“What’s wrong?”

“I’m at New Moon,” he said. “I was about to open up for the afternoon, but... well. I think maybe you should come down here.”

“What is it?”

“Just... can you get over here and take a look?” There was a note of pleading. Like this wasn’t just a bar manager calling the owner about a little problem. Something of the wolf pack had entered into the conversation—he was asking his alpha for help. That meant weirdness, and it meant danger. The hair on the back of my neck tingled.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. I’ll be right over.” I hung up.

“What is it?” Ben asked, straightening.

“Shaun. Something’s up at New Moon.”

We both got into my car and drove downtown. Fifteen minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of the boxy brick building, where a big sign in blue and silver announced the bar. Shaun was pacing out front, arms crossed, shoulders hunched over, like stiffened hackles, for all the world like a nervous wolf. When he saw us, he seemed relieved.

“What is it?” I asked. Nothing seemed obviously wrong. I had braced myself to expect smoke and fire pouring out of the roof, or a roving militant biker gang camped in the parking lot.

“Does this mean anything to you?”

He drew me to the front door.

Burned into the wood, as if with a blow torch, a single word:

Tiamat.