Free Under Cover of Darkness by Julie E. Czerneda

Must have lost my Glock in the river. Time to boogie.
    Dripping wet, I stumbled for the street and headed downtown. I needed help, and fast. There was a Freemason lodge only a few blocks away. One of the main reasons I had chosen an office overlooking the smelly Chicago River.
    The night was warm in spite of the unnatural fog and my clothing was almost dry by the time I found a police car parked at the curb, the two police officers inside sipping steaming cups of coffee. Smoothing back my damp hair and straightening my ragged clothing, I tried to look more like the loser in a bar fight, than the winner in a battle against demons.
    â€œExcuse me, officers?” I asked hesitantly, stopping a few feet away. Never rush toward the police .
    â€œWell, well, and what do we have here?” the younger cop drawled in a voice heavy with contempt.
    The older cop watched me closely, then dismissed me as harmless. “Been drinking and fell in the river, buddy?” he demanded, defying me to question his authority.
    â€œActually, no,” I started, but was interrupted by the sound of the car door opening.
    â€œKeep your hands in sight, asshole,” the young cop demanded, placing his Styrofoam cup on the hood and pulling a set of stainless steel handcuffs into sight. “The locals don’t like drunks wandering the streets and bothering the tourists. A night in the tank will do you the world of good.”
    And get me killed . With no choice, I spoke a Word of Power.
    The younger cop wrinkled his face in confusion, but the older cop did an abrupt change of attitude.
    â€œHold it, rookie,” he commanded, climbing from the vehicle. “I know this man.”
    â€œYou do?” the policeman asked sounding confused.
    â€œSure.” Reaching out, he took my hand and we shook, exchanging grips and signs. The grips were familiar, but different. Not a Freemason, but FOP, Fraternal Order of Police. Our secret division of law enforcement agencies. Good enough.
    â€œWhat do you need, Brother?” the older cop asked softly. The fog flowed along the city street making the few pedestrians shadowy figures.
    â€œA weapon,” I said, pressing the signet ring on my hand into his palm one last time.
    â€œDone,” the man replied, sliding the Heckler Koch 9mm automatic from his holster and passing it over. Along with two spare clips from his equipment belt.
    â€œMany thanks,” I sighed, tucking the mortal weapon into my clothing and out of sight.
    The younger cop was flabbergasted. “You . . . you gave him your gun?” he gasped, a hand instinctively going for his own weapon. “Just what the fuck is going on here?”
    â€œAsk the desk sergeant,” the older cop said. Then he glanced over a shoulder and barked. “I said ask the sarge, kid!”
    â€œYes, sir,” the rookie replied sullenly, shuffling back to the car and reaching for the hand mike clipped to the dashboard.
    â€œNew guy,” the older cop said in apology.
    â€œNo problem,” I replied, checking the clip, and working the slide. Even from a Brother, I always check a new weapon. We’ve had traitors before in the Freemasons, sad to say.
    â€œGot a BTK?” he asked, pulling a small volume from his shirt pocket.
    I shook my head, uncaring if it was a Christian Bible, Torah, or the Koran. There were many rooms in His mansion. The Freemasons accepted good men and women of any faith. “I’m not fighting a vampire,” I laughed, exhaustion giving my words a slightly hysterical tone. “Although it sure would be nice.”
    â€œOh, demons again,” the officer said, not posing it as a question. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a butane lighter and shoved it into my hand.
    Now that I gladly accepted. A crucifix was the symbol of the Redeemer, the forgiver of our sins. That didn’t do a lot of damage to hellspawn, in spite of what the movies say. On the other hand, monsters