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Morning.

A handsome marmalade cat strode across my bedroom floor. He chased a trail of sunlight that extended from my window to the closed bedroom door. With a tail held high, he barely afforded me a glance as he padded towards my bed on silent paws.

Hi there little fella, how did you get in here?

I stretched out my arm from underneath the warm blanket and snapped my fingers to catch his attention, but he only continued his lazy stroll. Then he scaled the wall and wedged himself into a corner between the wall and the ceiling.

"You're not even for real, are you?"

Time to get up. The moment I put my feet down, a black spidery leg appeared from under the bed and clawed at my ankle.

The spider creature under my bed must be back, I thought and lit a cigarette. Smoking helps on a day like this.

There's a man in my bathtub. He's been there for years and he's not likely to go anywhere, because he's got no arms or legs. He gets in my way when I shower, but if he moves too close, I can always kick him. Then he screams like a baby on fire. It's a terrible sound, so I skip my shower when he's in there.

The phone rang again. To one part of my brain, this was the first time it rang that morning, but another part of my mind insisted that it had rung all morning without me answering it.

"Carter here," I mumbled.

"It's Quinn. The bottle of bourbon has disappeared."

"Are you for real?" I asked.

"You betcha. You doing bad?"

I wedged the phone between my ear and my shoulder, and opened the breadbox so I could make myself a toast. The bread had gone off and thick maggots were digging in and out of every pore. Real or not, I wasn't gonna touch the damn stuff.

"I'm doing bad alright."

"You need to change," said Quinn.

"I skipped shower because there's a fucking torso in my bathtub!" I snapped. "I know you've got the nose of a werewolf, but there's no way you can smell me from across the city."

Quinn laughed at the other end. "No, dummy. You need to shift into your other form. The energy is bottling up inside you -that's why you're hallucinating."

"When you say crazy shit like that, it makes me feel normal."

"Just do it," insisted Quinn.

I lit another cigarette and inhaled so deep that every alveolus was sweating tar. When you're a schizo, the smoke is your best friend. It eases the symptoms and never changes on you - or abandons you.

"Change!" barked Quinn in a harsh mid-tone voice through the receiver.

I have a cousin in Colorado. His name is Tyler Brock, and he's an editor with the Denver Herald. Every morning he makes sure that the paper gets ready on time, that it carries stories and local sports news. HE doesn't have to worry about people changing into werewolves or demons, and I envy him his quiet life.

"Alright, one demon coming up."

I stubbed out the cigarette and stripped out of my clothes because they always tear when I shift. Then I willed the change to happen. My arms grew long, hairy and muscular. My hands transformed into clawed monstrosities and my teeth extended into fangs that would penetrate a skull as if biting into a Twinkie. My voice dropped two octaves, and I growled

"Happy now, motherfucker?"

My hands were too large to hold on to the tiny NOKIA and it kept sliding out between my claws. It flopped onto the linoleum floor, face down. I was about to kick it all the way to the abyss with a clawed foot, when a human voice called out from the phone.

"Now, shift back."

I had been in my other form for less than a minute and changing back was still easy. I'd only shifted a handful of times before, but the longer I stayed in my other form, the more I wanted to stay that way.

For the first few minutes, I was always conscious of being in a demon form, until my demon self eased in. Then, I disliked my weak, human form and loathed the task I'd been given

• to protect humans from themselves, and sometimes from aggressors that escape the abyss.

I picked up the battered phone from the floor with human hands.

"Feeling any better?", asked Quinn.

There was a sense of released tension in the apartment. The colours were bright, and the shadows didn't move any more.

"Hang on," I headed for the bathroom. The bathtub was empty, the spider creature under the bed was gone, but so was the marmalade cat.

"You should have been a shrink instead of a cop," I said. Making me focus on the demon delusion and taking control of it was an idea I hadn't thought of before.

"Thanks man."

"There's no delusion," said Quinn. "You really have a demon side."

I sighed at his imagination. "Goodbye Quinn!"

I gathered my clothes and headed for the shower. I wondered why my clothes always ripped when I shifted. Did I tear them up in rage? I knew my demon delusion somehow represented an aggressive side of me, and I had killed two men in this form. I had to be careful not to shift in public.

The bread in the breadbox was no longer infested with maggots, and I whistled while I made toast. I leaned back against the counter and enjoyed a cup of coffee. The shift had drained the dopamine and whatever hormones that sent my brain into warp drive. I felt refreshed and I smiled to myself. It would make my life so much easier if slipping into my demon delusion now and then could relieve the symptoms. I closed my eyes and let the sunlight warm the back of my retinas. Maybe I could even control the hallucination of the cat. I'd like to keep a pet, but my landlady Mrs Schultz didn't allow pets in the building.

"Cats leave marks," she insisted. "Scratch up the wallpaper too."

I'm alone, I realised. My best friend was a cop who believed he was a werewolf, and visiting my sister once every week was not enough to fill the void of loneliness.

Then I noticed a set of deep grooves in the linoleum floor that hadn't been there before. I put down the coffee and kneeled down to examine them. There were four parallel grooves, about a quarter of an inch deep and three inches long. Mrs Schultz was already annoyed with me because I was two months behind with my rent, and she would freak is she knew I'd torn holes into her cheap linoleum. But right now that was the least of my worries. These were not furniture scratches

• they were claw-marks.

