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invigorated him, made him almost drunk with the force that poured from such a death, and that boy had been special. The blood of the noruk-to had been in him, or so the killer had been told, and when that blood was spilled, it sang .
    A pity I could not have had him before I broke him. Too bad I’ll not have another like that, even if I am granted a hundred children, the killer thought. Not many of his breed left, and the father is nothing now.
    The murderer did not find such thoughts troubling; the shattering of a man, the murder of a child, the thought of violating either or both before their deaths, these things were but his granted rights as a servitor of the talu`shar , the things that made life worth living, the perks , to use the vulgar Western term. Having worked for this moment as long as he had, he felt he was entitled to such entertainments, and the talu`shar most often agreed. Only on the matter of the father had it been adamant—he was not to be touched, not yet.
    At last, as the killer reached the piercing eye of daylight hanging above him like the sword of Damocles, about to judge him and find him wanting, he pushed such thoughts aside. Two men lived in this simple body, one the murderer of children and servant of the talu`shar , the other a humble man who swept floors and occasionally muttered to himself; it would not do for the sunlit world to see his secret face, not yet.
    But what greatness will come, when at last that face can shine forth, he thought to himself, the last allowance of the killer’s ideals for the day. They will look upon me and see a god.
    Beginning to whistle, he walked down the street, smiling pleasantly at those he passed, occasionally offering a hello and always receiving one in return. The day was still young, and so the killer slept within, biding his time.

Chapter 4 
    10:30 am, December 8, 1999
    Outside the dingy little pawnshop, Reno was just now beginning to wake. When a city never really slept, the only people out and about before 10:00 am were the truly lost: those trundling to work on legs that weren’t really aware of where they were taking their owners or those being shuffled away with dazed looks from the roulette table, their last chip cashed and lost.
    Here, just off the main drag of Virginia Street, just a quick turn away from the glamour of downtown, the city reeked of depression and exhaust. Whereas neon and music flooded the senses at all hours just twenty feet away, here, there was nothing but the droning chant of the homeless on each corner and the fly-speckled forty-watt bulbs that burned in each window. While there was probably a zoning ordinance on Main Street that said you couldn’t have a “closed” sign in a window, on this side, they were the standard, with only a few brave—or foolish—open doors remaining.
    Parker had dragged Drakanis through one of these open doors, after a furtive glance around, almost as if to check if they were being followed. Seeming satisfied that there was only the usual conglomeration of drunks at the corner, arguing over how just one more dollar would have been enough to win the MegaBucks, he had headed in.
    Parker thought Drakanis looked both uncomfortable and tired, leaning in the doorway of MegaPawn with a notebook in his hand; Parker tried to get him to come further into the room—if only so they could ask the questions they needed to without the whole damn world hearing—but Michael seemed to prefer to keep a door within easy reach, as if he needed an escape hatch.
    Parker supposed the other man might well need just that. For all he knew, this was the first time Drakanis had even been out of the house since the funeral. Going so far as to actually get dressed, shave, drive through the morning traffic snarls, and come into a store he disliked was probably a huge step on one of those wonky charts like Belinda was always showing him, the ones that always started with “First admit you have a problem.”
    Drakanis, for