The Night Beat, From the Necropolis Enforcement Files Read Online Free PDF Page A

the city courthouse was right on top of what was considered Necropolis’ Red Light District, which, as the Count said, made poetic sense.
    All the undead can see into at least two planes of existence, and most can see into more. Vampires and liches can see almost as many planes as a god. Werewolves aren’t quite as powerful magically, so we have limits. Which was okay with me. I had enough fun keeping Necropolis separated from Prosaic City on a nightly basis.
    Not that I wasn’t good at it. I was considered one of the best, if not the best, at cross-existence. But it had taken me years to hone the skill to perfection, and that much focus on one skill meant others weren’t quite as sharp. Then again, I never found not being able to look into one of the levels of Hell without trying to be a hardship. I didn’t care for Hell and never wanted to go there. That I had reasons to go there made it worse.
    We call moving back and forth between the human and undead planes sliding. Everyone has to learn it, it’s not natural to any being. Some humans did it as easily as undeads. They were usually mentally unstable -- not before the slide, but after. It’s hard for a human to see myths and legends and worse in real life and know it’s real. Most minds can’t take it if they aren’t prepared.
    However, the younger, the better. That’s the main reason changelings exist. Not to steal babies but to save them. Children who can see the undead normally have a lifetime of pain and torment ahead of them, unless we get them first.
    Undeads, by our nature, don’t have the same issues. We know the human plane exists -- at least two-thirds of us were human before we undied. But seeing the human world superimposed over the undead one was always good for a headache if your concentration faltered.
    “Now, this is one of the greater ironies of this particular age,” H.P. said, as I lost said concentration and “Werewolves of London” left my personal airwaves. “Necropolis Enforcement Headquarters shares existence space with the largest church in Prosaic City, Our Lady of Compassion, which has been compared favorably to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and Notre Dame.”
    “Not if you have to fly through it,” Maurice muttered.
    “And the University,” H.P. went on, “sits on the same grounds as the Prosaic Country Club and Estates.”
    “You mean I’m gonna go to school where all the rich johns live?” The succubus wasn’t totally adapted to the undead way of life yet, that was clear.
    “Yes,” H.P. said cheerfully as we landed in front of Our Lady of Compassion, or the OLOC as we Necropolites called it.
    “But they won’t be able to see you,” I mentioned. The succubus looked disappointed. And familiar. “Sexy Cindy?”
    “Yeah, that’s me. Was me,” she corrected. “Who are you, bitch?”
    “I’ll choose to take that as an attempt to be home-girly with me, and not stupid. It’s Detective Wolfe. In, ah, wolf form.” I looked down. “Sorry. In werewolf form.”
    Sexy Cindy’s eyes widened. “Whoa. No wonder you were always busting me.”
    “We were busting you because you were a prostitute working the worst parts of town.” Police work. It was truly all glamour and excitement.
    “You just didn’t like me propositioning your partner.”
    “True enough. You might have been the only one in Prosaic City’s criminal class who fell for the unmarked police car.”
    “It looked like a regular car,” she mumbled. “Not like I got a lot of time to go cruise the car lots or something.”
    I yawned. “Heard it before. Didn’t impress me then, doesn’t impress me now.” This was an old argument. You bust a perp, right after they realize you’re not buying that they’re innocent they explain that they have no opportunity to better themselves. Sadly true more often than not. But most of them never tried, either. Sexy Cindy was firmly in the never tried category. I wondered what being undead was going to do to