Chapter One
In one reality...
A young Tuingas demon moved respectfully through the special pocket universe it was his honor to maintain. He was slightly small for his clan, but endowed with the usual assortment of limbs and quite a masculine long-nose that he liked to drape back over his shoulder in an affected habit. He said it kept his long-nose out of the dust he often raised while tending the less frequently visited family shrines, but in what served as his heart even he knew that he merely liked tossing the long-nose around.
The demon moved from one family shrine to another within the pocket dimension created and sustained by his people. At this shrine he checked his protective amulet, buffing it slightly against his leathery skin. Only family members and highly trained priests could withstand the presence of the deathstones without amulet protection, and this particular deathstone was newly arrived, potent not only in its freshness, but because of the demon from which it had come. One of their warriors, and a great hero. His deathstone was a handsome one, a solid fist-sized oblong with unusually consistent color and texture. A stone the outside world could never fully appreciate... or even survive.
Reassured by the amulet's icy response to his touch, the demon entered the marble-walled shrine, pulling a little red wagon liberated from the human world. As fresh as it was, this shrine would need little in the way of maintenance; he rummaged through the contents of the wagon and withdrew a bright yellow feather duster. Humming a nasal tune through both face-nose and long-nose at once, he applied the duster with enthusiasm, sweeping clean the empty stone nooks and crannies that would hold future deathstones for this now-exalted family, and working in toward the single occupied central pedestal. With the wagon trailing behind him, he bent over to pluck a gum wrapper from the plush shag rug, not the least bit annoyed when his long-nose fell forward. After all, it merely offered him another chance to toss it back over his shoulder.
But he neglected to put aside the feather duster when he reached for his long-nose. In fact, he all but jammed the feather duster up his long-nose in a painful collision that at first seemed to have no particular consequence. He stood mildly stunned, long-nose smarting, his dull black little eyes watering, when he felt the first tingling warning way at the back of both noses. Frantically, he patted down his broad waist belt in search of tissues, horrified at the thought of a sneeze - a doublesneeze - in this quiet, sacred space.
The doublesneeze rose in an inevitable wave of nose-spasm, violent enough to bend him in half. He lost his balance, staggered backward, and - oh horror - found himself caught in a second spasm, a double doublesneeze right here in the hero's shrine. He fell, kicking the wagon in one direction while his arms windmilled in the other and his head fetched up against something hard.
He lay stunned. After a moment he whimpered, opened his gummy little eyes, and pulled himself upright. His wagon and his supplies had tipped over, but to his great relief the red paint had not marred any of the marble walls. He heaved a great thankful sigh and crawled over to it, set it upright, and reached for the spilled supplies.
Only then did he realize that the lump on the back of his head had been raised by the warrior's deathstone pedestal.
Only then did he realize the deathstone was gone, propelled by a conjunction of magics never meant to make physical contact with one another. Gone from its pedestal, from this shrine, from this pocket dimension. Gone to the outside world, where it would wreak destruction.
Gone to Los Angeles.
* * *
In another, more familiar reality...
A small rat-like demon clung to the edge of the roof, leaning out over the five-story drop to peer down at the rattling fire escape. "Here!" it squeaked, accidentally spitting in its fear, although its extreme overbite made a certain amount of spitting inevitable in any case. "Take the purse, take it!" It flung a floppy crocheted purse down at its pursuer on the fire escape. "You don't have enough problems in this city, you gotta pick on a little guy like me?" And with an agitated twitch, it scampered off across the flat roof.
The man on the fire escape caught the purse neatly in one hand, never hesitating in his pursuit. Dressed in black topped by a sweeping leather duster, moving with purpose and not satisfied with the simple recovery of the stolen purse, he jogged up the noisy metal stairs and leaped onto the roof, landing in a graceful crouch and hesitating only long enough to spot the fleeing thief. Crunching steps on tarry roof gravel traced his pursuit, the duster flapping out behind him as he gained on the creature. Dark hair, pale skin, the hint of a fang...
The little demon gave a squeak of fear and redoubled its scuttling efforts, heading straight for the opposite edge of the roof. "It was only a purse!" it cried back over its shoulder. "Gimme a break here!"
But they both knew that wasn't going to happen. And they knew which of them was faster - he who closed on the demon with such intent, prepared to make sure this particular creature menaced no more of Los Angeles's unsuspecting tourists.
Except the demon reached the edge of the roof a few precious steps before its pursuer, and launched itself out into the darkness, with no strength or speed inherent in its scrabbling flight, but not needing those things. It spread its arms and legs, revealing a flap of skin running from scrawny elbow to knobby knee, and sailed lightly down to the next roof barely one story below.
It wasn't such a big jump, not for a vampire running full speed and full strength. But the black-clad pursuer put on the brakes, stumbling to an abrupt halt that left him teetering at the edge. His coat billowed around him, his silhouette barely visible against the night sky.
On the roof below, the ratty demon cavorted, dancing his victory and flinging all manner of rude gestures at the hero somehow stymied by the narrow space between the buildings and the minor drop between roofs.
The hero turned away from the display. The swirling duster revealed a lanky form not quite at home in the sleek black clothing, not quite as muscular or athletic as the image his clothing conveyed. His dark, spiky-moussed hair had no highlights, a bad dye job here in this city where the inhabitants were finely attuned to such things. And even with the glint of fang at his lip, his forehead remained perfectly human... at least, to those who would know the difference.
He resettled his glasses on his nose and went to return the purse.
© 2002 Doranna Durkin. Taken from Impressions, published in the UK by Pocket Books February 2003. Reproduced with kind permission of Pocket Books.
