Free Moonheart by Charles De Lint

and the look of a policeman stamped into his features. He wore a quilted ski-jacket and pressed brown trousers— his disguise, Kieran decided. Kieran smiled. He'd been lucky with this one. It wasn't easy to bend someone to your will this quickly. You had to catch them off guard, otherwise it took considerable preparation. Or power.
    "Who do you work for?" Kieran demanded, holding the man's gaze with his own. "The horsemen?"
    The man nodded. "Special Branch."
    "What kind of Special Branch?"
    "PRB— the Paranormal Research Branch."
    Lord dying Jesus! What did the horsemen want with him? And what were they doing with a Special Branch studying the paranormal? This was something out of a bestseller. It didn't have any place in real life and Kieran found it hard to put into any sort of reasonable perspective. But if it was true, how had they keyed on to him?
    The horsemen were the RCMP— the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The Federal police. Canada's finest with their Musical Ride and fancy red coats. The Mounties who always get their man. The horsemen. But—
    "What do you want with me?" Kieran asked.
    "Nothing. You're to be kept under surveillance."
    "Why?"
    There was no reply. Kieran wanted to shake the man by the throat to get an answer, but forced himself to stay calm.
    "When's your relief?" he asked.
    "Six A.M."
    Kieran did a rapid calculation. That left him about two and a half hours. No— he'd have more than that. No one would know he was gone until Jean-Paul woke up and whistled them down on him again. No one, except his man here.
    "Do you know a Thomas Hengwr?" Kieran asked.
    Again there was no reply. The witchlight in Kieran's eyes burned dangerously, but either the man truly didn't know, or it would take a deeper probe to dig the information out of him. Kieran didn't have the time for a deeper probe.
    Well, this was great. He'd really learned a lot. The old man was still gone without a trace, and now he had the Mounties on his ass as well. The witchlight intensified momentarily as he spoke again.
    "You never saw me leave," Kieran said.
    The man nodded.
    Kieran sighed and broke eye contact. There was a tiny ache in his temples that came from the abrupt use of energies he'd utilized. As he stepped back, the Mountie rolled up the window again and returned to studying Jean-Paul's house as though Kieran was no longer present.
    Kieran set off east on Powell, heading for Bank Street. He kept a wary eye open on the off chance that his horseman had some backup with him, but sensed nothing out of the ordinary. Ottawa, unlike most big cities, seemed to shut down around eleven most nights. After twelve, all you saw cruising the streets were police cars and taxis. There was a seamier underside to the nation's capital— Kieran knew that all too well— but it required a firmer sense of purpose to uncover it than it did in most cities. Like anywhere, if you wanted something badly enough, it could be found.
    Like a place to stay? Kieran asked himself.
    He had to decide what he was going to do. He could scratch Jean-Paul. Was there anyone else he could call up? What? At three or so in the morning? And who was to say that anybody could be trusted now?. He would've bet his life on Jean-Paul...
    He paused as he reached Bank. Across the street, the thin strip of Central Park lay peaceful in the darkness. Beyond it rose the dark bulk of Tamson House. As his gaze rested on that curious building, a queer sense of disquiet settled upon him.
    He knew a little more about the House and its owners than most people might, but that wasn't very much. There was an older man, a patriarch of sorts, and his niece. They were the owners. They were filthy rich, but spent most of their time playing at being "of the people." The man, James Tamson, was some sort of an authority on the anthropological aspects of the paranormal, but the one time Kieran had mentioned him to the old man, Tom had laughed him off.
    "He means well, Jamie does," Tom had said, "and