Lost her. The notion was unthinkable, yet true. He had almost fucking lost her.

Finally, he moved back. ‘I’m gonna go check out his place,’ he said.

Felicia looked relieved. ‘Go.’

Striker closed the ambulance doors. Before moving, he turned his head and stared at the body of Billy Mercury, lying in the very centre of the laneway. Blood had pooled all around him in a distorted, oval shape, and the skin of his face and arms looked terribly pale. Bloodless.

Striker moved up to him. He bent down on one knee and studied the man’s face. Even in death, Billy Mercury looked ill. More than ill, he looked downright insane. His lips curled back, exposing uneven yellow teeth, and his pupils were black and way too large. Like a doll’s eyes.

Demons, the man had said.

Striker shook his head at this. It was a sad statement on the state of this world that Billy Mercury was a war vet. He’d been through combat. And he had broken down because of it. The numerous mental health problems he suffered were in no way his fault. Demons; there had been many of those in Billy Mercury’s life.

But it was all over now.

Striker looked up at the cop guarding the body. A young woman who looked no more than twenty-three.

‘Who took the gun?’ he asked.

‘Sergeant Rothschild, Detective.’

He nodded. Rothschild had seized the shotgun, too. Good. That meant they were in good hands.

Striker looked back at the woman. ‘When Jim Banner from Ident gets here, tell him I’m already up in the suite.’

The cop said she would, and Striker left the dead body of Billy Mercury lying in the middle of the lane. He walked to the parking lot and took note of the licence plates of the vehicles left in the lot – the Toyota Tercel and the old van. Neither came back to Billy Mercury, and within minutes, both the owners were located as living in one of the bottom suites.

Disappointing, Striker thought.

He had hoped for a lead.

He left the vehicles behind and slowly started back towards Safe Haven Suites. The wooden stairs creaked loudly as he walked them, as if warning him once more. But he continued on.

Pandora’s Box had already been opened. He might as well see what was inside.

The door to Billy Mercury’s unit was painted dark brown and had been labelled not with a proper sign but a thick smear of white paint:

103.

The door was already open, though just a few inches.

Striker stopped in the entranceway and took out his flashlight. This was one part of the investigation he was not going to rush. Billy had been excessively paranoid, and Striker was worried about encountering IEDs – improvised explosive devices – in the suite.

Booby-traps.

Without opening the door any further, Striker shone his flashlight inside the apartment. He looked all around the edge of the door and saw no signs of tampering – no wires or snares or flip-switches. Satisfied, he gloved up with fresh blue latex, grimacing as it snapped against his burned hand. He pushed on the door lightly. It glided open effortlessly and soundlessly, revealing the apartment inside.

All the lights were out. Only the rear window offered some natural light. Striker scanned the suite. What he saw was surprising.

The place was damn near empty. The apartment owned nothing but two wooden chairs and a small table in the far corner of the room. On it was an old desktop computer and a mouse with keyboard, along with some papers and pill bottles.

Striker turned his eyes from the computer to the rest of the tiny apartment. Like any Single Room Occupancy dump, it was an all-in-one – a kitchen, washroom, and a common room, which also served as a bedroom.

The place was almost empty of furniture. No bed sat in the corner, just a blanket and a pillow on the ground. But at least the floor was clean. The blanket had been spread out into a perfect creaseless rectangle. Billy Mercury had made his bed after getting up in the morning.

Striker found that odd. It didn’t seem to go with his psychosis.

In the same corner of the room was a pile of clothes. Striker inspected them. All were freshly laundered, ironed and folded precisely.

Striker noted that, too.

He looked briefly around the kitchenette. The plates had been washed and set in the drying tray; the counters were clean; and when he opened up the cupboards and fridge, there was plenty of food. Basic stuff. Peanut butter and jam. Bread. Coffee and cream. Some Raisin Bran cereal.

None of it was expired.

Striker checked out the washroom and saw that there was deodorant, toothpaste, dental floss and soap. The only towel in the room had been hung up to dry. So had the floor mat.

Everything was clean and well cared for.

Striker took out his notebook and wrote down the details. When he put it away, he looked up and saw that the far wall was covered by two large maps. One of Kandahar, and one of the Lower Mainland – which constituted Vancouver and all the surrounding subsections. All across the Kandahar map were small red X-marks and the word: Daemon. Daemon. Daemon. Daemon.

Striker turned his eyes to the second map – the one of the Lower Mainland. On it were no scribblings, only a series of X-marks. Striker looked at them all and felt a cold sensation spread through his core.

Union Street and Gore Avenue. Hermon Drive and East 5th. The thirty-eight hundred block of Adanac Street in Burnaby – they matched the residences of Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan.

The thought made Striker check his iPhone again, to see if there were any more messages from Larisa. But once again he was let down. None had been received.

He looked at the torn-up notebook pages on the table. All were the same, filled with barely legible scribblings. Words like Daemons, and Shadow men, and Succubus. Next to the collection of papers was a row of pill bottles. They were lined up perfectly.

Striker looked at them.

The bottles were all from Mapleview Clinic, and they each had Dr Ostermann’s name and what appeared to be a prescription number on the label. There were three different types of medication: Effexor and Lexapro were medications Striker was familiar with, but the last one – Risperidone – he had never heard of before. He took out his iPhone and Googled the medication. When he found a webpage listing, one word caught his attention:

Antipsychotic.

He put his iPhone away, moved up to the computer and grabbed the mouse. The moment he moved it the black screen of the monitor disappeared and was replaced by the white and blue page of MyShrine:

I saw them first in Afghanistan and Kandahar. In human form. They came in rows, wave after wave of masks.

But I KNEW what they were. The other soldiers may have been blind, but not me. I saw through the shells. And I took them all down. A soldier. An emissary. The HAMMER OF GOD!!!

Then I was, as I am today.

There is only one way to kill a daemon. A goddam Succubus. And that is through the heart.

The words made Striker pause.

A daemon – evil.

A succubus – the female.

Through the heart – the target area where the bullet had struck Felicia.

Striker leaned back against the wall as he realized this. ‘He warned me,’ he said softly. ‘Jesus Christ, he fucking warned me, right there in the wording. And I never saw it.’

Thoughts of Felicia taking that bullet flooded him and left him nauseous. He should have known. He should have seen it coming. But he hadn’t, and it had almost cost Felicia her life.

He would never forgive himself for that.

The thought remained heavy in his head, even when he turned away from the computer and spotted the landline telephone on the kitchen counter. He walked over and picked it up. Hit Redial. The call was picked up by a woman.