stood there, waiting expectantly. "Yes? Who is it?" I called through the door.
"Sorry to disturb you—but you are Jason Wood, correct?" he answered in a tenor voice. "My name's Karl Weimar, sir. I know it's rather irregular, but I know something about Jerry Mansfield that you might like to know—but I'm not sure I want to go to the cops just now."
I closed my eyes for a moment, sighed. No rest for the suckers. "Oh, all right, hold on." I unbolted the door and slid the chain off, turning as I did so.
Syl's eyes were wide, mirroring an inner vision of disaster.
I dove away from the door, drawing the 10mm as I did so. At the same moment the door slammed open so hard it almost tore from its hinges, and the dapper young man lunged through, shapeshifting into an all-too-familiar towering mass of black-brown fur, glittering claws, diamond teeth, and glowing soulless eyes.
But Syl's unspoken warning had been enough. I had moved and was not where "Karl Weimar" expected me. It skidded to a halt, talons ripping great gouges in the carpet, and turned on me, to find itself staring down the barrel of my gun.
"Believe you me, this thing's loaded with silver. And if it weren't for two things, I'd blow you straight to hell right now."
It snarled. "And those two are . . . ?" it asked in the unearthly deep