Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 Read Online Free PDF

Julius Schwartz who wound up meeting some of the very characters he oversaw.”

    “Wait, I’m confused. An editor from my world met characters from a comic book universe?”

    Neil moves on to the next piece of art, examining it like he’s never seen it before. “Perhaps . . . that’s the thing about comics, you see. They deal with so many different levels of reality, all of them intersecting on the printed page. Parallel worlds, Asgardian gods, shapeshifting aliens; angels and demons and robots from the future. Somewhere in that kaleidoscopic mix, the line between what really happened and what was merely imagined becomes blurred . . . and magic can sometimes erase it altogether. Maybe what happened to Mr. Schwartz was just a story—and maybe it wasn’t.”

    The gentle cadence of his voice is hypnotic. Okay, the concept of using a treadmill to jump from one universe to another is absurd, but for just a second I have visions of running back home. I’ll have to make sure Eisfanger goes over that treadmill with every forensic tool he has, magic and otherwise.

    “The fact that the victim was skeletonized is intriguing as well,” Neil says. “One of the major themes of the Silver Age was transformation. The enemies of the Flash—and there were many—changed him into all sorts of things: a wooden marionette, a living mirror, even a human lightning bolt. But I can’t recall one of them turning him into a skeleton.”

    He glances down at his watch. “You’ll have to leave now. One of our other members is on his way, and he wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was talking to you.”

    He pulls a small, dark blue candle from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Here. I’m afraid you can’t come back here, but if you have more questions and you need to get in touch with me, simply light this just before you go to sleep.”

    I take the candle. “What is this, a mystic version of the Bat-Signal?”

    “Something like that. It’ll let us communicate on another plane of existence—much more secure than a cell phone, and with a great deal more bandwidth than e-mail.”

    “So it’s like telepathy?”

    “Not exactly—it’s a type of magic called oneiromancy. You’d best hurry—Warren can get extremely cranky.”

    I’m halfway up the stairs before I can remember where I’ve heard that term before. Oneiromancy .

    Dream magic.

    I half expect the exit to dump me out in a completely different place, but I’m still under the Fremont Street bridge. No sign of Warren, but he’s probably using a completely different entrance to get to the same place.

    Charlie’s waiting for me in the car, a standard-issue dark blue sedan that the Agency thinks is inconspicuous. “How’d it go?” he asks as I get in. “Any leads?”

    “Maybe. Let’s head back to the Aquitaine place.”

    “Why? Forensics guys have already picked it clean.”

    “It’s not the crime scene I’m interested in.”

    There are still cops posted at the door, but the body, the treadmill, and anything else of significance has been taken down to Eisfanger’s lab. I turn on every light in the apartment and prowl around, Charlie dogging my heels.

    “You take the living room, I’ll take the bedroom. We’re going to search it again, this time from top to bottom.”

    “What are we looking for?”

    “Well, a Batpole would be nice, but I’ll settle for a pair of long underwear and a cape.”

    That gets me a blank look. Of course, Charlie doesn’t have to work real hard to accomplish that; impassive is his middle name. “You’ll know it when you see it, okay? And it’ll probably be well hidden.”

    We get to work. Searching a pire’s home is like trying to read a book with every third word blacked out; there are certain things they just don’t do, certain things they never use. For instance, male pires rarely own underwear. No boxers, no briefs—commando all the way. Why bother with an extra layer when you don’t sweat or excrete?