Free Now Comes the Night by P.G. Forte

of which, I hope you know you must never tell anyone anything about tonight.” Now would be the time to enforce that suggestion, to impress his will upon the boy. Damian’s gut clenched at the thought. A wave of nausea swept over him. Making the decision to defy a direct order from Conrad always left him feeling physically ill, but occasionally it had to be borne. He could not justify this decision to tamper with the boy’s mind. It was too dangerous and totally unnecessary. “You would do best to forget that it even happened. In fact, I hope you will.”
    “Forget? Are you kidding me?” Paul’s eyes smoldered as he met Damian’s gaze. “I’m never going to forget you. Ever. When can I see you again?”
    “You can’t!” Damian snapped. “I’m sorry, niño , but things are not always what they seem.” He stopped and swallowed hard again, hearing Conrad’s voice in his mind, speaking virtually the same words to Damian’s younger self so many, many years ago. “The truth is you’re simply too young for me, Pablito. Nor am I at all what you think me. I would be taking terrible advantage of you if I allowed things to go any further. As it is, I’ve taken enough from you already.” Taking a deep breath, he let some of the force of his will seep into his voice in order to give the boy’s mind another small nudge. “Get out of the van now, Paul. Go into your house and go to sleep. When you wake up tomorrow, this will all seem like a dream.”
    Without another word, Paul opened the door and climbed out of the van. He closed the door, then turned and leaned in through the window. “I will see you again. I know it.”
    Damian smiled sadly. “Goodnight, Pablito. Pleasant dreams.”

Chapter Four
    December 21, 2009
    Marc stood on the roof of the warehouse where he seemed to be spending all his waking hours these days and stared down at the streets of San Francisco. He focused his senses, forcing his awareness out into the night. A heavy fog was creeping over the city. Already his view of the Bay Bridge was obscured. Buildings slowly disappeared, one by one, into the mist. He paid them no mind. What he was seeking could never be discovered using eyesight anyway, not even with his superior night vision, not even if he still had two good eyes to work with instead of just one.
    He closed his eyes, lifted his face to the sky and breathed in deeply, tasting the fresh air as it filled his lungs, willing himself to catch the faint, elusive fragrance he sought. He’d heard it said that sharks could sense a small amount of blood from as far as three miles away. He had no idea if that was really so, but he had no doubts at all that he could do the same—and without the blood having been spilled first, which was considerably more of an accomplishment, at least to his way of thinking.
    Trying to pick out the specific tinge of one individual blood-taste, in a city populated by over eight hundred thousand beating hearts—all those flavors competing for his attention—that was a good deal more complicated. For something like that, a three-block radius was probably about the limit of his range.
    The air behind him seemed to tremble as it made contact with a solid object. Marc re-oriented on the disturbance, easily picking up the now-familiar markers of heartbeat, breath and scent that, combined, could belong to only one person. Nighthawk.
    “Any news?” Marc asked without turning.
    A heavy sigh rent the air. “Fuck. I thought I was being really quiet that time.”
    “You were.” Marc opened his eyes and continued to gaze out at the city. People were gathering in the alley below him. At this small distance, he could already guess how each would taste. His pulse quickened. Saliva flooded his mouth. He was hungry, but his appetite would have to wait a bit. “Very quiet. How many times do I have to tell you that it doesn’t matter? Even when you hold your breath like you were just doing, I can still sense when you’re