.

any intelligence on this thing?” Homeland Security’s Special Threat Assessment Group had compiled a lot of research on the supernatural, even if Lowell and Granato were the only agents with any juice.

      “We assume it’s a PNC,” Lowell said.

      I’d gotten enough of asking him to explain his fucking acronyms the first time we met, when the sidhe came across in what Stag called an MIE—a Major Incursion Event. I glared at him and waited for the translation.

      “Paranormal Contagion,” he said finally. “You know, a zombie plague.”

      “Jesus Christ, not you guys, too.”

      “I can tell you this,” said Granato, “if there’s anything that concerns the government more than an MIE it’s a PNC.”

      “This is extremely serious, Ms. Riley,” Lowell said. “We can’t isolate the pathogen or identify the vector, so we have no way of containing the outbreak. We could lose the city, just for starters. That pushes most of the contingency plans off the table and the decision-makers go right to the unconventional protocols.”

      It seemed like every time there was a little supernatural hiccup, someone in the government wanted to reach for the red button. “It’s not a zombie plague, Lowell. I got bit by one of the damn things, and I feel fine—as fine as I can, considering I just had to clear a hundred-plus zombies out of Centinela Hospital.”

      “How do you explain what’s happening, then?”

      I exhaled slowly and shook my head. “Beats the hell out of me. From what you said, everyone that dies is turning into a zombie—everyone, no matter how they died, no matter where in the city they died. That sounds like a much bigger event than your horror-movie outbreak.”

      “A CMI,” Lowell said, nodding thoughtfully. He looked up and noticed my irritation. “Critical Metaphysical Instability. A breakdown in the structure or natural processes of our reality.”

      “Yeah, that sounds more like it,” I said.

      “If you’re right, this situation represents an extreme threat to the United States.”

      “No shit, Lowell.”

      “I mean, a CMI…this is End Times stuff, Ms. Riley.”

      “Well, I haven’t seen Jesus or heard any trumpets sounding so I guess it’s not all that bad. We just have to figure out what’s causing it and put it right.”

      “How do you propose to do that?”

      “Fuck if I know. Is it just L.A.? Have you gotten any reports from anywhere else?”

      “Just L.A.,” Granato said, “for now.”

      “That’s good. Okay, I’ll look into it. I’m not sure how, but I’ll figure something out. I can ask Mr. Clean if he knows anything about it, though I consider it a last resort.”

      “Mr. Clean?”

      “My familiar. We don’t get along real well but he knows his shit.” Problem was, every time I went to him he was playing another angle, trying to get me killed. It was a hate-hate relationship.

      “How quickly can you move?” Granato asked. “We have to submit a report on this. We can try to buy you some time and we can…suppress…the media coverage of the story. But the government won’t stand back and watch L.A. turn into a necropolis.”

      “A necropolis?”

      “Yes,” Lowell said. “Even in the best of times, more than two hundred people die in L.A. every day. We’ve done some, uh, testing in the last twenty-four hours. Everyone who dies seems to go mad and degenerate into cannibalism, eventually, and that just creates more zombies. It won’t take long for this to become a city of the dead.”

      “How does the cannibalism tie into your CNE theory?”

      “CMI,” said Lowell. “Based on the experiments, feeding on human flesh seems to be the only way to slow the zombies’ physical decomposition.”

      “So they eat people, they don’t degenerate?”

      Granato shook his head. “They don’t rot as fast. Depending on how they died, some of these freaks don’t even know they’re dead. Either way, it drives them mad when they start in on the other white meat.”

      I nodded and rubbed my ear absently. “Okay, guys, I’ll try to hurry. I have other things on my to-do list, you know.”

      “Like what?”

      “Well, right now, I’ve got to clear some fucking zombies out of another hospital. Maybe you can help with that, it’ll go a lot faster. Then, I’ve got a gang war that just went hot. I’ve got to make sure that doesn’t blow up and put a lot more zombies on the street.”

      “Is that all?” Granato said, smirking.

      “No, Granato, it’s not—thanks for asking. I’ve also got a party to go to tonight, and I haven’t even decided what to wear.”

      Attending the Bacchanal Ball with everything that was going on felt a little like fiddling while Rome burned, but I wasn’t just in it for the free food and booze. I knew I probably wouldn’t be able to roll back the zombie outbreak. CMIs aren’t exactly my specialty. If it got out of control I’d need Oberon’s help to defend my territory and my people, and I didn’t want to irritate him by blowing off his little soiree.

      I also knew most of the supernatural A-list would be at the ball and I hoped I might find someone who could tell me what was going on. I’d struck out with Mr. Clean. He said it was probably a zombie plague and noted that Night of the Living Dead was on his channel that night.

      So I had good reasons not to cancel. Plus, there’d be free food and booze.

      The problem was the costume. I thought it’d be cool if Honey and I picked a theme together. I suggested shapeshifting into a gorilla and she could go as a banana. Honey didn’t care for that idea and told me to do something to myself with the banana.

      “I know,” said Honey, “you could go as a dominatrix and I could be your whip.”

      “Seems like it’d be a little boring to go as an inanimate object, even a whip.”

      “You wanted me to be a banana.”

      “Yeah, but you could be like the Fruit of the Loom guy, with arms, and legs, a face and stuff.”

      “Forget it, Domino. Anyway, I don’t think the Fruit of the Loom guys have a banana.”

      “Okay, I could go as a pirate captain and you could be my parrot. You perch on my shoulder all the time anyway.”

      “Too unoriginal. There will probably be a lot of pirates there.”

      “Peter Pan and Tinkerbelle.”

      “Only if you’re Tinkerbelle.”

      “Witch and black cat.”

      “We’re going to a ball, not trick-or-treating.”

      “Jesus, Honey, we’re never going to come up with anything.”

      “Oh, I know! You can be an angel and I’ll be a little devil on your shoulder. Like the parrot, but sexier.”

      “Ironic. I like it. But I thought fairies didn’t like Christian stuff.”

      “Christians didn’t come up with angels and devils.”

      “Whatever, let’s not get into it.” I got enough blasphemy from Mr. Clean—I didn’t need it from Honey, too.

      What followed was a game of one-upmanship as we tried to outdo each other for the sexiest costume. Since I was shapeshifting and Honey was using her piskie glamour, it escalated quickly. We finally decided to call it a draw, but by that time we looked like we’d walked off the set of a porn video with a paranormal theme.