---

The bottle of Bourbon was missing from Dr. Gill's office.

When I arrived, I found Quinn staring at the blank spot on the desk, as if he tried to make it reappear by will alone.

"It's gone!" he stated the obvious. "Officer Peterson went to dust for prints, but someone beat him to it - someone with a key."

He turned to look at me. He was proud and frustrated at the same time. Proud because he was right in assuming the bourbon was an important piece of evidence, but frustrated that the same was now missing. The investigation was back to square one - not that we had moved to square two at any point, and now we were clueless.

Apart from the janitor, the only staff with a key to the office was the cleaning personnel. Quinn and I made a quick inquiry about their comings and goings, but they all knew Gill's office was an investigation scene. The only employee we couldn't ask was one Miss Sapere Irene, who had taken the day off.

"She only works halftime," said one nurse. "She tries to get her singing career going at The Phantom Cat Nightclub."

Sapere was scheduled to go on stage at 21:00 under the stage name of Miss Irene. Quinn and I arrived half an hour early.

"Wanna beer?" I asked.

We were lucky to find two seats not far from the window. The hall was filling up and people were still queueing up outside. Quinn fidgeted around and looked like someone very much at unease. He moved and shifted in his seat, he buttoned and unbuttoned his sleeves and scratched a three day stubble growth of beard.

"Sure," he said. "I'm off duty."

A local jazz trio was on the stage, playing standards. I thought they were good, and I reached for a smoke, but Quinn paid them no attention. Instead he kept staring out the window.

"Why are you so uptight?" I asked.

"Full moon," he rasped. His voice was dry, and he sucked half a beer out of the bottle in one noisy slurp.

"You're not gonna go wolf on me, or anything?"

"Nah!", he shook his head. "It's tugging at me, but I'm in control."

Quinn was not the only one in the club to be tense. There was an excited anticipation among the audience. The kind you find at a rock concert right before the Stones or Bruce Springsteen goes on stage. To them, Miss Irene was not just some random nightclub singer. They had come to see her act.

Miss Irene took the stage at fifteen past nine, with her backing trio of bass, piano and drums. The first thing that struck me was how beautiful she was. A dark beauty with black hair, eyes like black olives and a face that was almost heart-shaped.

Then she began singing, and all went quiet. The nervous anticipation among the audience dispelled within seconds as she began her rendition of My Funny Valentine. Her voice was deep, smoky and soulful, and her delivery of the song was full of loss and longing. I eased into my seat and regretted my choice of beer. I felt cheap and outclassed in her presence, so I waved to the waiter and asked him to replace our beer with two glasses of Chablis. Quinn didn't make any comment when the waiter took his beer away, but nodded and agreed with my decision.

"She's amazing," whispered Quinn.

It was almost as if she had heard his words, because she eased over to our table, leaned over and cooed Fly me to the Moon softly into his ear. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper and in that moment I envied Quinn. At forty, he was almost fifteen years her senior. It was unfair, I decided. The son of a bitch had a career, a steady income and now he had a hot girl crooning to him. But there was something more between them; there was some kind of understanding between the two I didn't recognise. She finished singing and went back on stage.

She had the audience spellbound, so why she needed to work night shift at the hospital was the next mystery I'd have to look into. Maybe she was only singing for tips. The act lasted for forty-five short minutes that felt like seconds. Then she handed the stage over to the house orchestra, and the audience started talking again.

---

Backstage was off limits to the audience. But I know of two things that can grant you access: a hefty bribe or a police badge, and Quinn flashed the latter to a bouncer. We found Irene in her changing room, wiping off her stage makeup with a damp sponge and smoking an Insignia.

"Yes," she admitted and blew a smoke ring at me. "I took the bottle and dumped it."

"It was police evidence," said Quinn. "Tampering with it is a federal offence."

"Ohh," purred Irene and stretched out her arms towards him, palms facing up. "So whatcha gonna do, officer? Put me in handcuffs?"

I don't know what thoughts went through Quinn's mind in that moment, but mine were pleasant fantasies - most of them involving Miss Irene wearing handcuffs and nothing but. The idea alone gave me an instant erection, and I crossed my legs and tried to remain professional.

Irene let out a sigh, she stubbed out the cigarette and crossed her arms. I hadn't had a smoke since that morning and right now I was dying for two things only: a drink before sex and a cigarette after.

"Gill once had a drinking problem," she said. "It almost ruined his career when he botched an operation six years ago. He was out of his skull from drinking, and a patient died on the operating table. When I heard about the bourbon, I let myself in with my staff key and dumped the bottle - to save his reputation I guess."

"So where is it now?" asked Quinn.

"Dumpster outside the hospital."

"Let's go then."

Irene shrugged and reached for her jacket. "It's walking distance," she said. "We could walk through the park. There's nothing like a long walk under that full moon. Alone, and in touch with your own nature. Don't you think so, officer?"

Quinn hesitated. Then he got to his feet.

