The Inspectre looked up and gave me a fatherly smile.

“Almost ready,” he said.

He slipped on his protective headgear, the kind a boxer wears, and over his chest he pulled on an umpire’s padded vest with a large red heart painted where one would expect the actual heart to be, only it had a target on it. The padding made him appear even more walruslike than his mustache did, but I knew all too well that was only in appearance. Looks could be deceiving with Inspectre Quimbley. You didn’t live to be his age in his field unless you had serious skills.

“You F.O.G.gies don’t mess around when it comes to fighting,” I said.

The Inspectre was still giving me that paternal look when he stood up. “The forces of Darkness certainly don’t mess around when it comes to attacking us, so why should we hold back? Especially vampires. I’d rather have you prepared, my boy, than dead. Now, then . . .”

He pulled a long black cape off the back of the chair he had been sitting in. As he tied it on, I almost laughed. I was pretty much looking at a walruslike version of Count Dracula. He scooped up an enchanted coatrack in both his hands and brandished it like it was a staff. The little metal coat hooks at the top of it snaked to life like tiny metal pincers. All of this certainly helped dissipate the patriarchal mood and any humor.

I looked around the general clutter of the room for something weapon-y of my own.

“That’s your first mistake,” the Inspectre said.

“Sir?”

“Unorthodox Fighting Techniques at this level provides very little in the way of conventional weaponry. Open your mind to the art of improvisation during conflict. Few fights ever go as smoothly as they look in the movies, do they? You never know under what circumstance you might be called upon to defend yourself. Or with what.”

I missed the lower levels of this class. In those, I had fought with weapons like carnivorous sofa cushions, fire stokers that kept blowing soot into my face, potted trees that screamed when you hit them, pool cues, fountain pens, living lawn gnomes, and once, purely by accident, normal swords.

This time, however, nothing really jumped out to me and I was at a loss.

“You’ve already got the best weapon,” I said, backing away. Even the length of the coatrack gave it a considerable advantage. I was unsure of what to do, but I was still in the mood for a good fight. I had so much pent-up anger and frustration over the whole Jane situation.

“Use your head, boy,” the Inspectre said, smiling and moving cautiously toward me, “for more than just a place to hang your hat.”

His smile betrayed him. Even in a fight, the Inspectre couldn’t help throwing encouraging clues at me. A place to hang your hat, I thought to myself . . . would be at the top of another coatrack. I glanced quickly around the room and there it was, another coatrack blending in to the wall on the opposite side of the room. The Inspectre moved into swinging range. I had to act.

I turned and dashed across the room, feeling my hair stir as the air from the Inspectre’s swing blew by me. Ever the gentleman, the Inspectre waited until I got my hands on the other coatrack before charging me. The hooks on the rack sprang to life and I relished the chance to finally let my growing aggression out. All of it—the discovery of the people on the booze cruise, my troubles with Jane, the fact that someone had tried to sabotage the Oubliette—all of it came flooding out in quick, vicious attacks, all of which the Inspectre was trying his best to counter. On the plus side, he had landed very few strikes against me, so I considered our score pretty even by my count.

The old man spent the better part of an hour putting me through the wringer.

As fatigue started to set in, our coatracks clashed together as we struggled across the floor of the fight studio. For once, I realized I had the Inspectre on the defensive and pressed my advantage. I lunged toward him with the business end of the coatrack. The hooks waved like tentacles as they sought to disarm Inspectre Quimbley. I thought for sure I had him, but he sidestepped and parried. My weapon smacked harmlessly against the wall, and one of the hooks latched on to a light fixture, forcing me to stop while I untangled it.

“Good form,” the Inspectre said, “good form.”

I was too caught up in freeing my weapon, and the Inspectre knew it. He swung his own rack low and caught me behind the knees before I could turn back to him. They buckled, causing me to fall flat on my back, and I stayed there, the wind knocked out of me.

“The hardest part to mastering the coatrack,” he said as he triumphantly planted his on the floor, “is forgetting that it is not a staff. Most apprentices treat it like they’re sixteenth-century warrior monks from a Hong Kong action movie. Well, who ever heard of a monk using a coatrack to fight? Staff forms are the totally wrong fighting technique for them to practice . . . when what they should master is the tricky art of the rack.”

He offered his hand and helped me up.

“Of course,” he continued, his breathing a little labored, “if you were using this combat technique and a vampire was involved, the smart thing to do would be to snap off the end of it to make a stake to impale him with, but, bless my heart, these coatracks are so bloody cute with their hooks. They’re like little baby fingers.”

I pulled at my own tangled coatrack, which was now swinging playfully from the light fixture. It grumbled as I tugged it free, and I turned, readying myself. The Inspectre, however, looked winded and was leaning heavily on his own rack. The hooks seemed to be petting his shoulder.

“Sir . . . ?”

“No worries, my boy.” He looked up and smiled. “That last parry simply took a lot out of this old man. Guess it is best that we’re training a new generation. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, after all.”

I hobbled to the table at one side of the room and helped myself to a fresh donut there.

“Ahh, the spoils of victory,” the Inspectre said.

Putting in the extra hours being part of F.O.G. added to my already overloaded work schedule, but at least there were snacks.

“You keep this up,” I said, “and you’re going to have to roll me out of here. Remind me to hit the gym more often. Or maybe at all.”

“You might want to look into that, son. It’s just one of the perks of being a F.O.G.gie, you know. It’s free. I wouldn’t want you to put on the ‘Fraternal Fifteen’ on my account.”

“Sure it’s free,” I said. “You want to get me on a treadmill so I can get better at running from even nastier things than I’m already used to running from.”

The Inspectre nodded.

“I think I’m starting to learn that ‘more perks’ really means I stand a greater chance of dying. The more access I have around the Department, the shorter my life expectancy, right?”

“Well, don’t beat around the bush,” the Inspectre said, letting out a hearty laugh. “Perks aside, ‘doing good’ is supposed to be its own reward, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have free donuts and an elliptical machine. Ready?”

“Do you mind if I ask you more about the Fraternal Order of Goodness?” I asked. The Inspectre shook his head. “We’re the most-talked-about secret society I’ve ever heard of. Divisional managers like Wesker call the order a bunch of snobby do-gooders.”

“ ‘Dangerously underqualified’ is what we call blokes like him,” he said, then paused. “My boy, you don’t get to be Inspectre without learning to read people over the years. I can sense some kind of trouble with you, and I know what turmoil can do to a young agent.”

I looked up, drawn in by the kindness in his voice.

“I still don’t feel right about being in charge of Connor,” I said. “I mean, he is my mentor, after all. I just don’t know if I’m ready for this. And frankly, he’s touchy on a good day. Then there’s the responsibility of calling the shots . . . What if I make the wrong call and do something rash?”