Quinn the Eskimo-his real name was Thomas Quincey-was head of the scientific arm of the Shadow Fists. He specialized in the development of synthetic drugs with extraordinary special effects.

"Trying out a new product?" Brennan asked.

As Brennan watched, Lori approached Quinn and spoke to him. He smiled and handed her a vial of blue powder, some of which she snorted, some of which she rubbed on her nipples and breasts, turning them the same bright blue color of the powder. Quinn and the men standing around him laughed. At Quinn's urging one of the men started to lick her breasts. She closed her eyes and leaned up against a nearby wall, and, as the man sucked her nipples, came to an obvious, powerful orgasm.

"What the hell was that?" Brennan asked.

Dragon shrugged. "The new product. Demonstrating for the distributors. What do you want, anyway?"

Brennan looked back down at Dragon. "A friend of mine was killed, Dragon. You heard."

"Chrysalis?"

Brennan nodded. "And I heard that someone is bragging around town that he did it to get in good with the Fists." Dragon shook his head. "I didn't know the Fists wanted her dead."

"You don't make policy. I want to talk to someone who does. Fadeout."

"He's not happy with you, Cowboy. You really fucked us over."

Brennan shrugged. "That's life," he said. "Fadeout will talk to me, or the Fists will bleed."

Dragon stood up slowly, carefully. "You don't want to start anything here, Cowboy. I'm head of security for this party-"

Brennan nodded, smiled under his Mae West mask, and backed away. "And I wouldn't want you to have a black mark on your record. Just tell Fadeout I want to talk."

They stared at each other until Brennan backed out of the room.

"So?" one of the Werewolf guards in the corridor asked Brennan.

"So what?"

"Who's going off duty?"

"Oh." Brennan stripped off the Mae West mask and tossed it at the astonished Werewolf, who caught it against his chest. " I am."

"What the hell?" the other one growled angrily. "That's not fair."

"Life's a bitch," Brennan told him. "Then you die." The Werewolves recognized the danger in his voice. They watched him as he went down the corridor, wondering who he was, deciding that it would probably be better if they never found out.

Tuesday July 19, 1988

2:00 A. M.

The stale air trapped inside the unused sewer line that Chrysalis had converted to a secret Palace entrance stank of mold and rot. It was dark but for the beam from Brennan's flashlight, quiet but for the infrequent noises he made as he crept toward the Palace. Once he passed a side tunnel that Chrysalis hadn't told him about. He thought he heard something moving in it, but decided that now was not the time to indulge idle curiosity.

The sewer line led to a tunnel of more recent construction, that led in turn to a dark basement storeroom. The room was packed with stacks of liquor cases, piles of aluminum beer kegs, and cardboard boxes filled with potato chips, pretzels, pork rinds, and other junk food.

Brennan moved through the storeroom silently and went up the flight of stairs to the first floor. He waited for a moment, but neither saw, nor heard, nor smelled anything to indicate that anyone else was in the Palace. He hadn't figured there would be. He went down the corridor to Chrysalis's office and paused at the door, strangely reluctant to enter the room.

He realized that once he saw her blood splattered on the walls, he would know without a doubt that Chrysalis was dead. She'd kept too much of herself to herself for him to have loved her, but he had shared her bed and some of her secrets. He'd known the lonely woman under the cool exterior. He hadn't loved her, but he could have. He couldn't forget that. It kept gnawing at him like the pain from an open wound, unbound and bleeding.

He remembered Chrysalis's office as a dark, quiet, charming room. It had a fabulous Oriental carpet on the floor, floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of leather-bound volumes that Chrysalis had actually read, solid oak-and-leather furniture, and dark, purple-patterned Victorian wallpaper. The room had even smelled of Chrysalis, of the exotic frangipani perfume she wore and the amaretto she drank. It had been a peaceful room, and he didn't want to see it transformed into a scene of death and destruction. But he had to. He took a deep breath, pulled away the tape that sealed the door, and entered the office.