"It's alright," he said eventually. "I'll go get it myself."

"What?" I objected. "You don't even know what dumpster to look in."

Quinn glared at me, visibly annoyed. "I'm off duty," he growled. "I can do whatever I want.

-and right now I want to go for a walk in the park."

"Err..."

"Alone!"

---

The Phantom Cat was one of the oldest nightclubs in Oakenford. It opened in sixty two as a beatnik hangout for slamming poetry and playing bongos. The walls of the dressing room were cluttered with photos and posters collected over the years. Beatles and Stones lookalikes from the mid sixties, flower power bands from the summer of love morphed into flared-out disco groups of the seventies. I recognised none of the names.

"So, it wasn't always a jazz club?"

"Jesse's trying to turn it into a jazz revival thing." Irene laughed. "It's a long shot from my usual style."

A framed photo on the dresser showed Irene in her late teens. She was posing with her band that counted a fiddle player, accordion and a guitar player. He was the spitting image of Irene and of the same age. He had the same dark eyes and hair and sported a trimmed moustache. The photo must have been six or seven years old, and I estimated Irene to be in her mid twenties, same as I.

"He's playing a WishBone guitar," I noted. "I always wanted to get my hands on one of those."

"It's my brother Carlo," said Irene.

"Still plays with you?"

"He's dead."

Unlike his sister, Carlo looked unwell. There were dark rings around his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow, but he still did his best to smile into the camera. I didn't wish to ruin the vibe, so I made no further comment on the photo or Carlo. I didn't know how she made Quinn leave, but there was a good reason for it, and the last thing I wanted was to ruin my chances with her by bringing up a dead brother.

Irene lived in a two room apartment right above the Phantom Cat. It was run down from many years of neglect, but it belonged to the nightclub and she stayed for free.

"It's a step up," said Irene while she opened a bottle of Californian sparkling wine. "Can you believe I used to be homeless?"

"With a voice like that, I find it hard to believe."

"Carlo and I both had our talents." Irene poured two flutes of bubbles. OneHope, read the label.

"But sometimes it's talent that drives you homeless."

The wine was crisp, with notes of apple and cedar. Irene dimmed the lights and lit candles. Then she sat down beside me and we began kissing. She unbuttoned my shirt and for a moment I feared my heart would simply take off and fly away. But in that moment, a familiar voice exploded in my head.

"Leave now!"

It was the male voice that had been my faithful companion since I was seventeen; always telling me what to do, whom to trust and what to like.

"Go away, I'm busy." I replied in my mind.

" She's a snake ," said a female voice. Both my voices claimed to be demons from the abyss, sent to assist me and protect me in my duties.

"I'm with someone." I hissed.

Irene sat down behind me and began caressing my shoulders and back. I hadn't been with a woman for years and the bulge in my pants was about to burst through the zipper.

Snake, my ass.

" She'll poison you!"

"I'm shutting your asses down for the night," I replied. It was unfair; I was enjoying the company of a woman for the first time in years and my voices told me I couldn't have her because she was a snake.

Screw them!

The forked tip of a thin tongue licked around my upper neck while some unspeakable limb unzipped my jeans.

Whatever she may be, I'm much scarier.

I turned around with some reluctance. I knew that I might see something scary, but I also knew it wouldn't be for real.

Irene had turned into a half-snake half-woman with the face I had seen in Gill's office two days before.

It's only a hallucination. she's still the same girl underneath that illusion, I convinced myself and we embraced.

I never felt so good about caving in, and we kissed and made love to the soft, plaintive wailings of the voices in my head.

---

"Do the cops pay you for your help?" asked Irene. We were still in bed and the sun had risen long before we did. I was not in any hurry to race it.

"Sometimes."

"But not enough to pay the bills?"

I sighed. "I get government benefits because of my condition."

"Listen," she said. "I need a guitar in my band. Why don't you join us?"

"Really?"

"I'm sure the cops will be alright -even without your help."

With unpaid bills piling up and Ms Schultz hounding me for back rent, I couldn't believe my luck. I grinned broadly; Quinn had his half bottle of bourbon and his full moon antics, but I had the girl and a real job.

"We practice at four PM," said Irene.

I was out of bed and in my clothes before she could finish the sentence.

"Lemme just go and grab my guitar," I panted.

Jesse the owner of Phantom Cat was in his office downstairs. I told him of my inclusion into the group, and brought up how his main attraction had to work two jobs to make ends meet.

"She don't need to work two jobs," laughed Jesse. "She's making more than me...Look!"

Jesse showed me the books. Irene was the highest paid member of the staff and I calculated that she made as much as Quinn and I together. With a salary like this, she'd have no need to work extra hours at the hospital, unless she had some extreme expenses.

"You really pay her this much every month?" I was stunned by the figures.

Jesse nodded, "She's worth it."

"And you let her stay for free?"

"Son," said Jesse. "That woman - she knows how to get her way."

"The audience keeps coming back?" I guessed.

"She's got the audience by the balls, but..." Jesse hesitated and looked around before continuing. Then he whispered,

"...she can make you do things!"

"Things?"

"Anything

at

all."

• - - TO BE CONTINUED ---